When they seek the lair of the great white bear or the haunt of the gray wolf's breed. The steaming glades of the Amazon, where the crouching jaguar springs, Have felt the breath of the whirring death my long-necked cartridge brings, And the wind-whipped crests where the condor nests on the roof-ribs of the world Have marked the thin, blue jet of smoke from my flashing muzzle hurled. Oh, I am the mate of the deep-lunged men, stout son of a martial line, From Uruguay to the Kootenay, from mangrove-reef to pine; In the throbbing glare of the desert air, by the rocks where the rapids purr, There is never a gun for fight or fun like the steel-blue Winchester! PRAIRIE FIRE |OVER the lonely prairie The autumn twilight dies; Quick, fitful winds through the hollows pass That moan and sigh in the long, dry grass, And ever a kildee cries. The hovering darkness gathers; But what is the rose tint there, That flushes the far horizon Like a turbulent city's glare? It gathers and grows and widens, It swallows the southward sky And the timid wind, like a hunted deer, Makes pause to hearken, then leaps in fear And wails as it hurries by. The heavens glow red to the zenith In the ominous, fevered light, And the glimmering hilltops waver, Sharp-drawn on the walls of night. And now, as a wide-flung army, Hurled hot on the foemen's spears, With plumes of smoke on its tossing head, With flaring banners and lances red, The wavering flood appears. It runs like a wolf in hunger, It roars like a mountain storm, And before it the fleeing creatures Far over the prairie swarm. Pigeon and grouse and plover, The air is alive with wings, And the firm ground shakes with the pounding feet Of bellowing bison in mad retreat And the panic of smaller things. Behind them the flames speed onward O'er level and slope and swale, And the grass is melted to embers, Whirled high on the parching gale. As strong as the ocean's billows, As fierce as the blizzard's breath, Is aught in Nature that may withstand The league-long sweep of this scorching brand That clutters the plains with death? Ahead is a waiting darkness, A shadow athwart the glare, And the wild things have turned them to it, For they know there is safety there. The river, at last, the river! A haven where all may hide. With toil-spent lungs and with straining feet They reel from the smoke and the peeling heat To plunge in its grateful tide. While the tongue of the hungry demon Licks out on the naked sand, And slavers its baffled fury And sinks, like a dying hand. Over the lonely prairie So wan, the white moonrise grows; From out of the North a chill wind rides That spins the ash on the black hillsides And, fading, an ember glows. The clustered diamonds of midnight