Poetry

THAT FAITHFUL WIFE OF IDAHO.

Joaquin Miller


  • Huge silver snow-peaks, white as wool,
  • Huge, sleek, fat steers knee deep in grass,
  • And belly deep, and belly full,
  • Their flower beds one fragrant mass
  • Of flower, grass tall-born and grand,
  • Where flowers chase the flying snow!
  • Oh, high held land in God s right hand,
  • Delicious, dreamful Idaho!

  • We rode the rolling cow-sown hills,
  • That bearded cattle man and I;
  • Below us laughed the blossomed rills,
  • Above the dappled clouds blew by.
  • We talked. The topic? Guess. Why, sir,
  • Three-fourths of all men's time they keep
  • To talk, to think, to be of HER;
  • The other fourth they give to sleep.

  • To learn what he might know, or how,
  • I laughed all constancy to scorn.
  • Behold yon happy, changeful cow!
  • Behold this day, all storm at morn,
  • Yet now tis changed by cloud and sun,
  • Yea, all things change the heart, the head,

  • Behold on earth there is not one
  • That changeth not in love," I said.
  • He drew a glass, as if to scan
  • The steeps for steers; raised it and sighed.
  • He craned his neck, this cattle man,
  • Then drove the cork home and replied:
  • "For twenty years (forgive these tears),
  • For twenty years no word of strife
  • I have not known for twenty years
  • One folly from my faithful wife."

  • I looked that tarn man in the face—
  • That dark-browed, bearded cattle man.
  • He pulled his beard, then dropped in place
  • A broad right hand, all scarred and tan,
  • And toyed with something shining there
  • Above his holster, bright and small.
  • I was convinced. I did not care
  • To agitate his mind at all.

  • But rest I could not. Know I must
  • The story of my stalwart guide;
  • His dauntless love, enduring trust;
  • His blessed and most wondrous bride.
  • I wondered, marveled, marveled much;
  • Was she of Western growth? Was she
  • Of Saxon blood, that wife with such
  • Eternal truth and constancy?

  • I could not rest until I knew
  • "Now twenty years, my man," I said,
  • "Is a long time." He turned, he drew
  • A pistol forth, also a sigh.
  • "Tis twenty years or more," sighed he.
  • "Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow
  • I do not doubt that this may be;
  • But tell, oh! tell me truly how? "

  • "Twould make a poem, pure and grand;
  • All time should note it near and far;
  • And thy fair, virgin, gold-sown land
  • Should stand out like some winter star.
  • America should heed. And then
  • The doubtful French beyond the sea
  • Twould make them truer, nobler men
  • To know how this might truly be."

  • "Tis twenty years or more, urged he;
  • "Nay, that I know, good guide of mine;
  • But lead me where this wife may be,
  • And I a pilgrim at a shrine,
  • And kneeling as a pilgrim true"
  • He, leaning, shouted loud and clear:
  • "I cannot show my wife to you;
  • She s dead this more than twenty year."