: Songs of the Prairie by Stead Robert J C Colborne Elizabeth Illustrator - Canadian poetry; Prairie Provinces Poetry

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ed from hip to heel I counted the hours to die.

How long I lay I could never tell, for the hours were days to me, Till struck with sudden terror I tore at my wounded knee, For the east wind carried a smoky smell, and I read in its fiery breath That half-a-mile of sun-dried grass was all between me and death; With my hunting-knife I hacked my leg, but I couldn't cut the bone, So I set myself as best I could to face my fate alone.

The fire came on like a hungry fiend on the wings of the rising wind, And I wouldn't care to tell you all the things that were in my mind; I saw the sun through the swirling smoke and the blue sky far above, And I bade good-bye to the things of earth and the dearer hopes of love; And I figured that I had closed accounts for life's uncertain span, When a smoke-blind broncho galloped up and there sat Kid McCann!

There wasn't much time for talking, with the death-roll in our ears, But we sometimes live in seconds more than we could in a thousand of years, And before I could guess her meaning she had thrown herself on my face, And spread her leather jacket, which her warm hands held in place; I felt her breath in my nostrils and her fingertips in my hair, And through the roar of the burning grass I fancied I heard a prayer.

'Twas but for a moment; the flames were gone; unharmed they had passed me by; God knows why the useless are spared to live while the faithful are called to die, But the form that had sheltered me shivered, and seemed to shrivel away, And when I had raised it clear of my face I looked into lifeless clay. . . . And darkness fell, and the world was black, and the last of my reason fled, And when I came to myself again I was back at the ranch, in bed.

That was back in the Eighties, and still I am living here; I built this shanty on the spot; her grave is lying near; And when at nights my nostrils sense the smoke-smell in the air I seem to feel her form again, and hear again her prayer; And then the darkness settles down and wild night-creatures cry, But stars come out in heaven and there's comfort in the sky.

WHO OWNS THE LAND?

Who owns the land? The Statesman said, "The land supplies our daily bread, And raises wheat, and corn, and oats, And simple husbandmen--and votes-- The land was won at awful cost And many soldiers' lives were lost. Too bad! They're mostly silly boys Who go to battle for the noise. Here's a quotation I admire: 'The people's voice is God's desire,' And as I rule by right divine, I half suspect the land is mine."

Who owns the land? The Farmer said, "What puts that question in yer head? I own it. Tuk a homestead here An' lived on it fer twenty year; I bet a new ten dollar bill That I could hold it down until I got the patent, an' I won; The land is mine, as sure's a gun. When city blokes come here to shoot, You bet, they get the icy boot! But 't made me mighty mad when that Danged railway come across the flat An' cut my homestead plumb in two, But there I wuz--what could I do? But jest set down, resigned to fate, Fer fear that they'd expropriate."

Who owns the land? The Speculator Said, "Land is just an incubator In which to let your dollars hatch And, some fine morning--sell the batch."

Who owns the land? The Indian Chief Said, "Ugh, the white man mucha thief! He steal my lan' because he's strong , He steal my lan', an' call it law, He turn me out, me an' my squaw; He let us die, because we not Like him, can live in one same spot; He talk so much of civilize-- He's civil--sometimes--an' he lies!"

A RACE FOR LIFE

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