It was November when they came To the icy stream. Would he hesitate? Not he, the man who carried a State At his saddle bow. They have made the leap; Horse and rider have plunged below The icy current that could not tame Their proud life-current's fiercer flow. They swim for it, reach it, clutch the shore, Climb the river bank, cold and steep, Mount, and ride the rest of that day, Cased in an armor close and fine As ever an ancient warrior wore; Armor of ice that dared to shine Back at a sunbeam's dazzling ray, Fearless as plated steel of old Before that slender lance of gold. It is December as they ride Slowly across the Great Divide; The blinding storm turns day to night, And clogs their feet; the snowflakes roll The winding sheet about them; sight Is darkened; faint the despairing soul. No trail before or behind them. Spur His horse? Nay, child, it were death to stir! Motionless horse and rider stand, Turning to stone; till one poor mule, Pricking his ears as if to say If they gave him rein he would find the way, Found it and led them back, poor fool, To last night's camp in that lonely land. It was February when he rode Into St. Louis. The gaping crowd Gathered about him with questions loud And eager. He raised one frozen hand With a gesture of silent, proud command; "I am here to ask, not answer! Tell Me quick, is the Treaty signed?" "Why yes! In August, six months ago or less!" Six months ago! Two months before The gay young priest at the fortress showed The English hand! Two months before, Four months ago at his cabin door, He had saddled his horse! Too late then. "Well, But Oregon? Have they signed the State Away?" "Of course not. Nobody cares About Oregon." He in silence bares His head. "Thank God! I am not too late."