Ii

A hill-slope, a desolation; yonder the cordoned crest Of glinting gun and sabre--here, like mole in nest, Trapped in the hill-crest’s hollow, the huntsmen’s quest.

A solitude of heaven, high and sunny still Above a breadth of desert--sudden the locust shrill Of bullets, then death, and sudden the war-whoop’s thrill.

And here a wild squaw-mother--something dead at the breast, Something live at the shoulder, spitting lead with the best---- Singing a song of wild-heart’s cradle-rest:

Death, you have taught me to mother! Death, I will mother well! With red, red blood I will nourish, I will lull with the rifle’s spell! For O you have taught me to suckle and I will suckle them well!

Only a wild squaw-mother, bullet-stung at the start, Quiet out there in the desert, something dead nigh the heart. See! her quaint fancy’s beading, zigzag art.

(An old saying of the Plains)]