ALONG A COUNTRY ROAD 



trail many years ago. In the timber next to 

 the river-bank the aborigines buried their 

 dead in branches of trees, with winds and 

 the ripple of water to mourn for them. On 

 the tops of these hills are yet to be found 

 bowl-shaped stone mortars where the Indians 

 ground their corn in early days. 



They say the ghosts of departed warriors 

 travel this road, and that on summer nights 

 ponies go by, dragging the poles on which 

 are laid the " wickiup " and camp trappings. 

 After them, the warrior and squaw and silent 

 pappoose go through the deep woods down 

 and out to the prairies beyond. Always these 

 phantom caravans are going to the west. But 

 where the unshod hoofs of ponies trod, and 

 the plumes of mighty chiefs waved, came the 

 iron destiny of the white man, and this trail 

 blended into a highway, while the Indian 

 faded as mist melts at the touch of summer 

 sunlight. 



The river dips and bends under high bluffs 

 and against low shores and reedy shallows, 

 and seems to be running a race with the white 

 ribbon of dust that stretches past over valley 

 and slope. The road is a silent racer that 



