Slowly, surely, toward me feeding, A monarch buck his subjects leading; Soon at my feet he will lie bleeding. On,--on he comes! What a prize! I can see his very eyes! Now he stands _at gaze_, In a half bewildered daze. There,--not eighty yards away! Turns his head the landscape to survey. Horns a yard long (or perhaps a foot!) Heavens! what a proud, exalted brute! How,--how my pulses throb and thrill, Oh, oh, _what a joy it is to kill_! As I glance along the tube of death I can scarcely draw my breath, Suppressing the emotions that I feel, Till my nerves grow firm as steel. (Nay, nay; I tremble just a trifle.) _Crack!_ sounds my little 30-30 rifle; Down he goes,--like a rock! Marcus Brutus! what a shock! Just behind the left shoulder, Struck him a thousand-pounds jolter. Round me, now, prong-horns, snort and leap; I could kill a dozen if I chose; Drop them, almost, in a heap. But I am not a butcher, God knows; Yet, nathless I cut his throat, And above him stand and gloat. But when the deed is done, the excitement over, I feel a sense of sorrow ever. And when up to the gory scene I lead my gentle, courser, Queen, (She is a large gray, dapple mare, With wavy tail and main, and glossy hair.) Straight, straight up to my game she goes; Oh, a thing or two she knows! And I heave it on her back; But it tumbles “overboard” ker-whack! Does she snort, and pitch and bolt? And “swat” me with her heels a jolt? Oh, no,--just stretches forth her nose; Just touches my victim with her nose; Just fondles him with her soft, velvety nose, Just caresses him as if he were a colt, Just as if he were a little sleeping colt. And she shames me with her eyes, With her big, black, wondering eyes, Full of reproach and surprise, Till my heart within me cries, Deploring these, my loved iniquities. Till I vow to never kill again, But, such oath, of course, will be forsworn! And proud and happy homeward soon I hie; I’ll be plotting other _coups de grace_ bye and bye. In the country of Bijou! Just in sight of mountains capped with snow, Stalking the prong-horns on the plain Will we go?--oh, will we go again? _AT MY LITTLE CABIN HOME_ At my little cabin home, In the timber by the Platte; Have I ever cared to roam? Go away, quit, forsake my little, cozy, quaint, Colorado home? No, no; I could not,--could not think of that. Happy as a monarch I reside, In the forest by my native river-side. In the valley of the Platte I am plucking flowers to-day, Early wildings of the May. See! I’ve nearly filled my hat! Ridge-flowers red, sand-lilies white, Tufts of snowy-crested plumes; Currants crowned with golden blooms; Hawthorne-buds, bursting into light.