Happy Days

DENVER, COLORADO

THE REED PUBLISHING COMPANY

Nineteen Hundred and Four

Copyright, 1904

By SAMUEL R. BROWN

PRESS OF

The Reed Publishing Company

DENVER

Dedicated WITH KINDEST REGARDS, TO OUR GENTLE, SAD-FACED TOURIST SUMMER-GUEST

[Pg iv]

PUBLISHERS’ ANNOUNCEMENT

As in subsequent pages of this little work its author has had so much to say regarding himself and the land of his nativity, we deem it but proper that he and the reader should be made more fully acquainted here at the outset. Permit, therefore, this brief biographical sketch. Born in the sunny valley of the South Platte, near the present site of the Queen City of the Plains (Denver), the author is of course a native of the Centennial State (Colorado).

In the days of his boyhood the wooly bison and the prong-horned antelope still ranged in countless droves upon the Great Plains, and the antlered elk and the mule deer, among the airy table-lands and in the more-sequestered, grassy forest-glades of the Rocky Mountains, were most plentiful indeed. The little red Indian papooses were his earliest childhood playmates, and the “big braves,” Cheyenne Charley, the Arapahoe chief, Black Kettle, and the fat old Ute, Colorow, are still well remembered by him. The long lines of freight and emigrant wagons; the “Overland stage coaches,” the ox and mule teams, the various motley crowds of old-time denizens of those then “first days” of stir and change, of sanguine strife and hardy enterprise, were all familiar objects of his youthful vision.

Being reared thus, amidst wild and savage life, and born a native of a then savage wild-land, his poetic efforts of these later happier days will no doubt prove of especial interest to the people of the middle Great West and the Rocky Mountain region generally.

The Publishers.

[Pg v]

PREFATORY

My dear unexacting, much-forgiving reader—lover of rural-songs and of rural singers: Now, since having spent many happy days in the health-gaining pursuit after the fleet-winged goddess Pleasure, and in camping on the trail of the scarcely less inconstant muse, among Colorado’s grassy, grove-filled valleys, arid plains, and lofty, snow-capped mountains, with the sad-faced “tourist friend” sometimes, and sometimes with some others, for the writer’s camp-fire side companions, and having found life good and Nature joyous, and as “There is more or less poetry about the souls of all men”—(and some women also, perhaps!) it is not strange, therefore, (is it?) that the author of this unpretentious little book has fallen, half-unconsciously, as it were, into hymning joy-notes to Nature and to disconsolate humanity (presumably!) likewise.

Now, trusting, therefore, that a more lengthy retrospection will not be necessary to sufficiently apologize for our unpremeditated literary transgressions, our impromptu sentimental love-ditties, etc., we therefore, with best wishes to all and with malice to none, and with the reader’s kind permission, will accordingly without further delay or comment, proceed to the final rehearsal of our felicitous, although evidently artless, minstrelsy.

The Author.

[Pg x]

[Pg xi]

HAPPY DAYS CAROLINGS OF COLORADO ETC.

[Pg xii]

[Pg 13]

WAS MAN MADE TO MOURN?

“Man was made to mourn.”

—Robert Burns.

TEARS

“Needless tears.”—Tennyson.

FAREWELL!—I AM STILL CAMPING!

My dear tourist friend—farewell! Farewell perhaps forever. Farewell! I am still camping! In the cool shade of the cottonwoods beside the Platte, I am camping. I who erstwhile in careless youth’s hilarious days, a handsome book of verse and prose did write and print, a book that has neither brought me fame nor fortune as yet; nay, nay, and it never will.

Ha, ha, ha! Yes, I am still camping. In delightful tranquility and in the generous shelter of the tall timber close down by the clear blue water’s side, my humble little abode is still standing. Its dingy white-washed walls may yet be seen peeping out pleasingly from among the thick green leaves of the patriarchal trees of the forest.

Yes, yes; I am still camping. Pegasus, my “broncho plug” (my vaunted poet’s steed!), has long since been turned loose to browse on the luxurious sage-brush, and the crisp buffalo-grass of the Great Plains. Genevieve, my docile cow, too, has strayed away, or else she has been stolen, which I know not, neither do I care, as I am in the “stock business” no longer.

To-day, to-day, just as of yore; seated still on the same old log,—silently—silently, still, I am angling in the Platte. Angling still for “suckers” in the eddying tide, but alas! alas! they do not bite. They seem to realize perfectly, clearly, that I have been along this way before. They seem, metaphorically, to say, “No, sir, no; we respectfully [Pg 88]decline your book-worm-bait, and your cunningly contrived fly-productions.”

Yea, yea; it is the same old story—“a fisherman’s luck! A fisherman’s luck!” Yet, nevertheless, I am ever hopeful and content to wait. God’s good will will be done, no doubt in his own good time. This is my consolation. “Nor cease I yet to wander where the Muses haunt—clear brook and shady rill.” Green bank and blue, unclouded sky. Quiet grove and breezy hill. Fresh flowers and the songs of birds. These all make musical and brighten still my dreams, and gladden likewise my long-expectant eye.

But farewell, my dear tourist friend—-farewell, perhaps forever! And when back again unto “orient realms” thou shalt soon have returned,—

SUPPLEMENTARY

[Pg 90]

[Pg 91]

MAY-DAY BESIDE THE PLATTE

To-day—to-day! It is sweet May-day again beside the Platte. The cottonwoods are putting forth their green. The wild, red-roses and the white plum-blossoms scent the air. The lark is in the fields; the robin’s cheery voice is heard. The golden flecker and the oriole make music in the woods. The dove’s low cooing woos the murmur of the streams, and the merry blackbirds chant amid the wild, sweet meadow-grass, and starry-eyed asclepia blooms.

The vast, green prairie spreads around. Its boundless lawns are sweet with flowers. The “bonny-bells” and “yellow eyes” have decked the sunny slopes with gold. The round, green hills are gay with dandelions and daisies. The sweet blue-flags, the “yuccas” and the “artemisias” brighten everywhere.

Northward, amid his banks of bloom and graceful curves, the “silver river” glides. Westward, a dozen miles beyond, the stream, and, looming over all in grand relief, appears the old, shining Rocky Mountains, the snowy range towering amid the storm-clouds, and the purple foot-hills, like the Titan forms of old among the shattered fortresses of vanquished gods!

Dreamer, you are in Colorado—you stand upon the banks of the Platte. The great, wild prairie stretches all around us. Its smooth, green lawns are bright with silver brooks and crystal lakes. Hundreds of wild fowl [Pg 93]disport upon the water’s blue, unrippled bosom. Long strings of cattle come forth to drink—others graze in droves among the low, round hills near by. How beautiful! how bright! how grassy wild! how fair and sweet!

Dreamer, does not your heart grow glad? This is a land for rest and holiday! You hear the hum of golden bees. You feel the soft flow of the air. The sky is clear and blue and bright. The fields are green and dry and warm. The woods are beryl-hued and full of singing birds. High above you, snowy mountains tower—“Long” and “Lincoln” prop the sky. You behold Pike’s Peak further south—its blue sides terminating in a crown of snow.

My name is Brown—Sam Brown. I was born under the shadow, as it were, of these grand old Rocky Mountains. Thirty years ago, when all this vast region of plains and mountains, extending from the Mississippi River on the east to the shores of the Pacific Ocean on the west, to the Mexican Gulf on the south, and to the British possessions on the north, was an almost unexplored wilderness, filled with wild beasts and hostile Indians, my father and mother crossed the plains in a “prairie schooner,” drawn by a yoke of oxen. They came west early in ’59, with the first rush of those hardy gold seekers whose motto was “Pike’s Peak or Bust!”

Finding mining unprofitable they settled down to farming and stock-raising near the base of the mountains. Here to them four sons were born—of whom I am the eldest, having been born on March 21, 1860. I am a Colorado pioneer—yes, born of a pioneer ancestry—and it is with a sense of pride that I point out to you the [Pg 94]fact. I also take a kind of grim pleasure in informing you that my earlier life was spent in the free and easy pursuits of a cowboy, and that my first childhood playmates were the red Indians of whose boundless liberty I used to feel very envious during my school days.

Many incidents which occurred away back in the “sixties,” when we white settlers used to have to fortify ourselves at Denver, to avoid being scalped by the Arapahoes and Cheyennes, are still fresh in my memory.

Denver, which is now a city of nearly 200,000 inhabitants, was in those days but a mere hamlet of several dozen shanties, standing almost entirely on the west bank of Cherry Creek. What a change has taken place about my home within the space of but a few brief years! On the little plateau where Fort Logan stands to-day, I shot my first “prong-horn,” and oftentimes I have played ball with Willie Bates and Jimmy Steck on the grounds now occupied by our State’s capitol and County’s court-house.

All of those dry uplands, where I used to pasture my cows, are now covered in season with wavy fields of wheat, maize and alfalfa—meadows, orchards and blooming garden plats. Where the Indian wigwam smoked but a few brief summers gone by, lordly mansions and pleasant homes are standing to-day. But the humble structure in which I was born has not been torn down yet. It stands on the west bank of the Platte River, near Littleton, and in Denver’s beautiful suburb, Wynetka. My parents, who still live at the old homestead, but now in a large and comfortable farm-house, have preserved the little old log cabin as a relic of bygone days.—Written Jan. 20, 1890.

[Pg 95]

MY NATIVE LAKES

Of those silent pools, far remote in that wild Western land—the land of my nativity—I am dreaming to-day.

Away out there, where the old, shining Rocky Mountains seem to reach off to the ends of the world, where the great plains stretch away in boundless undulations of wavy greenery, as far as the eye can see—there Colorado’s lakes rest in eternal calm.

In other times—bright boyhood days, now forever flown—mounted on a shaggy broncho, with gun in hand, and followed by a long-legged, one-eyed hound, I have often driven my cattle there to drink. Again, in light canoe, with double-bladed oar, I have glided for hours along the scarcely rippled tide, chasing the diver-ducks and the blue coots so tame, or trying random shots at the mallard-ducks and wary teal that flew nearly out of range, high up overhead. Now and then a lucky shot would bring me down a great white pelican or a blue crane. Yet more often I would kill a brant or a Canadian goose.

Beyond the lake a tiny cascade could be seen, pouring down its silvery flood from the lofty, snow-capped heights above. At the mountain’s foot the foamy tide fell into a little pool, and there, after forming itself into a little brook, it ran off flashing in the sunlight, across green meadows, beside leafy groves, and along flowery banks, [Pg 96]until at last it found its way down to the great, blue, laughing lake, where it lost itself in the silent tide.

At the mouth of the stream, and just beside the wood, stood an Indian village—the white tepees of which could be plainly seen, peeping out from among the green glades and leaves of the trees. The red Indian, too, was often in sight, for he loved to loiter along those pleasant shores. Many times have I met him angling patiently along the banks of the small stream. At other times I have watched him for hours chasing the wild herds of the plain. The fallow-deer, the “prong-horn,” the bison and the elk he called his “cattle,” and he claimed them as his own.

His was a happy, careless life—as aimless and as dreamy as my own. Nature supplied his every want. His orchards were the thickets of cherries and wild-plums. His harvests of golden grain were the fields of yellow sun-flowers. His gardens were the untilled fields, and there his vegetables grew. The roots and bulbs he knew supplied his pottage. Honey was stored for him by the wild bees, and the beasts of the field gave him their furry coats to keep him warm. His dusky mate was an easy love, and she always treated him with kindness. His life was one of sportive ease, and I have often envied him his happy lot.

It was an indescribable joy to me in those old days to stroll along the white-pebbled beach of the lake and gather shells. I also loved to roam among the green, round hills near by and gaze out across the calm blue lake, or let my glances wander afar off up those shining straits, channeled out, as they are, like mighty gateways among the cliffs and crags of the ancient hills. Far away they would [Pg 97]widen out again into broad lakes, or else they would wander off and lose themselves in narrow straits among the splintered crags and snow-capped peaks of the not distant mountains. Often, as I would sit gazing up into those mystic gulfs and weird canons, stretching far away among the hills, I would fancy in my childish innocence that I could catch glimpses of another world which lay dimly visible in the “far beyond.” I had hopes of being able, some day, to propel my little bull-hide boat into that wonderful realm of the “great unknown.” The long lines of “sand hill” cranes, the sharp phalanx of white geese, the flutter of swans’ wings, circling away across

the distant marsh lands, appeared as the flash of angel wings. To me they seemed as the spirits of the blest, circling through celestial skies or hovering above the shores of Paradise.

[Pg 98]