We were not meant for forest life—
Not we! we chose the strife
Of high adventure—took our luck
Here on the rocks and here we’ve stuck
We are the pigmies of the spurs—
The little warriors!
Perched on these crags, we hurled
Our challenge to the world.
The wind heard our defy
And blew till all the sky
Grew purply-black and thundery.
Uncommon wroth was he,
When like a rumbling blunderbuss
He tried to topple us,
But wallowed flat—we were too short
To fall! And it was merry sport
Upon our jagged floor
To see him wrestling there; a score
Of holds he tried and thought each bout
Would tire us out.
Oh Lord,
The way he stormed and roared!
Then desperate he tried to tear
Us limb from limb—to wear
Us down upon his rack,
A-bending back
Our arms, so we would cry “enough!”
We were too _tough_
To crack! Then came the snow—so light
At first, but soon its white
Dead weight in silence crept
Upon our shoulders and we slept
The sleep that no spring wakes,
But only summer breaks,
When with her melting hand she takes
Our blankets off and shakes
The dripping fleece into the flow
Of rushing torrents far below.
Thus we are stooped by weight of snows
And twisted by each wind that blows;
Our arms are gouged and shot
By sharp-edged sands the winds have caught
And driven home; our trunks are gashed
And riven where the lightning flashed,
And little increase may we show,
So brief a season do we grow.
Though Time’s attrition has been spent
In our grotesque disfigurement.
Still we can lift our flattened heads
In pride, for we are thoroughbreds.
We have not flinched and we can show
At what far heights a tree can grow.
We are the pigmies of the spurs—
The little warriors
Who left the haunts of fir and pine
To mark the topmost timber-line.