As on the river bank he stood He saw a sight that froze his blood— Right there, beneath the glowing sun There sat a glowing skeleton, Which turned its hideous, fleshless head, And grinned most horribly, and said: "They're going to build, I feel it, yet, A bridge across the Willamette." And the traveler came to see, And stood upon the granite quay, Gazing long and silently Upon the river rushing by. A monster bridge now spanned the stream, And murmering, as in a dream— "They've built a bridge, that's it, you bet, A bridge across the Willamette."
My First Love
By Gabe Mack
From the Oregon Literary Vidette, Salem, Volume I, Number 2, March, 1879, and written especially for that paper. It's all very well, for poets to tell, By way of their song adorning, Of milk-maids who rouse, to manipulate cows At five o'clock in the morning; And of mooney young mowers, who bundle outdoors, The charms of their straw beds scorning, Before break of day, to make love and hay At five o'clock in the morning.
If early rising be pardonable under any circumstances, it is only when one is living in the country, and the fresh morning air woos you from a bed of slumber. Ah! the dear, delightful country, it was there I first met my first love, of whom you have so often heard me speak. Yes, she was a milk-maid, too, and of all the times, I can never forget that time. The month was June, and the trees were in blos- som, and the birds were in the trees—and with stones, bows and arrows, and old shotguns, the boys generally made it
