Ye needn't be afraid t' come where stormy Jordan flows, If all the l'arnin' ye can git has taught ye half _she_ knows. There's a many big departments in this ancient school o' God, An' ye keep right on a l'arnin' till ye lay beneath the sod, All the books an' apperaytus, all the wisdom o' the seers Will be jest a preparation fer the study o' the years. BALLAD OF THE SABRE CROSS AND 7 A troop of sorrels led by Vic and then a troop of bays, In the backward ranks of the foaming flanks a double troop of grays; The horses are galloping muzzle to tail, and back of the waving manes The troopers sit, their brows all knit, a left hand on the reins. Their hats are gray, and their shirts of blue have a sabre cross and 7, And little they know, when the trumpeters blow, they'll halt at the gates of heaven. Their colors have dipped at the top of a ridge-- how the long line of cavalry waves!-- And over the hills, at a gallop that kills, they are riding to get to their graves. "I heard the scouts jabber all night," said one; "they peppered my dreams with alarm. "That old Ree scout had his medicine out an' was tryin' to fix up a charm." There are miles of tepees just ahead, and the warriors in hollow and vale Lie low in the grass till the troopers pass and then they creep over the trail. The trumpets have sounded--the General shouts! He pulls up and turns to the rear; "We can't go back--they've covered our track-- we've got t' fight 'em here." He rushes a troop to the point of the ridge, where the valley opens wide, And Smith deploys a line of the boys to stop the coming tide. A fire flames up on the skirt of the hills; in every deep ravine The savages yell, like the fiends of hell, behind a smoky screen. "Where's Reno?" said Custer. "Why don't he charge? It isn't a time to dally!" And he waves his hat, this way and that, as he looks across the valley. There's a wild stampede of horses; every man in the skirmish line Stands at his post as a howling host rush up the steep incline. Their rifles answer a deadly fire and they fall with a fighting frown, Till two by two, in a row of blue, the skirmish line is down. A trooper stood over his wounded mate. "No use o' yer tryin't' fight, "Blow out yer brains--you'll suffer hell-pains when ye go to the torture to-night. "We tackled too much; 'twas a desperate game-- I knowed we never could win it. "Custer is dead--they're all of 'em dead an' I shall be dead in a minute." They're all of them down at the top of the ridge; the sabre cross and 7 On many a breast, as it lies at rest, is turned to the smoky heaven.