The Train Dogs

Out of the night and the north;
    Savage of breed and of bone,
Shaggy and swift comes the yelping band,
Freighters of fur from the voiceless land
    That sleeps in the Arctic zone.

Laden with skins from the north,
    Beaver and bear and raccoon,
Marten and mink from the polar belts,
Otter and ermine and sable pelts -
    The spoils of the hunter's moon.

Out of the night and the north,
    Sinewy, fearless and fleet,
Urging the pack through the pathless snow,
The Indian driver, calling low,
    Follows with moccasined feet.

Ships of the night and the north,
    Freighters on prairies and plains,
Carrying cargoes from field and flood
They scent the trail through their wild red blood,
    The wolfish blood in their veins.

Emily Pauline Johnson

Emily Pauline Johnson was a Canadian poet of mixed Mohawk and English heritage. She was born on March 10, 1861, on the Six Nations Reserve near Brantford, Ontario. Johnson became known for her performances, where she often wore a traditional Mohawk dress. Her published works include poetry, short stories, and essays that explore themes of identity, cultural heritage, and nature. She passed away on March 7, 1913, in Vancouver, British Columbia.

Emily Pauline Johnson

Good-Bye

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

Brier - Good Friday

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

Harvest Time

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

The Idlers

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Wolf

Like a grey shadow lurking in the light,
He ventures forth along the edge of night;
With silent foot he scouts the coulie's rim
And scents the carrion awaiting him.
His savage eyeballs lurid with a flare
Seen but in unfed beasts which leave their lair
To wrangle with their fellows for a meal
Of bones ill-covered. Sets he forth to steal,
To search and snarl and forage hungrily;
A worthless prairie vagabond is he.
Luckless the settler's heifer which astray
Falls to his fangs and violence a prey;
Useless her blatant calling when his teeth
Are fast upon her quivering flank - beneath
His fell voracity she falls and dies
With inarticulate and piteous cries,
Unheard, unheeded in the barren waste,
To be devoured with savage greed and haste.
Up the horizon on...

Emily Pauline Johnson

The Cattle Country

Up the dusk-enfolded prairie,
    Foot-falls, soft and sly,
Velvet cushioned, wild and wary,
    Then - the coyote's cry.

Rush of hoofs, and roar and rattle,
    Beasts of blood and breed,
Twenty thousand frightened cattle,
    Then - the wild stampede.

Pliant lasso circling wider
    In the frenzied flight -
Loping horse and cursing rider,
    Plunging through the night.

Rim of dawn the darkness losing
    Trail of blackened soil;
Perfume of the sage brush oozing
    On the air like oil.

Foothills to the Rockies lifting
    Brown, and blue, and green,
Warm Alberta sunlight drifting
    Over leagues between.

That's the country of the ranges,
    Plain and prairie land,
And the God who never changes

Emily Pauline Johnson

The Heart Of The Sourdough

There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon;
There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon,
And the glacier-gutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of June:

There where the livid tundras keep their tryst with the tranquil snows;
There where the Silences are spawned, and the light of hell-fire flows
Into the bowl of the midnight sky, violet, amber, and rose:

There where the rapids churn and roar, and the ice-floes bellowing run;
Where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood rush to the setting sun -
I've packed my kit and I'm going, boys, ere another day is done.

*    *    *    *    *

I knew it would call, or soon or late, as it calls the whirring wings;
It's the olden lure, it's the golden lure, it's the lure of t...

Robert William Service

Prairie Greyhounds

C.P.R. "NO. 1," WESTBOUND

        I swing to the sunset land -
The world of prairie, the world of plain,
The world of promise and hope and gain,
The world of gold, and the world of grain,
        And the world of the willing hand.

        I carry the brave and bold -
The one who works for the nation's bread,
The one whose past is a thing that's dead,
The one who battles and beats ahead,
        And the one who goes for gold.

        I swing to the "Land to Be,"
I am the power that laid its floors,
I am the guide to its western stores,
I am the key to its golden doors,
        That open alone to me.

C.P.R. "NO. 2," EASTBOUND

        I swing to the land of morn;
The grey old east with its grey old seas,
The land of le...

Emily Pauline Johnson

The Nostomaniac

    On the ragged edge of the world I'll roam,
    And the home of the wolf shall be my home,
    And a bunch of bones on the boundless snows
    The end of my trail . . . who knows, who knows!

    I'm dreaming to-night in the fire-glow, alone in my study tower,
    My books battalioned around me, my Kipling flat on my knee;
    But I'm not in the mood for reading, I haven't moved for an hour;
    Body and brain I'm weary, weary the heart of me;
    Weary of crushing a longing it's little I understand,
    For I thought that my trail was ended, I thought I had earned my rest;
    But oh, it's stronger than life is, the call of the hearthless land!
    And I turn to the North in my trouble, as a child to the mother-breast.

    Here in my den it's quiet; the sea-...

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Incident Characteristic Of A Favorite Dog

On his morning rounds the Master
Goes to learn how all things fare;
Searches pasture after pasture,
Sheep and cattle eyes with care;
And, for silence or for talk,
He hath comrades in his walk;
Four dogs, each pair of different breed,
Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.

See a hare before him started!
Off they fly in earnest chase;
Every dog is eager-hearted,
All the four are in the race:
And the hare whom they pursue,
Knows from instinct what to do;
Her hope is near: no turn she makes;
But, like an arrow, to the river takes.

Deep the river was, and crusted
Thinly by a one night's frost;
But the nimble Hare hath trusted
To the ice, and safely crost;
She hath crost, and without heed
All are following at full speed,...

William Wordsworth