YES, it's pretty, this town. And it's always been so;

We pioneers picked it for beauty, you know.

See the far-rolling bluffs; mark the trees, how they hide

All its streets, and, beyond, the Missouri, bank-wide,

Swinging down through the bottoms. Up here on the height

Is the college. Eh, sightly location? You're right!

It has grown, you may guess, since I've been here; but still

It is forty-five years since I looked from this hill

One morning, and saw in the stockade down there

Our women and children all gathered at prayer,

While we, their defenders, with muskets in rest

Lay waiting the Sioux coming out of the West.

They had swept Minnesota with bullet and brand

Till her borders lay waste as a desert of sand,

When we in Dakota awakened to find

That the red flood had risen and left us behind.

Then we rallied to fight them,—Sioux, Sissetons, all

Who had ravaged unchecked to the gates of Saint Paul.

Is it strange, do you think, that the women took fright

That morning, and prayed; that men, even, turned white

When over the ridge where the college now looms

We caught the first glitter of lances and plumes

And heard the dull trample of hoofs drawing nigh,

Like the rumble of thunder low down in the sky?

Such sounds wrench the nerves when there's little to see;

It seemed madness to stay, it was ruin to flee.

But, handsome and fearless as Anthony Wayne,

Our captain, Frank Ziebach, kept hold on the rein,

Like a bugle his voice made us stiffen and thrill—

"Stand steady, boys, steady! And fire to kill!"

So the most of us stayed. But when dangers begin

You will always find some who are yellow within.

We had a few such, who concluded to steer

For the wagon-train, parked in the centre and rear.

They didn't stay long! But you've heard, I dare say,

Of the girl who discouraged their running away.

What, no? Never heard of Miss Edgar? Why, sir,

Dakota went wild with the praises of her!

As sweet as a hollyhock, slender and tall,

And brave as the sturdiest man of us all.

By George, sir, a heroine, that's what she made.

When her spirit blazed out in the Yankton stockade!

The women were sobbing, for every one knew

She must blow out her brains if the redskins broke through,

When into their midst, fairly gasping with fright,

Came the panic-struck hounds who had fled from the fight.

They trampled the weak in their blind, brutal stride,

Made straight for the wagons and vanished inside.

Then up rose Miss Edgar in anger and haste

And grasped the revolver that hung at her waist;

She walked to the wagon which nearest her lay,

She wrenched at the back-flap and tore it away,

Then aiming her gun at the fellow beneath

She held it point-blank to his chattering teeth.

"Go back to your duty," she cried, "with the men!

Go back, or you'll never see sunrise again!

Do you think, because only the women are here,

You can skulk behind skirts with your dastardly fear?

Get out on the ground. Take your gun. About, face!

And don't look around till you're back in your place!"

Well, he minded; what's more, all the others did, too.

That girl cleared the camp of the whole scurvy crew,

For a pistol-point, hovering under his nose,

Was an argument none of them cared to oppose.

Yet so modest she was that she colored with shame

When the boys on the line began cheering her name!

Well, that's all; just an echo of old border strife

When the sights on your gun were the guide-posts of life.

Harsh times breed strong souls, by eternal decree,

Who can breast them and win—but it's always struck me

That the Lord did an extra good job when He made

Miss Edgar, the girl of the Yankton stockade.

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