BY THE COTTONWOOD TREE.
THEN why do I sell it?" you ask me again,
"Big cabin an' clearin, an' all?"
Well, stranger, I'll tell you, though maybe you'll
think
It ain't any reason at all.
There's plenty of hardship in pioneer-life—
A hard-workin' stint, at the best—
But I'd stick to it yet if it wasn't for this,
A heart like a log in my breast.
D'ye see, over there by the cottonwood tree,
A climbin' rose, close by a mound,
Inside of a fence made of rough cedar boughs?—
Prairie wolves ain't too good to come round—
Well, Hetty, my darling old woman, lies there;
Not very old either, you see;
She wa'n't more'n twenty the year we come West;
She'd ha' been—comin' grass—thirty-three.
What a round little face an' a cheek like a peach
She had, little Hetty, be sure!
What courage to take me! She knew all the while
I was friendless and terrible poor.
How she worked with a will at our first little hut,
In the field, and among garden stuff,
