At night when the newly-weds would retire to their own wagon, the golden chariot that would be forever theirs, not infrequently did the youngsters serenade, or oftener still, run the wagon in the ditch, or creek or river.

Among the chroniclers of events along the old trail, occasionally one indulged in classical poetic expression. It was John Minto, I think, who tells of the prosaic activities of a cowcaravan, in a way to hold interest, and it was he who therein contributed the following stanzas to the plodding oxen, which for the moment felt the exultant thrill of their forebears in the years when the world was young.

"And now, your western course is led Where grassy pampas spread and spread --

The pastures of the buffalo. And like a sudden lash of spray, When tropic tempest hits the sea.

The masts are stript to ward the blow.

"A ragged whirl of dust, descried Upon the prairie's sloping side,

Protends, as swift and free, a storm.

And lo ! the herds, they come, they come, A sweeping thunder-cloud of life, Loud as Niagara, and grand As they who rode with plume and brand On Waterloo's red slope of strife,

Wild as the rush of tidal waves

That roar among the crags and caves, The trampling besom hurls along; A black and bounding fiery mass That withers as with flame the grass, Oh, terrible ! ten thousand strong.

Meanwhile, the dusty teams are stopt The wagon tongues are deftly dropt,

The drivers, by their oxen stand