THE WILD-BEES

  All along the Brazos river,
  All along the Colorado,
  In the valleys and the lowlands
  Where the trees were tall and stately,
  In the rich and rolling meadows
  Where the grass was full of wild-flowers,
  Came a humming and a buzzing,
  Came the murmur of a going
  To and fro among the tree-tops,
  Far and wide across the meadows. 
  And the red-men in their tepees
  Smoked their pipes of clay and listened. 
  “What is this?” they asked in wonder;
  “Who can give the sound a meaning? 
  Who can understand the language
  Of this going in the tree-tops?”
  Then the wisest of the Tejas
  Laid his pipe aside and answered: 
  “O my brothers, these are people,
  Very little, winged people,
  Countless, busy, banded people,
  Coming humming through the timber. 
  These are tribes of bees, united
  By a single aim and purpose,
  To possess the Tejas’ country,
  Gather harvest from the prairies,
  Store their wealth among the timber. 
  These are hive and honey makers,
  Sent by Manito to warn us
  That the white men now are coming,
  With their women and their children. 
  Not the fiery filibusters
  Passing wildly in a moment,
  Like a flame across the prairies,
  Like a whirlwind through the forest,
  Leaving empty lands behind them! 
  Not the Mexicans and Spaniards,
  Indolent and proud hidalgos,
  Dwelling in their haciendas,
  Dreaming, talking of tomorrow,
  While their cattle graze around them,
  And their fickle revolutions
  Change the rulers, not the people! 
  Other folk are these who follow
  When the wild-bees come to warn us;
  These are hive and honey makers,
  These are busy, banded people,
  Roaming far to swarm and settle,
  Working every day for harvest,
  Fighting hard for peace and order,
  Worshipping as queens their women,
  Making homes and building cities
  Full of riches and of trouble. 
  All our hunting-grounds must vanish,
  All our lodges fall before them,
  All our customs and traditions,
  All our happy life of freedom,
  Fade away like smoke before them. 
  Come, my brothers, strike your tepees,
  Call your women, load your ponies! 
  Let us take the trail to westward,
  Where the plains are wide and open,
  Where the bison-herds are gathered
  Waiting for our feathered arrows. 
  We will live as lived our fathers,
  Gleaners of the gifts of nature,
  Hunters of the unkept cattle,
  Men whose women run to serve them. 
  If the toiling bees pursue us,
  If the white men seek to tame us,
  We will fight them off and flee them,
  Break their hives and take their honey,
  Moving westward, ever westward,
  There to live as lived our fathers.” 
  So the red-men drove their ponies,
  With the tent-poles trailing after,