Old Man Coyote 



Carroll DeWilton Scott 



Pacific Beach, Californa 



Across the hills I hear your wistful tale, 

 A friendly bark and then a lonesome wail 

 Along the canyon's immemorial trail 



Lonely and drear 

 Where I have oft surprised you, seen you wend 

 Your way back by daybreak or at twilight's end 

 And in the brown embracing mesa blend 



And disappear. 



To some your voice is of a coward-knave — 



Your weird cry — or a maniac's rave, 



Shriek of the damned, no pardoning can save 



Or penance free; 

 Unhappy soul forever lost to mirth, 

 Spirit unduly hastened from the earth — 

 The murdered maid, the child of evil birth — 



Not so to me. 



I understand. For your old friend you call 

 The primal Red-man whom you love, and all 

 The adventures of the camp, things that enthrall 



The smell and sight 

 And draw you closer to the dying fire 

 To share the kill when frosty stars climb higher 

 Or moan with him about the funeral pyre 



Far in the night. 



Aye, are you not his potent medicine-man? 

 Master of cunning since the world began, 

 Bringer of fire, clever artisan, 



Hero-Deity? 

 Alas ! the white man drives you both away ; 

 But where the pagan altar once had sway 

 You keep your nightly watch and faithful bay 



His memory. 



Again the old familiar paths you thread 

 Barking your greeting, listening for his tread, 

 Wailing your lonliness — his fire is dead, 



His camp is still. 

 Yet faith in your Big Medicine abides; 

 Your laugh the usurper's power derides; 

 You plan revenge as twilight shadow hides 



The western hill. 



208 



