A GAME LESS WEST. 



443 



Ha ! What is that, that rises from the ground 

 Down yonder coulee, close beside the trail ? 

 'Tis white and ghostlike,— and yet black, also ! 

 Only the carcass of a buffalo 

 The bone-collectors missed on their last round. 

 Bleaching and stale. 



Bleak, cheerless, cold and dead, the empty land 

 Frowns grimly round for endless tiresome miles. 



( )ver my soul a desol.ition vast 



Hangs like a pall around a coffin cast. 



Aghast and silent. Nature seems to stand, 

 Devoid of smilas. 



"THE ANTELOPE WERE SLAUGHTERED 

 ONE BY ONE. ; ' 



"THELASTLONE WOLF LIES CROUCHED 

 IN HUNGRY FEAR IN YON RAVINE." 



Tight to the skull the long brown frontlet clings, 

 The last lone scalp-lock of a vanished race. 

 The lonesome ranges know the herds no more : 

 Dead silence leigns where once wild life galore 

 Gave every landscape groups of living things 

 For man to chase. 



All birds, all beasts, and even snakes are dead ; 



All trees, and even bleaching bones are gone. 

 The hand of man has swept the pastures bare, 



And only deigned to leave the earth and air. 

 The shivering horseman lower bends his head 



And hurries on. 



"TIGHT TO THE SKULL THE LONG BROWN 

 FRONTLET CLINGS, THE LAST LONE 

 SCALP-LOCK OF A VANISHED RACE.'' 



■THEHORSEMAN SHRINKS \M> SHIVERS 

 AS HE RIDES, BUT DARES NOT PAUS 



