In Buffalo Days 



On the floor, on either side of my fireplace, 

 lie two buffalo skulls. They are white and 

 weathered, the horns cracked and bleached 

 by the snows and frosts and the rains and 

 heats of many winters and summers. Often, 

 late at night, when the house is quiet, I sit 

 before the fire, and muse and dream of the 

 old days ; and as I gaze at these relics of 

 the past, they take life before my eyes. The 

 matted brown hair again clothes the dry bone, 

 and in the empty orbits the wild eyes gleam. 

 Above me curves the blue arch ; away on 

 every hand stretches the yellow prairie, and 

 scattered near and far are the dark forms of 

 buffalo. They dot the rolling hills, quietly 

 feeding like tame cattle, or lie at ease on the 

 slopes, chewing the cud and half asleep. The 

 yellow calves are close by their mothers ; on 

 little eminences the great bulls paw the dust, 

 and mutter and moan, while those whose horns 

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