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THE OLD MACKENZIE TRAIL |
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S
EE, stretching yonder o'er that low divide
Which parts the falling rain,— the eastern slope Sends down its waters to the southern sea Through Double Mountain's winding length of stream;
The western side spreads out into a plain. Which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leagues At last into the rushing Rio Grande,— See, faintly showing on that distant ridge, The deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest, Sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral, The dim reminders of the olden times, The life of stir, of blood, of Indian raid, The hunt of buffalo and antelope; The camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers; The cowboy's lonely vigil through the night; The stampede and the wild ride through the storm; The call of California's golden flood; The impulse of the Saxon's " Westward Ho " Which set our fathers' faces from the east, To spread resistless o'er the barren wastes, To people all the regions 'neath the sun — Those vikings of the old Mackenzie Trail. It winds — this old forgotten cattle trail — Through valleys still and silent even now, 154 |
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