SCENES FROM THE SADDLE. 



Homeward. 



'\T7'HEN the way is long and lone, 

 ^' When the evening falleth, 

 When the hunting day is done, 

 When the lapwing calleth, 



Soft the breeze and low the light 

 Thrown across earth's dial face, 



Pointers flung by coming night, 

 Warning of its dark embrace. — 



Linger — 'tis no hour for speed, 

 Time, in jewelled setting dwells, 



From his urgent day- course freed — 

 The charm of eve impels. 



Along the Road. 



When homeward at even 'neath the bright crescent moon, 

 Neath the quiet star realm with its cloud in the west, 



'Tis then that the blood of forefathers uprising 

 Saith, ' The life of the hunter remaineth the best.' 



When the peewit and owl to the fast- falling night 

 Send far-floating notes in their flights o'er the field 



To the man and his horse and to all things foregathered — 

 A past, yea, a far past, to the mind stands revealed. 



Up the ages as hunter he won him his place 

 On the high throne of life, with serfs at his feet, 



'Midst his work and his toiling, a whisper comes claiming 

 A fight with the fierce, a race with the fleet. 



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