THE ANTELOPE HUNT
In the country of Bijou,
Just in sight of mountains capped with snow,
Stalking the “prong-horns” on the plain,
Once each year I go again.
The sun is up. His glorious smile
Illumes each ridge and dim defile.
The scent of sage and desert flowers
Makes dainty, sweet, these morning hours.
Forth leaps my steed; my pulses start.
By zephyrs cool my cheeks are fanned.
Away! Away! and with glad heart
I roam my own, my native prairie land!
Now, whilst broad grass-flats skimming o’er.
What thrilling dreams of days of yore,—
Of bison hunts that are no more;
Of Indians red that vanished, too,
Like much big game “ye old-time hunters” slew.
Save a few prong-horns, fleet and sly,
That still roam o’er these deserts dry,
Those beasts,—those nomads,—all are gone!
Like shifting sands, they hurried on,
As phantoms in a wizard’s glass,
Seen but a moment e’er they pass.
Such memories flash across my mind,
Then fading, leave regrets behind.
But hence, ye dreams! Away! Away!
Time is so brisk, so very fleeting;
High rolls the sun,—supreme his sway;—
Hot, red hot! on my poor head his beams are beating.
But no complaint,—I hunt to-day!
To-day I seek the noble quarry;
Just as of old I come to slay,
(I yearn to bag at least one prong-horn wary!)
But all in vain I scan the plain:
I scower, likewise, the ridges airy.
I halt, glance back, dash on again,
From right to left I keep a turning;
I plunge among the sand-hills burning,
Then in and out, around and over,
But I can find those sly beasts nowhere,—never!
Nay, neither hoof nor horn have I spied;
In all my mad Mazeppa ride;
Tempted by the mirage lake,
Mocking thirst it cannot slake,
Scanning landscapes dim and hazy,
Till my eyeballs nearly burst,
Till I seem a-going crazy
From pangs of heat and thirst,
Down, down to yonder sandy creek I will hie,
I must drink—and drink p-d-q—or surely I shall die.
Evening scents, and odors cool,
Flights of ducks above a pool;
Now, in the bunched sand-grass lying,
From a high hill-top I am spying;
In a neighboring deep ravine,
Stands my hobbled steed unseen;
All around, elsewhere, a cheerless waste,—
But see, there! At last! at last!
Trooping up yon sunny slope,
There! there! behold! My long-sought antelope!
Slowly, surely, toward me feeding,
A monarch buck his subjects leading;
Soon at my feet he will lie bleeding.
On,—on he comes! What a prize!
I can see his very eyes!
Now he stands at gaze,
In a half bewildered daze.
There,—not eighty yards away!
Turns his head the landscape to survey.
Horns a yard long (or perhaps a foot!)
Heavens! what a proud, exalted brute!
How,—how my pulses throb and thrill,
Oh, oh, what a joy it is to kill!
As I glance along the tube of death
I can scarcely draw my breath,
Suppressing the emotions that I feel,
Till my nerves grow firm as steel.
(Nay, nay; I tremble just a trifle.)
Crack! sounds my little 30-30 rifle;
Down he goes,—like a rock!
Marcus Brutus! what a shock!
Just behind the left shoulder,
Struck him a thousand-pounds jolter.
Round me, now, prong-horns, snort and leap;
I could kill a dozen if I chose;
Drop them, almost, in a heap.
But I am not a butcher, God knows;
Yet, nathless I cut his throat,
And above him stand and gloat.
But when the deed is done, the excitement over,
I feel a sense of sorrow ever.
And when up to the gory scene
I lead my gentle, courser, Queen,
(She is a large gray, dapple mare,
With wavy tail and main, and glossy hair.)
Straight, straight up to my game she goes;
Oh, a thing or two she knows!
And I heave it on her back;
But it tumbles “overboard” ker-whack!
Does she snort, and pitch and bolt?
And “swat” me with her heels a jolt?
Oh, no,—just stretches forth her nose;
Just touches my victim with her nose;
Just fondles him with her soft, velvety nose,
Just caresses him as if he were a colt,
Just as if he were a little sleeping colt.
And she shames me with her eyes,
With her big, black, wondering eyes,
Full of reproach and surprise,
Till my heart within me cries,
Deploring these, my loved iniquities.
Till I vow to never kill again,
But, such oath, of course, will be forsworn!
And proud and happy homeward soon I hie;
I’ll be plotting other coups de grace bye and bye.
In the country of Bijou!
Just in sight of mountains capped with snow,
Stalking the prong-horns on the plain
Will we go?—oh, will we go again?