IN CAMP AT QUESNELLE
We came into Quesnelle about three o'clock of the eleventh day out.
From a high point which overlooked the two rivers, we could see great
ridges rolling in waves of deep blue against the sky to the
northwest. Over these our slender little trail ran. The wind was in
the south, roaring up the river, and green grass was springing on the
slopes.
Quesnelle we found to be a little town on a high, smooth slope above
the Fraser. We overtook many prospectors like ourselves camped on the
river bank waiting to cross.
Here also telegraph bulletins concerning the Spanish war, dated
London, Hong Kong, and Madrid, hung on the walls of the post-office.
They were very brief and left plenty of room for imagination and
discussion.
Here I took a pony and a dog-cart and jogged away toward the
long-famous Caribou Mining district next day, for the purpose of
inspecting a mine belonging to some friends of mine. The ride was
very desolate and lonely, a steady climb all the way, through
fire-devastated forests, toward the great peaks. Snow lay in the
roadside ditches. Butterflies were fluttering about, and in the high
hills I saw many toads crawling over the snowbanks, a singular sight
to me. They were silent, perhaps from cold.
Strange to say, this ride called up in my mind visions of the hot
sands, and the sun-lit buttes and valleys of Arizona and Montana, and
I wrote several verses as I jogged along in the pony-cart.
When I returned to camp two days later, I found Burton ready and
eager to move. The town swarmed with goldseekers pausing here to rest
and fill their parfleches. On the opposite side of the river others
could be seen in camp, or already moving out over the trail, which
left the river and climbed at once into the high ridges dark with
pines in the west.
As I sat with my partner at night talking of the start the next day,
I began to feel not a fear but a certain respect for that narrow
little path which was not an arm's span in width, but which was
nearly eight hundred miles in length. "From this point, Burton, it is
business. Our practice march is finished."
The stories of flies and mosquitoes gave me more trouble than
anything else, but a surveyor who had had much experience in this
Northwestern country recommended the use of oil of pennyroyal, mixed
with lard or vaseline. "It will keep the mosquitoes and most of the
flies away," he said. "I know, for I have tried it. You can't wear a
net, at least I never could. It is too warm, and then it is always in
your way. You are in no danger from beasts, but you will curse the
day you set out on this trail on account of the insects. It is the
worst mosquito country in the world."
THE GIFT OF WATER
"Is water nigh?"
The plainsmen cry,
As they meet and pass in the desert grass.
With finger tip
Across the lip
I ask the sombre Navajo.
The brown man smiles and answers "Sho!"[1]
With fingers high, he signs the miles
To the desert spring,
And so we pass in the dry dead grass,
Brothers in bond of the water's ring.
[Footnote 1: Listen. Your attention.]
MOUNTING
I mount and mount toward the sky,
The eagle's heart is mine,
I ride to put the clouds a-by
Where silver lakelets shine.
The roaring streams wax white with snow,
The eagle's nest draws near,
The blue sky widens, hid peaks glow,
The air is frosty clear.
_And so from cliff to cliff I rise,_
_The eagle's heart is mine;_
_Above me ever broadning skies,_
_Below the rivers shine._
THE EAGLE TRAIL
From rock-built nest,
The mother eagle, with a threatning tongue,
Utters a warning scream. Her shrill voice rings
Wild as the snow-topped crags she sits among;
While hovering with her quivering wings
Her hungry brood, with eyes ablaze
She watches every shadow. The water calls
Far, far below. The sun's red rays
Ascend the icy, iron walls,
And leap beyond the mountains in the west,
And over the trail and the eagle's nest
The clear night falls.