Grass-Grown Trails e-bog

Whilst the greatest effort has been made to ensure the quality of this text, due to the historical nature of this content, in some rare cases there may be minor issues with legibility. Deeply the buflalo trod it, Beating it barren as brass Now the soft rain-fingers sod it, Green to the crest of the pass. Backward it slopes into'history; Forward it lifts into mystery. Here is but wind in the grass. - Frontispiece.