The Last of the Buffalo 



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 have grown one, two, 

 and three winters are mingled with their 

 elders. 



Not less peaceful is the scene near some 

 river-bank, when the herds come down 

 to water. From the high prairie on every 

 side they stream into the valley, stringing 

 along in single file, each band following 

 the deep trail worn in the parched soil 

 by the tireless feet of generations of their 

 kind. At a quick walk they swing along, 

 their heads held low; the long beards of 

 the bulls sweep the ground ; the shuffling 

 tread of many hoofs marks their passing, 

 and above each long line rises a cloud of 



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