"ON THE OLD TRAIL." (BRET HARTE, MAY Sun, 1902.) LONG
and long we rode behind you, Comrade, on the olden trail ; By the cation, by the mesa,
Hearts of ours caught up your hail.
Where the golden poppies flicker On the foot-hills' slope to-day, Where the burnt breath of the sage bush Lingers faintly by the way.
How the hurrying hoof-beats clattered In those keener hours of old; Frolic death and grimmest living Playing out their game for gold.
Card and pistol lie together, Lightly dropped as life to dust; Lonely by the ravished river Sinks the pick to idle rust.
Quenched the lights of campland village And the hearts that quickened there, When men laughed and starved together With a gambler's jest for prayer.
All has passed, and you must follow From the far Sierran line, From the Redwoods' builded shadow, Wanderer of the "Forty-nine."
Since none turns or slackens bridle On that trail where you are bound; Rest be yours and comrades' welcome At the last, long camping-ground!
DORA GREENWELL MCCRESNEE. •
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