Cogewea, the Half-Blood by Mourning Dove

With her moods of shade and sunshine / Eyes that smiled and frowned alternate, / Feet as rapid as the river, / Tresses flowing like the water, / And as musical a laughter; / Hiawatha

A week had passed since the roundup outfit left the ranch. The lengthening days brought with them the indubitable evidence of an early and short lived autumn. The deep green leaves were transforming to mellow golden and the blaze of crimson glory. The grass was sere, with no indications of the usually short, velvety after-crop so peculiar to the arid range. The song birds no longer trilled among the pines of the Pend d'Oreille. Flown to the South land, their notes were supplanted by the discordant honk and scream of the migratory waterfowl, echoing along the winding shore.