Finally, in 1874, the Comanches were forced upon a “reservation,” near Fort Sill, to lead the beggarly life of “hooded harlots and blanketed thieves,” and it was at this place that the “war-chief” Quanah, learned that it was possible he might secure a photograph of his mother.[9] [9]--Mr. A. F. Corning was at Fort Worth in 1862, when Cynthia Ann Parker passed through there. He (Mr. C.) prevailed on her to go with him to a daguerreotype gallery (there were no photographs then) and have her picture taken. Mr. Corning still has this daguerreotype, and says it is an excellent likeness of the woman as she looked then. It is now at the Academy of Art, Waco, and several photographs have been taken from it, one of which was sent to Quanah Parker, and another to the writer, from which the frontispiece to this work was engraved. An advertisement to that effect was inserted in the Fort Worth _Gazette_, when General Ross at once forwarded him a copy. To his untutored mind it seemed that a miracle had been wrought in response to his “paper prayer;” and his exclamations, as he gazed intently and long upon the faithful representation of “Preloch,” or Cynthia Ann, were highly suggestive of Cowper’s lines on his mother’s picture; and we take the liberty of briefly presenting a portion of the same in verse: My mother! and do my weeping eyes once more-- Half doubting--scan thy cherished features o’er? Yes, ’tis the pictured likeness of my dead mother, How true to life! It seems to breathe and move; Fire, love, and sweetness o’er each feature melt; The face expresses all the spirit felt; Here, while I gaze within those large, dark eyes, I almost see the living spirit rise; While lights and shadows, all harmonious, glow, And heavenly radiance settles on that brow. What is the “medicine” I must not know, Which thus can give to death life’s bloom and glow. O, could the white man’s magic art but give As well the happy power, and bid her live! My name, me thinks, would be the first to break The seal of silence, on those lips, and wake Once more the smile that charmed her gentle face, As she was wont to fold me in her warm embrace. Yes, it is she, “Preloch,” Nocona’s pale-faced bride, Who rode, a matchless princess, at his side, ’Neath many a bloody moon afar, O’er tortuous paths devoted alone to war. Long since she’s joined him on that blissful shore,-- Where parting and heart-breakings are no more,-- And since our star with _him_ went down in gloom, No more to shine above the blighting doom, ’Neath which my people’s hopes, alas, are fled, I, too, but long that silent path to tread,-- A child, to be with her and him again, Healed every wound an orphan’s heart can pain!