Transcriber's note:
The original hyphenation, spelling, and use of accented words has been retained. Missing page numbers are page numbers that were not shown in the original text.

THE PASSING OF THE STORM
AND OTHER POEMS

[ the mountains lay in calm repose]

"The mountains lay in calm repose

Slumbering 'neath their robes of white."

See page [17]

The Passing of the Storm
AND OTHER POEMS

BY

ALFRED CASTNER KING

New YorkChicagoToronto
Fleming H. Revell Company
London and Edinburgh

Copyright, 1907, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 80 Wabash Avenue
Toronto: 25 Richmond St., W.
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street

DEDICATION

TO A RAPIDLY DISAPPEARING CLASS, THE PIONEER
PROSPECTORS, WHOSE BRAVERY, INTELLIGENCE AND
INDUSTRY BLAZED THE TRAILS IN THE WESTERN
WILDERNESS FOR ADVANCING CIVILIZATION, AND MADE
POSSIBLE THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE GREAT WEST,
THIS VOLUME IS VERY RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED

PREFACE

Oh that my words were now written!
Oh that they were inscribed in a book!—Job xix, 23.

Books have, from time immemorial, been the conservators of human wisdom, the repositories of information, the mentors of youth and adolescence, the counsellors of manhood, the comfort and companionship of age.

The experience of an individual, school or era, when committed to book form, becomes the common property of all succeeding time, and the accumulated knowledge of the past, transmitted from generation to generation, through the medium of books, may with justice be regarded as the most valuable of human heritages.

But they have not always been unmixed blessings; they have both led and misled; they have elucidated, yet have mystified.

They have dissipated the shadows of ignorance and superstition, but in some instances have confused and obscured the searchlight of truth. In the economy of human affairs, books have been factors of no small importance. They have proved the most potent expositors of iniquitous systems, and when properly directed against crying evils have accomplished speedy reforms. They have precipitated wars, incited revolts and seditions in the cause of progress, yet have intensified prejudice, political, religious and racial. With silent eloquence, they have cried out against the wrongs of those who had none to plead their cause, while in other cases, their influence has tended to perpetuate existing abuses. In some instances they have taught men to be content with servitude, in others have ignited the beacon fires of liberty. Though they are usually found enlisted under the banners of justice, yet no cause has ever been so unworthy, and no institution so unholy, that books have not been written in their defence. In verity, they have sown both wheat and tares.

Books have been written on every conceivable subject, under all conditions, by all sorts of writers, and from an endless variety of motives. The recompense of those who have written them has been equally various. Some have been apotheosized and worshipped, others have been the recipients of orders and decorations of honor at the hands of kings and potentates, while others have received the ovations of admiring multitudes. Some have anonymously contributed their mite toward the enrichment of literature, others have appeared, from whence we know not, and after placing their offerings upon the altars of poesy and art have departed unrewarded into the shadows of obscurity, leaving as footprints innumerable quotations which have become proverbial. Some, as the bards and minnesingers of old who in mediæval castles ate their bread by the sufferance of the feudal lords and barons, have in more recent years been dependent upon the bounty of some munificent, and usually titled patron, to whom they, as a matter of policy, dedicated their strains and panegyrics, consequently wielding mercenary pens. Some who have presumed to write in a manner displeasing to those who sat in high places have met with vilification, exile, imprisonment, decapitation, and have not been strangers to the pillory. Criticism and ridicule are the patent rewards of incipient authorship, while want, neglect and starvation have terminated the career of more than one name afterwards great in the world of letters.

Aside from motives common to all who with reverent steps humbly strive to follow where the great lights of poesy have led, the author of these unpretentious pages has been actuated by a desire to portray, in his correct light, a very frequently misrepresented character, viz.: the pioneer prospector. It has long been customary for writers of western fiction to picture this character as a large-hearted but rough and untutored individual, expressing himself in a vernacular consisting of equal parts of slang, profanity and questionable grammar, possessing no ambitions above the card table or the strong waters which cause all men to err who drink them. An intimate acquaintance with this class, extending from the years of infancy to middle age, convinces the writer that the common description is manifestly unjust and misleading.

The men who flocked to the early gold excitements, and who subsequently prospected the western mountain ranges for their hidden wealth, were the cream of American and European manhood; men possessed of more than ordinary endowments of intellect, education and physique, while their industry, bravery and hardihood have never been questioned.

Proof of this exists in the names which have lingered behind them as a matter of record, for it was the prospector who christened the mountains, gulches and mining locations of the west. A cursory perusal of the maps of mineral surveys in any western mining district, will reveal in abundance such names as Hector, Ajax, Golden Fleece, Atlas, Pegasus, etc.; indicating that those who applied them were, if not college graduates, men not unfamiliar with the classics. The use of such names as Cleopatra, Crusader or Magna Charta, by a prospector unversed in history, would naturally be unexpected. One without knowledge of literature would hardly grace his location stakes with such names as Dante, Hamlet or Mephistopheles, while one entirely unlettered could not by chance hit upon such names as Pandora, Medusa or Sesostris.

Of the pioneer prospectors but few remain; many have fallen asleep, others tiring of the privation and uncertainty incident to a miner's life, are pursuing other vocations, while many have become prosperous ranch and cattle-men and may now be found in almost any western valley. A few, a very few in comparison with the less fortunate majority, acquiring a competence, removed to other localities, and in not a few instances, have become conspicuous figures in the world of business, politics and finance.

In the mountainous districts of the west, you may still occasionally see a veteran prospector of the old school, living the life of a hermit in his log cabin, situated in some picturesque park or gulch, near his, sometimes valuable but more frequently worthless, mining locations. There he lives winter and summer, his only companion a cat or dog; the ambitions of his youth still unrealized, but at three score and ten, hopeful and expectant. His bent form, white hair, and venerable bearing impress you strangely at first, but it is only when you overcome the reticence peculiar to those who have long dwelt in solitude, and engage him in conversation, that his mental status becomes apparent. To your surprise you discover that he can converse entertainingly on any subject, from the Mosaic dispensation, to the latest inventions in the world of mechanism. You may find him to be, not only a Shakspearean scholar, but a deep student of that volume which, whether considered from a sacred or secular point of view, stands preeminently forth as the Book of Books. You may find him able to translate Homer, or Virgil, and that the masterpieces of literature are as familiar to him as his own cabin walls. A glimpse at the interior of his cabin discloses an ample stock of newspapers and magazines, while books are not strangers. There is something pathetic about his loneliness; you leave him with the feeling that society has been the loser by his voluntary banishment, and are reminded of Gray's immortal lines:

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene.

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

You speculate upon the story of his life, for you feel that it has a secret, if not a tragedy, connected with it, into which you may not probe. You ask yourself the question, "Has not his life been wasted?" and if he alone is to be considered, there is none but an affirmative answer. But his life has not been barren of results. He has been a contributory factor in the upbuilding of an empire, for he is one of the class who laid the foundations of western prosperity.

These men came west for various reasons, some actuated by the spirit of adventure, some to acquire fortunes or to retrieve vanished ones, others possibly to outlive the stigma of youthful mistakes. In the lives of many of them are sealed chapters. It is with such that these pages have to do.

Alfred Castner King.
Ouray, Colo., 1907.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[ as stormy cowls their summits hid]

As stormy cowls their summits hid.

See page [19]

The Passing of the Storm

I. THE STORM

Reflecting, in their crystal snows,

The glittering jewels of the night,

The mountains lay in calm repose

Slumbering 'neath their robes of white.

The stars grew dim,—a film instead,

The twinkling heavens overspread,

Through which their eyes essayed to peer,

Each moment less distinct and clear,

Till, when the stellar beacons failed,

A darkness unrelieved, prevailed.

Out of the ambient depths of gloom,

Bereft of its accustomed bloom,

Came day-break, comfortless and gray.

Sped the nocturnal shades away,

Unveiling, with their winged retreat,

A twilight sad and incomplete.

Reluctantly, as dawn aspired,

The shadows lingered, then retired

As vanquished armies often yield

Upon a well-contested field,

And sullenly retrace their course

Before an overwhelming force.

Within the east no purple light

Proclaimed the passing of the night;

No crimson blush appeared to warn

The landscape of returning morn.

Discarding all the gorgeous dyes,

Wherewith the sunset tints the skies,

And mingling with the azure blue,

The warp and woof of sober hue;

The fairies of the air, I wist,

Had spun a silvery web of mist,

Whose texture, ominous and gray,

Obscured the glories of the day.

Such was the dreary winter's day,

Which dawned with dull and leaden sky;

No cheerful penetrating ray

Flashed from the sun's resplendent eye.

In vain, through rift and orifice,

He strove with radiant beam to kiss

Each mountain peak and dizzy height,

Apparelled in their garbs of white,

And crown each brow, so bleak and cold,

With burnished diadem of gold.

Ascending in aërial flight,

The wheel of fire did not appear,

To dissipate the fogs of night

And clarify the atmosphere.

Seeking with fervent ray and fierce,

The canopy of cloud to pierce,

The orb of day, stripped of his flame,

A circle, ill-defined, became,

As through the ever-thickening haze,

His feeble outline met the gaze.

This faded till his glowing face

Left no suggestive spot or trace,

No corollary on the pall

Which settled and pervaded all.

As stormy cowls their summits hid,

In turret, tower and pyramid,

Of stately and majestic mien,

Was nature's architecture seen.

From yawning chasm and abyss,

Rose minaret and precipice,

Carved by the tireless hand of time,

In forms fantastic, yet sublime,

While spires impregnable and high,

Were profiled on the lowering sky.

Exceeding the tremendous height

Of brother peaks, on left and right,

In his commanding station placed,

The giant of the rocky waste

With awe-inspiring aspect stood,

The sentry of the solitude,

Guarding the mountainous expanse

With his imposing battlements.

In rock-ribbed armor panoplied,

With rugged walls on every side,

Beseamed with countless scars and rents,

From combat with the elements,

He towered with mute and massive form,

A challenge to the gathering storm.

This overshadowing mountain peak

In solemn silence seemed to speak

A prophecy of arctic doom;

As in his frigid splendor dressed,

He reared aloft his frozen crest,

Surmounted by a snowy plume.

His wrinkled and forbidding brow

A sombre shadow seemed to throw

O'er other crags as wild and stern,

Which frowned defiance in return.

The wind, lugubrious and sad,

In doleful accents, soft and low,

Mourned through the dismal forests, clad

In weird habiliments of snow,

As if, forsooth, the sylvan ghosts

Had mobilized in pallid hosts,

To haunt their rugged solitudes,

The spectres of departed woods.

And with uninterrupted flow

The streamlet, underneath the snow,

Answered the wind's despondent moan

With plaint of gurgling monotone;

Or, locked in winter's stern embrace,

No longer trickled in its bed,

But found a frigid resting place

In stationary ice, instead.

The crystal snowflakes gently fell,

Enrobing mountain, plain and dell,

In mantle spotless and complete,

As nature in her winding sheet.

Layer upon layer fell fast and deep

Till every cliff, abrupt and steep,

Was crowned with coronal of white.

Capricious gusts, which whirl and sift,

Built comb and overhanging drift,

From feathery flakes so soft and light.

More thickly flew the snow and fast;

The wind developed and the blast

Soon churned the tempest, till the air

Seemed but a white and whirling glare,

Through which the penetrating eye

No shape nor contour might descry.

The poor belated traveller,

Who braved the rigor of that day,

Might thank his bright protecting star,—

If orbs of pure celestial ray,

Far in the scintillating skies,

Preside o'er human destinies,—

That he, bewildered and distressed,

Had warded off exhaustion's rest,

And in that maze of pine and fir

Escaped an icy sepulchre.

When driving snows accumulate,

They yield to the tremendous weight.

And down the mountain's rugged sides

The mass with great momentum slides,

Cleaving the fragile spruce and pine,

Which stand in its ill-fated line,

As bearded grain, mature and lithe,

Goes down before the reaper's scythe.

Or, when the cyclone's baleful force,

In flood of atmospheric wrath,

Pursues its devastating course,

Leaving but ruin in its path;

Despoiling in a moment's span

The most exalted works of man;

Or waters, suddenly set free,

When some black thunder cloud is rent,

Rush down a wild declivity

With irresistible descent,

Depositing on every hand

A layer of sediment and sand;

With swift and spoliating flow,

Uprooting many a noble tree,

To strew the desert wastes below

With scattered drift-wood and debris;

Such is the dreadful avalanche,

Which rends the forest, root and branch.

From dangers in such varied form,

And the discomforts of the storm,

Small wonder 'twas the mountaineer

Left not his fireside's ruddy cheer;

But from behind the bolted door

Discerned the tempest's strident roar,

Or heard the pendent icicle,

Which, from the eaves, in fragments fell,

As some more formidable blast

In paroxysmal fury passed.

It shook with intermittent throes,

Of boisterous, spasmodic power,

A most substantial hut, which rose,

As summer breeze sways grass or flower

And e'en the dull immobile ground

Trembled in sympathy profound.

Such was the fury of the storm,

As if the crystal flakes had met

With militating hosts, to swarm

In siege about its parapet.

When every rampant onslaught failed,

The blast in wanton frenzy wailed.

As if with unspent rage the wind

Felt much disgruntled and chagrined,

And though of nugatory force,

Could vent its spleen with accents hoarse.

As some beleaguered tower of old

Besieged by warriors stern and bold,

Who dashed against its walls of stone,

Which were not swayed nor overthrown;

As vicious strokes delivered well,

Innocuous and futile fell.

Then watched the walls withstand the strain,

And cursed and gnashed their teeth in vain.

Beneath a massive pinnacle,

Whose weird, forbidding shadows fell,

And gulch and forest overcast

With mantle ominous and vast,

Nestling amid the spruce and pine,

Which fringe the edge of timberline,

This miner's cabin, quaint and rude,

From the surrounding forest hewed,

With primitive, yet stable form,

Withstood the onslaught of the storm,

And at the entrance of a dell

Stood as a rustic sentinel.

Beneath a pine's protecting skirt,

It reared its modest roof of poles,

Laid close, then overlaid with dirt,

To cover up the cracks and holes;

The intervals between the logs

Were daubed with mud from mountain bogs.

The ground did service as a floor

In this, as many huts before;

So beaten down beneath the tread,

It more resembled tile instead.

The plastic clay, compressed and sleek,

Was level and as hard as brick.

Protruding boulders, smooth and bare,

Exposed their faces here and there;

And with their surfaces displayed,

A primitive mosaic made.

And, terminating in a stack,

Some feet above the cabin's roof,

The fireplace, comfortless and black,

Arose the dingy form uncouth.

This object of depressing gloom,

Built in the corner of the room,

When filled with lurid tongues of flame,

A cheerful cynosure became.

The furnishings within were crude;

A table fastened to the wall

Had been with some exertion hewed

From aspen timbers straight and tall,

And was, in lieu of table legs,

Supported by protruding pegs.

A cracker box, with shelves inside,

The leading corner occupied,

And made an ample cupboard there,