466 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Jan. 2, 1890. 



torfatumt %oumt 



SLIDE ROCK FROM MANY MOUNTAINS, 



I. — THE SLEEPING SENTINEL. 



f~\ N the Pacific's softest shore, 



" Where land and sky and ocean blend 



In the blue distance, I look o'er 



Fair scenes that change but never end: 

 The fog bank spreading on the sea 



Far off its gray and fleecy wall: 

 Beyond in purple majesty 



The island summits looming tall: 

 The ruffled channel, dark as wine. 



Dotted with white where rollers foam, 

 Within the seaweed's sheitering line 



The emerald shallows' quiet home. 

 Eternal summer dwells around 



The Cyclades as poets sing. 

 We envy not their holy ground, 



For here is everlasting spring; 

 And through the clear night sky there rolls 



The cbariot round the brigbt pole driven. 

 And star-lamps shine, hung by blessed souls 



To light the mounting path of heaven. 

 And yet, and yet my restless blood 



Wearies at times of .joys so mild, 

 Yearns for the lands of storm and flood 



And "antres vast and deserts wild," 

 Where rock-torn rapids roar and flash 



And waterfalls their rainbows fling 

 On swift smooth sweep and boiling dash 



And swirling eddy's dizzying swing; 

 Above the dark woods' virgin zone, 



In the great radiant silence spread 

 On cliff and cloud to breathe alone 



The glory of the mountain's head. 

 Enough ! Enough ! The spirit wills. 



Heed its higb promptings. Hasten forth 

 And learn the secrets of the hills 



That nurse the rivers of the north. 



Swiftly awbile on ocean borne. 



Then speeding on the steel-paved road 

 Past fields of vine and fruit and corn, 



The panting steam transports its load. 

 Scanty the settlers. Seedlings these 



That swell to fill their hastening fate, 

 Grow like Sequoia's mammoth trees. 



And make a proud and splendid state. 

 Trite is the thought how few the years 



Since Indians owned this empire vast, 

 Whose cruel joys and savage fears 



Darken the vistas of the past. 

 Yet some were trained with pious care 



And chastened by a gentle creed, 

 .And the old mission's records fair 



Tell of high thought and generous deed. 

 The engine trails its serpent smoke 



In fading coils along the plain. 

 The heavens furl their murky cloak, 



Through brightening sunshine leaps the train, 

 And timing to its rhythmic jar 



My wayward fancy's dreamy flow, 

 From faint-heard sources dim and far 



A legend comes of long ago : 

 An echo from the sunset land 



That lies so lulled in rest profound, 

 Whose long sea line of sloping sand 



Guards undisturbed her peaceful ground. 

 Only slow nature's gradual change 



Tells that the seasons come and go, 

 Whitening the tall crests of the range, 



Or dallying with the waves below. 

 Forever 'round the channel isles 



The veering sea gulls hold their flight 

 Where, for one frown, a thousand smiles 



Witness old ocean's fresh delight, 

 With now and then a silverflash 



And now and then a golden gleam, 

 And fleece of froth where breakers dash 



And lines of fog that landward stream. 

 Here when the western world was young 



Men of the dusky native race, 

 Heard Christian lessons from a tongue 



That preached to all the path of grace. 

 Happy the Father when he saw 



On what rich ground the good seed fell! 

 How simple men revered the law 



His pious life was given to tell. 

 And grateful hands brought humble gifts, 



flude vessels wrought with careful pains, 

 And iris-shells from sandy drifts, 



And rough unburnished yellow grains. 

 Though fenced by virtue like a wall, 



Most human hearts conceal within 

 Some secret vice betraying all, 



If once you find the gate of sin. 

 So with the Father. When his eyes 



Beheld the gold the Indians brought, 

 From his soul's depths began to rise 



Greed, selflsh wish and wicked thought. 

 He dreamed of all that wealth would bring, 



The powers and dignities at home, 

 Cathedral choir, and bishop's ring, 



And the brave gauds of pompous Rome. 

 To find where the great treasure lay 



He questioned his submissive flock. 

 But never would they point the way, 



Stolid and dumb as senseless rock. 

 Some relic of their pagan creed, 



Some prophet thought of coming wrong 

 To follow from that evil seed, 



Kept the dull converts silent long. 

 Till, threatened by the church's wrath, 



The frightened peons so far yield 

 That they will bear him on the path, 



Blindfolded to the golden field. 

 The litter comes. The livelong day 



With bandaged eyes through deserts lone 

 He rides. They pull the cloth away 



And show bare earth and barren stone. 

 This was the place! The Father sighed, 



His thirst for wealth was all a-flame, 

 And fruitless now his darkened ride, 



Unless he knew the way he came. 

 Slow marched the tired Indians back . 



And, on the path the bearers trod, 

 He dropped his beads to mark the track; 



Beads that should mark the road to God. 

 They reached their home again at morn 



Nor counted the long, toilsome night. 

 As over fields of murmuring corn, 



Peered the first sunbeams joyful light. 

 And from among the way-worn band. 



Soon as the Father's litter stopped, 

 A kneeling man with open hand 



Returned the beads the priest had dropped. 

 Rage filled the churchman's fevered breast, 



Thus were his hopes again thrown down. 

 Lost were his dreams of bishop's vest 



And scarlet hat or mitred crown. 

 He raised his arm to deal a curse- 

 When from the corn-stalks' rustling throng, 

 Sweeter than David's sacred verse 



A thrush poured out its throbbing song. 

 "Voice of the Lord!" the Father cried. 



Thou teachest me the way to bless; 

 Forgive my greed! Forgive my pride! 



My sinful baseness I confess. 

 My children, rise! By me, to-day, 



Is penance done. And while you live 

 For me, your fellow sinner, pray, 



Rise with all blessings church can give." 

 The priest and all that gathered round 



Lie covered by earth's kindred sod, 

 Forgotten even the burial ground 



Whose dust was consecrate to God. 

 Still from the corn-stalk sings the thrush, 



His mellow music full and clear 

 Thrills through the evening's purple hush, 



Enchanting all with hearts to hear. 



Thus musing as we onward whirl. 



By smouldering forest fires we pass; 

 And through the vapor's filmy curl 



We glimpse at times some towering mass. 

 Shasta and Rainier looming high, 

 Their bases hid by smoky haze, 

 Their snow-spread summits in the sky 



Floating amid the sunset's rays. 

 And the white snow drifts tapering down 



Seem giant fingers to portray. 

 As if upon each mighty crown 



God's hand in benediction lay. 

 Then, after, sailing quiet bays, 



Misty or sunlit, fir-fringed shores. 

 Tangled and curved in tortuous maze. 



Where ruder ocean never roars. 

 The girding mountains wall with green 



These sheltered seas for miles on miles, 

 Soft ripples break the even sheen, 



And gurgle 'round a thousand isles. 

 If a tried friend but share the joys 



Here spread by nature without price. 

 Angels might waver in their choice 



Of Puget Sound or Paradise. 

 Beyond the Fraser's rushing green. 



Across the range's low divide, 

 Till borne down crystal Smilkameen 



The waters seek Columbia's tide: 

 Amid the cliffs and gorges deep, 



Stretching far southward from the vaU \ 

 On grassy slope and talus steep 



We wind along the ragged trail. 

 Bewildered by meandering tracks 



We climb some toilsome height in vain. 

 Through tangled trees with swing of axe 



We hew a pathway for our train, 

 Still mounting toward the summits bare. 



Hardly by foot of man explored; 

 Realms bathed in waves of upper air. 



Where the shy mountain ram is lord; 

 To hang his frontlet in our halls, 



Twin spirals mightier than laid low. 

 With blast inspired, the heathen walls 



When Joshua conquered Jericho. 

 Stormy the days. From the dark south 



The clouds crowd on, the winds complain, 

 And from the canon's sombre mouth 



Gusts whirl across the great moraine. 

 And poor our efforts' first reward. 



By scrambling stalk and breathless climb 

 We learned alone the lesson hard 



That sure success needs skill and time. 

 But patience brings an end to ills, 

 The sullen skies begin to change, 

 And bright above the pine-dark hills 

 Glitter the snow-peaks of the range. 

 And night brings solace and repose. 



With cheerful talk and freshened zeal. 

 The crackling camp-fire flames and glows, 

 The smoke spires dance in merrier reel; 

 The new moon's frail canoe's afloat 



In a fair sea of starry blue. 

 The screech owl sounds its omened note, 



The coyote howls his weird halloo; 

 We augur not from beasts that prowl. 



Our oracle's the leaping flame. 

 Let screech of owl and wolfish howl 

 Bode evil to the threatened game. 

 So through our canvas door we creep, 



Weary yet hopeful, and we lie 

 In dozing warmth or well-earned sleep 

 Till dawn's pearl luster tint the sky. 

 The sun has fired the mountain's head ! 



On saddles now ! Be quick ! Away ! 

 Before the morning's glory spread 



To the full blaze of Alpine day. 

 We climb betimes the dim-seen trail, 



Our panting horses strain and bound 

 Across the wind-felled timber's pale, 



Through oozy marshes' treacherous ground, 

 Up, up we mount, through forest dark, 



That fringe the torrent's stony bed. 

 By willow glade and grassy park, 

 Past waterfalls by snowbanks fed, 



We leave our steaming horses spent 



Where the last slant its front uprears, 

 And breast on foot tue sheer ascent 



That tries the hearts of mountaineer*. 

 Then, after rest, and incense burned 



In the sweet pipe's enchanted bowl, 

 Our pulses' rhythm again returned, 



Again we rose and sought our goal, 

 Where at the head of a rough reut, 



In the high peaks the sheep loves best, 

 Solely for them by nature meant, 



Some clambering flock might chance to rest. 

 ***** 



The mountain ram had sought a band 



Of mates that well deserved his care; 

 Bold at their head he took his stand, 



No rival could his prowess dare. 

 He watched his ewes with jealous guard. 



And, perched on rock or swelling hill, 

 As sentinel, kept faithful ward 



To save them from all menaced ill. 

 To his fine ear t he mountain air 



Would waft a sound however faint, 

 And carry to his nostrils rare 



The warning of a hostile taint. 

 But fierce the autumn's noonday heat 



To this warm-coated son of snow. 

 And cool the canon's dim retreat. 



Sheltered from heaven's unclouded glow. 

 His wives lay near him in the shade; 



What reason that a watch be kept ? 

 What chance was there of midday raid ? 



He closed his careless eyes — and slept. 

 A scent floats 'round his dreaming head 



Unknown, but full of vague-felt fear, 

 And clink of steel and booted treafl 



Rouse with alarm his drowsy ear. 

 He starts. He feels a mortal shock. 



The high walls roar with echoing din, 

 As when down cliffs falls thundering rock, 



And tongues of fire come flaming ia. 

 ***** 

 Above my hearth the noble head 



Rears its proud spirals. They will tell 

 How great the victim was who bled 



When died the Sleeping Sentinel. 



H. G. Dttlog. 



A WEEK IN BRIER LAND. 



WE wish to have it announced that what there is left 

 of our former physical entireties has returned and 

 resumed work at the old stand. The rest, with plenty of 

 clothing to hide its nakedness, hangs high and wet on 

 briers and bushes of Brier Land. But let me begin 

 further back. In the first place. I am a very fortunate 

 man, i. e., for a patent attorney. I base this statement 

 on the fact (which several fishermen hereabouts will 

 swear to), that I am so good and so busy the tempter 

 comes to me but once a year ! And then it is always in 

 the guise of a friend, who talks eloquently and most per- 

 suasively of the need of change and rest, besides throwing 

 occasional sops to my vanity, in the form of references to 

 a ''great over-worked brain," impairment of my "extreme 

 delicacy of mental perception," and so on. Once a year, 

 too, I yield, and so it was a week ago. 



Jesse M., the -'lone fisherman" of this locality, and the 

 all round sportsman of many others as well, played his 

 part so deftly that, forsaking books, p^pers, level's and 

 wheels, I joined him and our mutual friend Tom T., a 

 well known crack shot, and accompanied by five dogs, 

 a No. 20 and two 12-bores, with baggage" bags and 

 blankets too numerous to mention, we three sailed away 

 in the gorgeous Mattana, a side-wheeler so old that no 

 man remembereth her origin, to Shamrock, forty-five 

 miles down the ever-muddy Potomac, where our host-to- 

 be, Peter Wolfe, met us with all the honors due to so 

 distinguished a party, and escorted us on foot three 

 miles to his log castle on the hill, in the very heart of 

 the brier country, while an ox team, maneuvered by his 

 eleven-year- old boy Addie, hauled our baggage over a 

 more circuitous route. Three years before I had accom- 

 panied Jesse M. to this self same place, and over the 

 nom deplume of "Novice," I ventured to tell the readers 

 of Forest and Stream something about it, especially of 

 the half dozen preserves which our hostess always placed 

 on the table, morning and night, and how few were left 

 to muster when we went away. Then, there was a little 

 girl, K. ; this time there met us at the door beside her 

 mother a beautiful Miss K., with dark flashing eyes, red 

 cheeks and Hps, and last, but not least, a cheery, amia- 

 ble smile that said "thrice welcome" to our young hearts 

 and old heads. How she made our stay pleasant by her 

 engaging manners, her chat and wise talk, and helped 

 eook the pancakes we ate at every meal with an appreci- 

 ation born of hunger and experience, all this and more I 

 need not detail; suffice it to say, on the day of departure 

 we knew not whether we loved K. less or pancakes 

 more, so we loyally hurrahed for both! 



But I fancy some one who has flattered me by reading 

 thus far, interrupts by asking out of the depths of his 

 pitiable ignorance, " What of this Brier Land and the 

 hunt?" Unto him, from the supernal heights of our 

 knowledge, we shall answer, we shall tell, it is a part of 

 that county in Virginia which was once loyally named 

 after King George, and is a most remarkable region. Go 

 where you will, briers short and low, long and tall, thin, 

 stout and medium shall be found under and around you, 

 ready to trip, to catch, to hold, to tear you, while trying 

 to bid them a tearful good-by. (No pun). I am now having 

 an indictment made out against one particular giant brier 

 who tried hard to cut my throat ! An most remarkable 

 anatomical knowledge he (or she?) possesses, for the cut, 

 long and deep, extends across the left jugular (I'm glad 

 it was left). It is time botanists examined this race of 

 briers, and revised their text-books and theories as well, 

 for when briers can act humanly and yet so inhumanly 

 at the same time, there's ground for reflection spiced with 

 painful regrets. 



Day by day, when it didn't rain — and it rained every 

 day but two out of the seven— we went, saw, and were 

 conquered anew, and returned to pancakes and preserves 

 sadder and wiser, torn and bleeding, but happy in the 

 hope of a better to-morrow, that never came. It rained 

 and briers Teigned triumphant to the last, and we tore 

 and swore the like had never been seen; indeed, it must 

 be said we haven't don© swearing yet— to that effect, 



