It was March when he rode at last Into the streets of Washington. The warning questions came thick and fast; "Do you know that the British will colonize, If you wait another year, Oregon And the Northwest, thirty-six times the size Of Massachusetts?" A courteous stare, And the Government murmurs: "Ah, indeed! Pray, why do you think that we should care? With Indian arrows and mountain snow Between us, we never can colonize The wild Northwest from the East you know, If you doubt it, why, we will let you read The London Examiner; proofs enough The Northwest is worth just a pinch of snuff." And the Board of Missions that sent him out, Gazed at the worn and weary man With stern displeasure. "Pray, sir, who Gave you orders to undertake This journey hither, or to incur Without due cause, such great expense To the Board? Do you suppose we can Overlook so grave an offense? And the Indian converts? What about The little flock, for whose precious sake We sent you West? Can it be that you Left them without a shepherd? Most Extraordinary conduct, sir, Thus to desert your chosen post." Ah, well! What mattered it! He had dared A hundred deaths, in his eager pride, To bring to his Country at Washington A message, for which, then, no one cared! But Whitman could act as well as ride. The United States must keep the Northwest. He--whatever might say the rest-- Cared, and would colonize Oregon! It was October, forty-two, When the clattering hoof-beats died away On the Walla Walla, that fateful day. It was September, forty-three-- Little less than a year, you see-- When the woman who waited thought she heard The clatter of foot-beats that she knew On the Walla Walla again. "What word From Whitman?" Whitman himself! And see! What do her glad eyes look upon? The first of two hundred wagons rolls Into the valley before her. He Who, a year ago, had left her side, Had brought them over the Great Divide-- Men, women and children, a thousand souls-- The army to occupy Oregon. You know the rest. In the books you have read That the British were not a year ahead. The United States have kept Oregon, Because of one Marcus Whitman. He Rode eight thousand miles, and was not too late! In a single hand, not a Nation's fate, Perhaps; but a gift for the Nation, she Would hardly part with it to-day, if we May believe what the papers say upon This great Northwest, that was Oregon. * * * * * And Whitman? Ah! my children, he And his wife sleep now in a martyr's grave! Murdered! Murdered, both he and she, By the Indian souls they went West to save! CHAPTER IX. THE CHANGE IN PUBLIC SENTIMENT.