29
ON THE TRAIL.
Oh, there's nothing like the prairie
When the wind is in your face,
And a thunder-storm is brewing,
And night comes down apace—
'Tis then you feel the wonder
And immensity of space!
Far in the gathering darkness
Against the dying day
The ghostly hills are lying,
The hills that stand for aye—
How in the dusk they glimmer
And palpitate away!
Behind them still there lingers
A hint of sunset gold;
The trail before you stretches,
A long black ribbon unrolled—
Long and black and narrow,
Where the buffalo trod of old.
