Arrow-Head

So often...in those days of yore,
I picked an arrow-head.
From in the soil beneath my feet,
And what it hit...was dead.

Indians made their arrows,
Ready for their kill.
So silently they found their prey,
Up above the hill.

They often killed a buffalo,
And in their slow-horse tramp.
They placed it on a lifted bough.
And drug it into camp.

Indian children all were glad,
And danced upon their feet.
Cause it would ease their hunger-feel,
When it was cooked to eat.

The red-man...O the red-man,
Great light on him is spread.
For he acted and sustained his life,
And used the arrow-head.


E.P. 1908 - 1989