"At Half-Mast" by E. Pauline Johnson
one of the boys,
The greatest fellow you ever seen to racket an' raise
a noise,—
An' sing! say, you never heard singing 'nless you
heard Billy sing.
I used to say to him, "Billy, that voice that you've
got there'd bring
A mighty sight more bank-notes to tuck away in
your vest,
If only you'd go on the concert stage instead of a-
ranchin' West."
An' Billy he'd jist go laughin', and say as I didn't
know
A robin's whistle in springtime from a barnyard
rooster's crow.
But Billy could sing, an' I sometimes think that voice
lives anyhow,—
That perhaps Bill helps with the music in the place
he's gone to now.
The last time that I seen him was the day he rode
away;
He was goin' acrost the plain to catch the train for
the East next day.
'Twas the only time I ever seen poor Bill that he
didn't laugh
Or sing an' kick up a rumpus an' racket around,
and chaff,
For he'd got a letter from his folks that said for to
hurry home,
For his mother was dyin' away down East an' she
wanted Bill to come.
Say, but the feller took it hard, but he saddled up
right away,
An' started across the plains to take the train fort
he East, next day.
Sometimes I lie awake a-nights jist a-thinkin' of
the rest,
For that was the great big blizzard day, when the
wind come down from west,
An' the snow piled up like mountains an' we couldn't
put foot outside,
But jist set into the shack an' talked of Bill on his
lonely ride.
We talked of the laugh he threw us as he went at
the break o' day,
An' we talked of the poor old woman dyin' a thou-
sand mile away.
Well, Dan O'Connell an' I went out to search at the
end of the week,
Fer all of us fellers thought a lot,—a lot that we
darsn't speak.
We've been up the trail about forty mile, an' was
talkin' ot turnin' back,
But Dan, well, he wouldn't give in, so we kep' right
on to the railroad track.
As soon as we sighted them telegraph wires says
Dan, "Say, bless my soul!
Ain't that there Bill's red handkerchief tied half
way up that pole?"
Yes, sir, there she was, with her ends a-flippin'
an flyin' in the wind,
An' underneath was the envelope of Bill's letter
tightly pinned.
"Why, he must a-board the train right here,"
says Dan, but I kinder knew
That underneath them snowdrifts we would find a
thing or two;
Fer he'd writ on that there paper, "Been lost fer
hours,—all hope is past.
You'll find me, boys, where my handkerchief is
flyin at half-mast."