But yet, if we hold to the path, it may Lead back to the land of dreams some day. (Yes, back to the plains again!) [Illustration: 058] THE FUR TRADERS |THE moon, on plain and bluff and stream, Casts but a faint and fitful gleam, For, striving in a ghostly race, The clouds that rack across her face Now leave her drifting, white and high, In some clear lake of purple sky And then, like waves with crests upcurled, Obscure her radiance from the world. Across the wild Missouri's breast Which lies in icy armor dressed, The north wind howls and moans. Wrenching the naked trees that stand Like skeletons along the strand, To shrill and creaking groans. On distant butte and wide coteau Is snow and never-ending snow: Whirling aloft in spiral clouds, Weaving in misty, crystal shrouds, Then floating back to earth again To drift across the frozen plain In strangely sculptured trough and crest, Like some slow ocean's heaving breast. Such night is not for mortal kind To fare abroad; the bitter wind, The restless snows, the frost-locked mold Bid living creatures seek their hold And leave to Winter's monarch will The solitudes of vale and hill. The buffalo, whose legions vast A few short moons ago have passed Adown these bleak hillsides, Now graze full many a league away Where, through the genial southern day The winds of Matagorda Bay Caress their shaggy hides. The wolves have sought their coverts deep In dark ravine and coulée steep, Where cedar thickets, dense and warm, Afford protection from the storm, And every creature of the plains Has left his well-beloved domains To seek, or near or far, A haven where warm-blooded life May cower from the dreadful strife Of hyperborean war. But see, across yon barren swell Where wind and snow-rime weave a spell Of phantoms o'er the hill, What awkward creatures of the night Come creeping, snail-like, on the sight, Halting and slow, in weary plight But ever onward still? Their limbs are long and lank and thin, Their forms are swathed from foot to chin In garments rude of bison skin. Upon each broad and stalwart back Is strapped a huge and weighty pack, Their coarse and ragged hair Streams back from brows whose dusky stain Is dyed by blizzard, wind, and rain, They are a fearsome pair; Lone pilgrims of the coteau vast. They seem like cursed souls, outcast To roam forever there. Yet hark! Adown the cold wind flung, What voice of merriment gives tongue? 'Tis human laughter, deep and strong, And now, all suddenly, a song Rings o'er the prairie lone! A chanson old, whose rhythm oft Has lingered on the breezes soft That kiss the storied Rhone, Or floated up from lips of love To some dark casement, high above The streets of Avignon, Where lovely eyes, all maidenly, Glance shyly forth, that they may see What lover comes to serenade Ere drawing back the latticed shade To toss a red rose down.