LITMIR.BIZ

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snake.

       Hurrah! We swoop on like a bird.

       With my pony's proud record at stake—

       For the shaggy, swift leader has stride

       Like the last of a long kingly line;

       Her eyes flash fire through her hair;

       She tosses her head in disdain;

       Her mane streams wide on the air—

       She leads the swift herd of the plain

       As a wolf-leader leads his gaunt pack,

       On the slot of the desperate deer—

       Their exultant eyes savagely shine.

      But down on her broad shining back

       Stings my lash like a rill of red flame—

       Huzzah, my wild beauty! Your best;

       Will you teach my Ladrone a new pace?

       Will you break his proud heart in a shame

       By spurning the dust in his face?

       The herd falls behind and is lost,

       As we race neck and neck, stride and stride.

       Again the long lash hisses hot

       Along the gray mare's glassy hide—

       Aha, she is lost! she does not respond.

       Now I lean to the ear of my roan

       And shout—letting fall the light rein.

       Like a hound from the leash, my Ladrone

       Swoops ahead.

       We're alone on the plain!

      Ah! how the thought at wild living comes back!

       Alone on the wide, solemn prairie

       I ride with my rifle in hand,

       My eyes on the watch for the wary

       And beautiful antelope band.

       Or sleeping at night in the grasses, I hear

       Ladrone grazing near in the gloom.

       His listening head on the sky

       I see etched complete to the ear.

       From the river below comes the boom

       Of the bittern, the thrill and the cry

       Of frogs in the pool, and the shrill cricket's chime,

       Making ceaseless and marvelous rhyme.

       But what of his fate? Did he die

       When the terrible tempest was done?

       When he staggered with you to the light,

       And your fight with the Norther was won,

       Did he live a guest evermore?

       No, friend, not so. I sold him—outright.

      What! sold your preserver, your mate, he who

       Through wind and wild snow and deep night

       Brought you safe to a shelter at last?

       Did you, when the danger had end,

       Forget your dumb hero—your friend?

       Forget! no, nor can I. Why, man,

       It's little you know of such love

       As I felt for him! You think that you feel

       The same deep regard for your span,

       Blanketed, shining, and clipped to the heel,

       But my horse was companion and guard—

       My playmate, my ship on the sea

       Of dun grasses—in all kinds of weather,

       Unhorsed and hungry and sometimes, he

       Served me for love and needed no tether.

      No, I do not forget; but who

       Is the master of fortune and fate?

       Who does as he wishes and not as he must?

       When I sold my preserver, my mate,

       My faithfulest friend—man, I wept.

       Yes, I own it. His faithful eyes

       Seemed to ask what it meant.

       And he kept them fixed on me in startled surprise,

       As another hand led him away.

       And the last that I heard of my roan,

       Was the sound of his shrill, pleading neigh!

      Oh magic west wind of the mountain,

       Oh steed with the stinging main,

       In sleep I draw rein at the fountain,

       And wake with a shiver of pain;

       For the heart and the heat of the city

       Are walls and prison's chain.

       Lost my Ladrone—gone the wild living—

       I dream, but my dreaming is vain.

      Hamlin Garland's parents were of Scotch Presbyterian descent and were strict in their management of their children, but their lives were most wholesome and they were withal companionable. Their sacrifice and toil have been rewarded by the response their son has made to the opportunities they could offer him.

      Besides the rural school training at Burr Oak, Iowa, Mr. Garland received additional education at Cedar Valley Seminary at Osage, where he attended school during the winter seasons. He graduated from this school in 1881 and then for a year travelled through the eastern states. His people later settled in Brown county, Dakota, and he visited them there in 1883.

      In 1884 he went to Boston, where he came under the influence of Professor Moses True Brown of the Boston School of Oratory, Oliver Wendell Holmes, William Dean Howells, Edward Everett Hale, and Edwin Booth.

      Mr. Garland began his career as an author with the publication of his poem, "Lost in a Norther," in Harper's Weekly. For this poem he received twenty-five dollars. His work has been unusually remunerative. He has been a popular contributor to the Century Magazine, the Youth's Companion, the Arena, and other magazines. His first book was published in 1890. Mr. Garland enjoys social life and outdoor sports very much. He was the founder and is still the president of the Cliff Dwellers' Club in Chicago. He is especially fond of the outdoor sports of swimming, skating, and riding the trail on the plains and the mountains. The joy in this last is expressed in a poem which is given later.

      Mr. Garland's publications include short stories, novels, essays, and poems. These book publications began with the short stories, Main Travelled Roads, in 1890. Since then have appeared Jason Edwards, 1891; A Member of the Third House, an exposure of political corruption, 1892; A Spoil of Office, 1892; Prairie Folks, Prairie Songs and Crumbling Idols, a series of critical essays, 1893; Rose of Dutcher's Coolly, a novel, 1895; Wayside Courtships, 1897; a Biography of Ulysses S. Grant, 1898; the Trail of the Gold Seekers and Boy Life on the Prairie, 1899; the Eagle's Heart, 1900; Her Mountain Lover, a novel, 1901; The Captain of the Gray Horse Troop, another novel, 1902; Hesper, 1903; The Tyranny of the Dark, a study in psychic research, 1905; The Long Trail, 1907; the Shadow World, another study in the psychic field, 1908; The Moccassin Ranch, 1909; Cavanagh, Forest Ranger, a study in forest preservation, 1911; Victor Olnee's Discipline, 1911; The Forest Daughter, 1913; and They of the High Trails, 1916.

THE TOIL OF THE TRAIL

       Table of Contents

      What have I gained by the toil of the trail?

       I know and know well.

       I have found once again the lore I had lost

       In the loud cities' hell.

      I have broadened my hand to the

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