(Eight years—among the best years of life— were lived on the northwest frontier at Chadron in Mountain Nebraska. They were years of early settlement, of conflict between grangers and cattlemen, of drouth, of Farmers’ Alliance, of Indian war,—of desperate hard times. Nothing I have known is so heroic arid heartrending as the struggles of the people on those high plains and mountain slopes to hold their homes, through those years. The life of a country editor is very close to the people—peculiarly so in a new country. From a number of short poems of strictly local character printed then just a few have been chosen. They will be fully understood only by those who were there," but other readers may find them helps in the interpretation of frontier life.)

Oh! Chadron, land of wheat and pine,
Thy winter suns more mildly shine
Than where the Elkhorn's icy flow
Cuts through deep banks of Fremont snow;
Thy sky serene and gentle breeze
Contrasts with Lincoln’s fog and freeze.
Where’er thy exiled sons shall flee
Their hearts still fondly beat for thee.
With modest boast their tongues shall praise
The beauty of thy nights and days,—
The grace that with thy daughters dwells—
Thy railroad shops and canyon dells,
His love thine absent son retains—
Dear city of the Pine Ridge plains.


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