Chapter II: Part 2

My motor-cycle girl and I are a sport-loving pair;
Too speedy for Sorrow, we race away from dull Care;
We startle Deacon Gossip, we shock Madame Trouble,
“Dear, oh, dear, how awful!” they say; “what a very swift couple!”

We are out late at night,--out again next day!
Do we enjoy life? Well, I should say!
“Are we fond of rapid riding?” Oh yes; indeed! But what is the harm,
Since we hurt nobody, and speed has its charm?
Sometimes, we rest in the park, ’neath the leafy shade;
Do we fret and jaw, and chew the straw, when there ain’t no sweet in
our lemonade?
Yes; well, yes, then to church we go with a right good will,
“Oh, oh, how can they sit there so serene and still?”
Says Trouble to Gossip, “and smile--and smile--and smile,--
And tremble not, when the minister mentions ----?” Well, well!
Our lives are chaste, and we have no dread,
Of sulphurous caldrons, or ovens red-hot.
We taste no “sour, old apples” that we should not!
In thrifty orchards by the cool wayside, trees are laden with purple
plums and crimson cherries.
Yet oh, oh, yet, for “forbidden fruit” we never do fret,
In our basket for lunch we have cake and sugar and cream and fried
chicken and rich ripe preserved strawberries.

In the flower-decked meadows, sometimes, we are tempted to stray
But a big notice reads, “Stay out--Keep off the Alfalfa.”
By the sweet green fields, therefore, we fairly fly,
Nay, nay, on the “sacred grass,” we never trespass;
And furthermore, we never get gay, nor sass Farmer Gray,
When we meet him in town, and he offers to sell us some hay!

And do my girl and I love? Well, now, come, come! Can’t you guess?
If we don’t, of course, of course I’m not to blame,
For she is such a fair, fresh young rosebud you know,
And I am--well, she just calls me--just plain “Uncle Sam,”
But I am--of _course I’m her beau_!
Of a buggy-ride this friend of mine and I are fond,
But the “metalsome steed” is our chief delight.
Adown the road we scurry at a lively rate,
And the slow-going crowd is left behind.
“Caloric individuals,” like we are, they say
“Are liable to get scorched some--some very fine day.”

But my blithe merry lass and I never hear--we are speeding away!
And little, how little, care we for what rude tattlers say?
With consciences clear as lilies are white.
We heed not the slur of Envy and Spite.
Let cripples and criplets stand aside in dismay;
We will be young when they are decrepit and gray.
Let Troubles and Gossip mistrust us and spy;
We will be angels ere such “saints” learn to fly.

_DIFFERENCES OF OPINION_

Some men may differ from our creed,--
Give our good advice small heed.
Some men may not be our way of thinking.
But if they are honest they surely should be frank,
And not behind one’s back, go winking, blinking!
And say, “behold! a crank--there goes a crank!”
Or else hide in a crowd and yell:
“An infidel! An infidel!
A ski-shod pilgrim, coasting blindly down the road to hell.”

Fellow--churlish fellow, if thou never cans’t be joyous,
Why with constant fretting thus wilfully annoy us?
Does thy sorrow so need company
That thou wouldst meanly pester those who would gladly comfort thee?
How selfish, then--how unkindly such must be
As would wish to force unwilling ones to share with them their
self-imposed misery.

_IN THE FOREST_

In the leafy fastness of the forest, there are sounds of mirth and
gladness,
Strange wild symphonies that tell of peace and rest,
Dulcet cadences, unlike, unakin unto the noises heard in marts of human
strife and madness,
Vile discords that make existence in life’s crowded hippodromes seem
displeasurable, irreligious and unblest.

Deep, deep in the shady sanctuaries of the wildwood
Druid lives of old were happily lived and beautiful I find;
What tho’ Nature’s children sometimes seem harsh and rude!
They never really are ungrateful or unkind.

Deep, deep in the peaceful quiet sylvans, rosebuds fall and fade.
Littering the green-sward o’er whereon I lie,
Yet dreaming still “beneath my bowers, blossom-woven shade”
Blissfully I linger, while the summer days go by.

_MY SUMMER GIRL AND ME_

Under the green-wood tree
Joyfully,
Rest my summer girl and me.
Fonder, franker pair, hath never been
A-courting here upon the lawn.
Oh, my dear, you look so sweet,
All in lace and satin white,
With that rosebud in your hair,
And those lips that seem to say,
“You may, you may,--nay, nay,--nay, nay,”
“You may kiss me--don’t you dare!”

Under the green-wood tree
Life is full of witchery.
Listen, then, dissembling girl, to me:

Come, come, fair one; no more delay.
Come, come, sweetheart, and marry me?
What, what care we for worldly state?
For mansion proud, or titles great?
My humble cot, beside the Platte,
With thee its mistress, well might seem
Fairy May Queen’s bower, and life an Eden dream.
With hope, with health, enough to eat,
Our cup of joy were full indeed.
For having all that makes Earth dear,
How could, how could we wish for more?
Come, then, my love; no more delay;
Name, name, oh, name our wedding day!

Under the green-wood tree
Soon married we shall be,
My dainty summer girl and me.

_A REQUIEM_

To-day--alas, to-day, there’s a tear in my eye,
And deep at my heart there’s a pain.
With a sob and a sigh the winds hurry by,
They are singing, singing a sad refrain.
“Nay, nay,” they seem to sing, they seem to say,
“Nay, nay, we shall never meet Mabel again.”

Nay, nay, we shall never meet Mabel again.
Too gentle and fair, for this rude world of jostle and care;
Too kind-hearted and good, for this hard life of trouble and pain,
So the angels, they have taken Mabel away,
But ’tis sweet, it still is sweet to think that some day,
In that “beautiful city Up There,”
Maybe we shall meet our dear little friend Mabel again.

Yet to-day,--oh, to-day, there’s a tear in each eye,
And deep at each heart there’s a pain;
Through the over-cast sky, dark trailing clouds hurry by,
And it looks like rain.
While the winds are singing,--still singing that sad refrain.
“Nay, nay,” they seem to sing, they seem to say:
“Nay, nay, we shall never meet Mabel again.”

_FAREWELL!--I AM STILL CAMPING!_

My dear tourist friend--farewell! Farewell perhaps forever. Farewell! I am still camping! In the cool shade of the cottonwoods beside the Platte, I am camping. I who erstwhile in careless youth’s hilarious days, a handsome book of verse and prose did write and print, a book that has neither brought me fame nor fortune as yet; nay, nay, and it never will.

Ha, ha, ha! Yes, I am still camping. In delightful tranquility and in the generous shelter of the tall timber close down by the clear blue water’s side, my humble little abode is still standing. Its dingy white-washed walls may yet be seen peeping out pleasingly from among the thick green leaves of the patriarchal trees of the forest.

Yes, yes; I am still camping. Pegasus, my “broncho plug” (my vaunted poet’s steed!), has long since been turned loose to browse on the luxurious sage-brush, and the crisp buffalo-grass of the Great Plains. Genevieve, my docile cow, too, has strayed away, or else she has been stolen, which I know not, neither do I care, as I am in the “stock business” no longer.

To-day, to-day, just as of yore; seated still on the same old log,--silently--silently, still, I am angling in the Platte. Angling still for “suckers” in the eddying tide, but alas! alas! they do not bite. They seem to realize perfectly, clearly, that I have been along this way before. They seem, metaphorically, to say, “No, sir, no; we respectfully decline your book-worm-bait, and your cunningly contrived fly-productions.”

Yea, yea; it is the same old story--“a fisherman’s luck! A fisherman’s luck!” Yet, nevertheless, I am ever hopeful and content to wait. God’s good will will be done, no doubt in his own good time. This is my consolation. “Nor cease I yet to wander where the Muses haunt--clear brook and shady rill.” Green bank and blue, unclouded sky. Quiet grove and breezy hill. Fresh flowers and the songs of birds. These all make musical and brighten still my dreams, and gladden likewise my long-expectant eye.

But farewell, my dear tourist friend---farewell, perhaps forever! And when back again unto “orient realms” thou shalt soon have returned,--

“Just tell them that you saw me while out West,
Just mention that I’m camping,--they will surely know the rest!”

SUPPLEMENTARY

_NEW GLAD VOICES_

To-day--to-day--the birds again are singing and rejoicing,
Nature’s great heart, once more, with pleasure thrills;
Mortals--mortals--we to our gladness should be voicing.
Not brooding o’er life’s griefs and ills.

Has not the world had enough of sorrow?
Is not the world yet done with tears?
Joy _to-day_--if thou wouldst joy to-morrow,
Away with care--away with frets and fears.

_MAY-DAY BESIDE THE PLATTE_

To-day--to-day! It is sweet May-day again beside the Platte. The cottonwoods are putting forth their green. The wild, red-roses and the white plum-blossoms scent the air. The lark is in the fields; the robin’s cheery voice is heard. The golden flecker and the oriole make music in the woods. The dove’s low cooing woos the murmur of the streams, and the merry blackbirds chant amid the wild, sweet meadow-grass, and starry-eyed asclepia blooms.

The vast, green prairie spreads around. Its boundless lawns are sweet with flowers. The “bonny-bells” and “yellow eyes” have decked the sunny slopes with gold. The round, green hills are gay with dandelions and daisies. The sweet blue-flags, the “yuccas” and the “artemisias” brighten everywhere.

Northward, amid his banks of bloom and graceful curves, the “silver river” glides. Westward, a dozen miles beyond, the stream, and, looming over all in grand relief, appears the old, shining Rocky Mountains, the snowy range towering amid the storm-clouds, and the purple foot-hills, like the Titan forms of old among the shattered fortresses of vanquished gods!

Dreamer, you are in Colorado--you stand upon the banks of the Platte. The great, wild prairie stretches all around us. Its smooth, green lawns are bright with silver brooks and crystal lakes. Hundreds of wild fowl disport upon the water’s blue, unrippled bosom. Long strings of cattle come forth to drink--others graze in droves among the low, round hills near by. How beautiful! how bright! how grassy wild! how fair and sweet!

Dreamer, does not your heart grow glad? This is a land for rest and holiday! You hear the hum of golden bees. You feel the soft flow of the air. The sky is clear and blue and bright. The fields are green and dry and warm. The woods are beryl-hued and full of singing birds. High above you, snowy mountains tower--“Long” and “Lincoln” prop the sky. You behold Pike’s Peak further south--its blue sides terminating in a crown of snow.

My name is Brown--Sam Brown. I was born under the shadow, as it were, of these grand old Rocky Mountains. Thirty years ago, when all this vast region of plains and mountains, extending from the Mississippi River on the east to the shores of the Pacific Ocean on the west, to the Mexican Gulf on the south, and to the British possessions on the north, was an almost unexplored wilderness, filled with wild beasts and hostile Indians, my father and mother crossed the plains in a “prairie schooner,” drawn by a yoke of oxen. They came west early in ’59, with the first rush of those hardy gold seekers whose motto was “Pike’s Peak or Bust!”

Finding mining unprofitable they settled down to farming and stock-raising near the base of the mountains. Here to them four sons were born--of whom I am the eldest, having been born on March 21, 1860. I am a Colorado pioneer--yes, born of a pioneer ancestry--and it is with a sense of pride that I point out to you the fact. I also take a kind of grim pleasure in informing you that my earlier life was spent in the free and easy pursuits of a cowboy, and that my first childhood playmates were the red Indians of whose boundless liberty I used to feel very envious during my school days.

Many incidents which occurred away back in the “sixties,” when we white settlers used to have to fortify ourselves at Denver, to avoid being scalped by the Arapahoes and Cheyennes, are still fresh in my memory.

Denver, which is now a city of nearly 200,000 inhabitants, was in those days but a mere hamlet of several dozen shanties, standing almost entirely on the west bank of Cherry Creek. What a change has taken place about my home within the space of but a few brief years! On the little plateau where Fort Logan stands to-day, I shot my first “prong-horn,” and oftentimes I have played ball with Willie Bates and Jimmy Steck on the grounds now occupied by our State’s capitol and County’s court-house.

All of those dry uplands, where I used to pasture my cows, are now covered in season with wavy fields of wheat, maize and alfalfa--meadows, orchards and blooming garden plats. Where the Indian wigwam smoked but a few brief summers gone by, lordly mansions and pleasant homes are standing to-day. But the humble structure in which I was born has not been torn down yet. It stands on the west bank of the Platte River, near Littleton, and in Denver’s beautiful suburb, Wynetka. My parents, who still live at the old homestead, but now in a large and comfortable farm-house, have preserved the little old log cabin as a relic of bygone days.--_Written Jan. 20, 1890._

_MY NATIVE LAKES_

Of those silent pools, far remote in that wild Western land--the land of my nativity--I am dreaming to-day.

Away out there, where the old, shining Rocky Mountains seem to reach off to the ends of the world, where the great plains stretch away in boundless undulations of wavy greenery, as far as the eye can see--there Colorado’s lakes rest in eternal calm.

In other times--bright boyhood days, now forever flown--mounted on a shaggy broncho, with gun in hand, and followed by a long-legged, one-eyed hound, I have often driven my cattle there to drink. Again, in light canoe, with double-bladed oar, I have glided for hours along the scarcely rippled tide, chasing the diver-ducks and the blue coots so tame, or trying random shots at the mallard-ducks and wary teal that flew nearly out of range, high up overhead. Now and then a lucky shot would bring me down a great white pelican or a blue crane. Yet more often I would kill a brant or a Canadian goose.

Beyond the lake a tiny cascade could be seen, pouring down its silvery flood from the lofty, snow-capped heights above. At the mountain’s foot the foamy tide fell into a little pool, and there, after forming itself into a little brook, it ran off flashing in the sunlight, across green meadows, beside leafy groves, and along flowery banks, until at last it found its way down to the great, blue, laughing lake, where it lost itself in the silent tide.

At the mouth of the stream, and just beside the wood, stood an Indian village--the white tepees of which could be plainly seen, peeping out from among the green glades and leaves of the trees. The red Indian, too, was often in sight, for he loved to loiter along those pleasant shores. Many times have I met him angling patiently along the banks of the small stream. At other times I have watched him for hours chasing the wild herds of the plain. The fallow-deer, the “prong-horn,” the bison and the elk he called his “cattle,” and he claimed them as his own.

His was a happy, careless life--as aimless and as dreamy as my own. Nature supplied his every want. His orchards were the thickets of cherries and wild-plums. His harvests of golden grain were the fields of yellow sun-flowers. His gardens were the untilled fields, and there his vegetables grew. The roots and bulbs he knew supplied his pottage. Honey was stored for him by the wild bees, and the beasts of the field gave him their furry coats to keep him warm. His dusky mate was an easy love, and she always treated him with kindness. His life was one of sportive ease, and I have often envied him his happy lot.

It was an indescribable joy to me in those old days to stroll along the white-pebbled beach of the lake and gather shells. I also loved to roam among the green, round hills near by and gaze out across the calm blue lake, or let my glances wander afar off up those shining straits, channeled out, as they are, like mighty gateways among the cliffs and crags of the ancient hills. Far away they would widen out again into broad lakes, or else they would wander off and lose themselves in narrow straits among the splintered crags and snow-capped peaks of the not distant mountains. Often, as I would sit gazing up into those mystic gulfs and weird canons, stretching far away among the hills, I would fancy in my childish innocence that I could catch glimpses of another world which lay dimly visible in the “far beyond.” I had hopes of being able, some day, to propel my little bull-hide boat into that wonderful realm of the “great unknown.” The long lines of “sand hill” cranes, the sharp phalanx of white geese, the flutter of swans’ wings, circling away across the distant marsh lands, appeared as the flash of angel wings. To me they seemed as the spirits of the blest, circling through celestial skies or hovering above the shores of Paradise.

_THOSE ARE THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS_

“Those are the Rocky Mountains”--yes, those long, blue lines of cordilleras just above you are the foot-hills, and those tall, white peaks standing afar off beyond, and appearing ethereal and ghost-like in the dim distance, are the ice-clad summits of the “snowy-range.”

“Those are the Rocky Mountains”--yes, and _these_ are the great plains. Oh, what a beautiful, green, wild world this is! How can one live in such a land and not be glad! It is a day of God, and the wild herds of the plain are grazing all around us. They range in droves among the low, round hills near by, or lick “alike” in the deep, basin-like valleys below, where often we catch the shimmer of some fairy lake.

“Those are the Rocky Mountains”--yes, and as we ride along, across the smooth, white plain, with the warm sunlight streaming down from a cloudless heaven upon us--streaming down through an atmosphere as clear as glass--as sparkling and as buoyant as any air upon the earth--as we ride along, gazing out across the great, green world and up at the blue sky, and then upon those stupendous peaks and everlasting snow-clad hills, my spirit thrills with a deep delight, and I feel a something, stranger, that you know not of.

“Those are the Rocky Mountains”--yes, and oh! I was born, as it were, under the very shadow of their snow-covered heads. While yet a baby in my mother’s arms I first gazed out upon those everlasting hills.

While yet a little child I used to draw mountains upon my slate. Rude sketches they were, no doubt, but how could I live and love, and yet not limn that which so much I loved? I knew not then of poet or painter’s art, nor ever dreamed that I myself should rhyme some day, and paint and write and limn with words, and tell men of my childhood’s dreams.

In boyhood days how often have I lain upon the mossy river brim and gazed out, through the vistas of the leafy trees, up at those blue, bright, snow-capped peaks beyond! How often, among the warm, green meadow grass, gay with May-flowers, have I wallowed just below those rocky heights! How often, in those glad young days, have I longed to climb those dizzy cliffs and crags and towers, or to rove among those caves and rifts and dells and canons deep, to prospect there for gold and gems and fruits and blossoms rare! Oh, how I longed to cross over the range, as other boys and bearded men had done! It was there that the Indians located their “Happy Hunting Grounds,” or the “Regions of the Blest.” Over there they said it was that the good Indians went after death. I had also heard men tell of California--“a delightful, warm country,” they said, “where it is always summer, and where fruits and flowers are plentiful and can always be had just for the picking.” They said that a great, wide, blue sea, called the Pacific Ocean, rippled along the coast of that green, warm land, and that the beach of the sea was strewn with many-colored and richly-tinted shells. How I longed to visit that glorious sunset land, just over the range, but in my childish innocence I imagined it must be an almost life-long and herculean task to surmount those stupendous and lofty heights where the snows of centuries lay piled up in great banks and drifts hundreds of feet in depth. I also fancied that I could sometimes see the forms of giant warriors stalking about among those wild crags and cliffs. In my belief they were the guardian watchers of those “Happy Hunting Grounds” of the Indians. I regarded them as sentries stationed along the outposts of that blessed place, whose duty it was to turn back all adventurous travelers whom they might catch attempting to enter that terrestrial paradise of the great, wild West.

One day, while my father, my mother, my brothers and myself were on a plumming and raspberrying excursion, my father made a remark that awoke a new superstition within my soul. My mother was driving our wagon, which was drawn by a yoke of gentle oxen, through the level of a beautiful vale, surrounded by lofty peaks, when my father, looking up, said to me in a mysterious kind of way, “My son, the Genus of the hills is looking down with wonder, for lo, behold, yonder is Madam Progress driving by in her ox-propeller car.” Ever after that I had a superstitious dread of this same Genus of the hills, and it was not until long years afterward, when the dry learning and colorless truths of youth had begun to dispel the flowery fancies, poetical fictions and glorious myths of my childhood, that I dared to explore or venture far into those same Genus-haunted hills.--_From May Day Dreams, published 1890._

FINIS.

_The price of_ HAPPY DAYS _in cloth is $1, prepaid. Copies may be had by addressing The Reed Publishing Company, 1756 Champa Street, Denver, Colo. Remit by express or post-office money order, bank draft or registered letter._

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Transcriber’s note

Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Hyphenation has been standardized.

Spelling was retained as in the original except for the following changes:

Page iv: “Premit, therefore, this” “Permit, therefore, this”
Page ix: “felicitious, although” “felicitous, although”
Page 48: “God’s debator and ye” “God’s debater and ye”
Page 48: “Listern, ye doubting” “Listen, ye doubting”
Page 69: “a cottag Manitou” “a cottage at Manitou”
Page 87: “patriarchial trees of the” “patriarchal trees of the”