The ragged sky-line high in air
Sits boundary to sight
And seems to end the world;
But topping it by way well worn by braver
pioneer,
A fertile, home-filled dale is found
Where love holds warm,
And schools and churches dot the land.
But while the slow-drawn old stagecoach
With load of dust-clad travelers
Crawls over jolting, stone-filled ruts,
The puffing beasts, sweat-covered,
Winding in and out among the stately
pines
(Where friendly Nature spreads her yellow
moss
O’er bleaching arms long since deprived of
life),
May now be seen a mother deer
Half hidden ’mong the sloping boughs;
Alert, ears high, eyes wide, body so tense
And motionless. In silence all 120
The passengers admire the instinct-love
Which not affrights the spotted babe
Fast sleeping at her feet.
“There are no guns aboard!” says one.
“But if there were, how could one’s heart
Be hard enough to murder mother-love?”
Said I.