A comedy laughing in Memory yet,
One of the lost pictures we do not forget;
And this the same Modoc you speak of to-day
"Wil-ti-Mo," the new hero, the old Modoc brave
Who rushed through a fire-circled wigwam to save
A poor, sick, old Indian left on his bed
When the thin straw-thatched roof took fire overhead?
One of the lost pictures we do not forget;
And this the same Modoc you speak of to-day
"Wil-ti-Mo," the new hero, the old Modoc brave
Who rushed through a fire-circled wigwam to save
A poor, sick, old Indian left on his bed
When the thin straw-thatched roof took fire overhead?
And I think of one, shall I call him—man?
O his skin is white, and some would say
That his features were pleasing to look upon,
They are only hateful to me to-day,
Old Modoc a hero and he a worm,
For he left to suffer alone, alone,
The truest friend that his life had known
For fear of a possible microbe germ!
I'll forget about him if I can.
O his skin is white, and some would say
That his features were pleasing to look upon,
They are only hateful to me to-day,
Old Modoc a hero and he a worm,
For he left to suffer alone, alone,
The truest friend that his life had known
For fear of a possible microbe germ!
I'll forget about him if I can.
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