Countless moons had passed above them, 

 Nature's creatures of the dry-lands, 

 And their comrades of the high-lands. 

 Generations came and vanished; 

 Still there came naught to appal them. 



Feared they not the fangs of winter, 

 Nor the flaming breath of summer, 

 For the North-wind was their keeper 

 And the South a loving mother; 

 And the wandering breezes told not, 

 And the rippling rivers sang not 

 Of the evil days impending. 

 But the thunder clouds were hanging 

 Heavy o'er the hapless races. 

 Moons of plenty shine not always, 

 Bluest skies at last are blackened, 

 Lightnings hover in the sunshine, 

 Longest trails must have an ending. 

 And there came the day of waking. 



Signs portentous in the heavens, 

 Fires by night and clouds at noon-day, 



Copyright photo by Erwin E. Smith 

 "Fires by night and clouds at noon-day." 



Told of trampling hosts advancing, 

 From the distant Rio Grande". 



1081 



