in this region. They must go there. A little faster, friends; a little faster yet!" It was a vast desert level where we were riding. Before us was the faint blue of the Sierra. Not a bird 5 sang in the hot noon; not a cricket chirped. We now rode side by side, taking our strides together. Far-ah, how terribly dim and distant!-was the Sierra, a slowly lifting cloud. We three rode abreast over the sere brown plain on our gallop to save. 10 Oh, my glorious Don Fulano! The great killing pace seemed a mere playful canter to him, such as one might ride beside a timid girl. But from time to time he surged a little forward with his great shoulders and gave a mighty writhe of his body, while his hind legs came lifting his 15 flanks under me, and telling of the giant reserve of speed and power he kept easily controlled. At the left rode Brent, our leader. His iron-gray went grandly, with white mane flapping the air like a signal flag of reprieve. We must make the most of the levels. 20 Rougher work and obstacles were before us. All the wild, triumphal music I had ever heard sang in my ears to the flinging cadence of the resonant feet, tramping on hollow arches of the volcanic rock. Sweet and soft around us was the hazy air of October. On we galloped on our 25 errand to save. It came afternoon as we rode on steadily. The country grew rougher, the mountain lines sharper. We came upon a wide tract covered with wild-sage bushes. These delayed and baffled us. It was a pygmy forest of trees no higher than the knee. It checked our speed and chafed our horses. We tore along, breaking over and through the sage bushes, each man where best he could. 5 What was this? The bushes trampled and broken down. Hoof marks in the dust. "The trail!" I cried; "the trail!" They sprang toward me. Brent followed the line with his eye. He galloped forward with a look of triumph. Suddenly I saw him fling himself half out 10 of his saddle and clutch at some object. Still going at speed and holding on by one leg alone, he picked up something from the bushes. A lady's glove! We pressed on; this silent cry for help made the danger seem near. 15 And now in front the purple Sierra was growing brown and rising up, a distant wall. Broad fields of cool snow gleamed upon the summits. Our horses suffered bitterly for water. Five hours we had ridden through all that arid waste without a pause. It was cruel to press on; 20 it was more cruel to stay. Fulano suffered least. He turned his brave eye back, and beckoned me with his ear to listen, while he seemed to say: "See, this is my Endurance! I hold my Power ready still to show." And he curved his proud neck, 25 shook his mane like a banner, and galloped grandest of all. Suddenly our leader sprang from the saddle. 66 "Look," he cried, "how those fellows spent their time and saved ours. Thank Heaven for this! We shall save her now, surely." It was water. They had dug a pit deep in the 5 thirsty sand and found a lurking river buried there. The pit was nearly five feet deep. An hour's work, and no less, it must have cost them. We drank thankfully of this well by the wayside. We were grateful almost to the point of pity; but rescue was 10 imperative. We grudged these moments of refreshment. I wiped the dust from Fulano's nostrils and let him breathe a moment. Then I let him drain deep, delicious draughts from the stirrup cup. He whinnied thanks and undying fealty-my noble comrade! He drank like a reveler. When 15 I mounted again he gave a jubilant curvet and bound. All those miles of our hard, hot gallop were nothing. The brown Sierra was close at hand. The The gap opened before us, grand and terrible. Its mighty walls, a thousand feet high, bore aloft two pyramids of purple cliffs 20 far above the snow line. Terrible riding in that fierce chasm over great beds of loose stone! Madness to go as we went! No whipping or spurring. Our horses were a part of ourselves. We could not choose ground. We must take our leaps on 25 that cruel rock wherever they offered. Brent's horse slipped on the smooth rock and fell short. His master was out of the saddle almost before he struck, raising him. No, he would never rise again. He sank and died without a sound. Brent groaned. With one knife-stroke I cut the thong of my girth. The heavy saddle fell to the ground. I cut off my spurs. They never yet had touched Fulano's flanks. He stood beside me, quiet, but trembling to be off. Then he tore down the defile. "Now, Brent, up behind me!" I whispered, for the awe of death was upon us. I mounted. Brent sprang up behind. I ride light for a tall man. Brent is the lightest body of an athlete I ever saw. Fulano stood steady till 10 we were firm in our seats. Here was that vast reserve of power; here the tireless spirit; here the hoof striking true as a thunderbolt where the brave eye saw footing; here that writhing agony of speed; here the great promise fulfilled, the great heart 15 thrilling to mine. Noble Fulano! I did not check or guide him. He saw all. He knew all. All was his doing. Over the slippery rocks, plunging through the loose stones, on went the horse, we clinging as we might. The gaunt white horse and his rider were 20 left behind. No other horse that ever lived could have held with mine in that headlong gallop to save. The crags flung apart, right and left. I saw the gleam of gushing water. We were there. We were in time. Adapted. the Sierra: a mountain ridge. - Fulano (foo-lahʼno). — volcanic rock: rock brought to the surface by volcanic action. JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND (1819-1881), whose pen name was Timothy Titcomb, was an American writer of some note. He wrote poems and novels, and several volumes of advice to young people. NOTE. This sonnet was written in 1867. It was a time of great 5 national discouragement and perplexity. The President and Congress were continually in conflict, and unscrupulous politicians were eager to carry out their selfish plans. God give us men! A time like this demands Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and ready hands; 10 Men whom the lust of office does not kill; 15 Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy; Men who possess opinions and a will; Men who have honor, men who will not lie; Men who can stand before a demagogue, And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking! Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog In public duty and in private thinking: For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds, 20 Mingle in selfish strife, lo! Freedom weeps, lust desire. dem'agogue: a false leader or orator who appeals to the baser elements in mankind. 1 From Holland's Poetical Writings. Copyright, 1879, by Charles Scribner's Sons. |