THERI

HERE are stories from thy mountains,
That thy creeks and rivers tell,

As they gurgle from their fountains
And sweep through gorge and dell;
There are tales of wartime glory,
In deeds of gallant men,
Who wrote a book of story,
With the pioneer's keen pen.

The gun, and knife, and hatchet,
Were the implements that day,
To write life and attach it

To where they blazed the way.
Wild child of war and battle,
Thine is a startling tale,

Borne on the roar and rattle

Of the storm king's fiercest gale.

But now the tempest's bellow

Is hushed, and the smoke-choked air.

Is soft, and clear, and mellow,

And the fragrance of peace is there; Success dwells in thy mountains;

Home, love and hope are thine;

Fair fortune beams in thy fountains
That sprinkle thy fig tree and vine.

ONE OF THE MANY BEAUTIFUL LAKES IN WISCONSIN

Wisconsin is nicknamed the "Badger State." In addition to Lakes Michigan and Superior, there are numerous smaller and beautiful lakes which are well stocked with fish. Iron, lead and copper are minerals that abound, and in the northern portion dense forests cover the land. Agriculture is a great industry.

There never was a badger

That lived within the State,

Unless the creature might have been

Some tourist's traveling mate,

Then why they should have tacked to you That fuzzy, old nickname,

· Is queer enough, but you are fine,

Wisconsin, just the same.

"TELL US A STORY, 'BUFFALO BILL.'"

William Frederick Cody, generally known as "Buffalo Bill," was born in 1845. He acquired the nickname of "Buffalo Bill" by his feat of killing 4280 buffaloes in 18 months, to provide food for the laborers on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. He was a guide and scout in the Indian country, and in 1883 organized the Wild West Show.

A

WYOMING.

THE COWBOY.

SCENE that is set in the white silhouette

Of the lofty, snowy mountains:

On the swart, gray plains, where silence reigns Far from the music of fountains.

Here the longhorns graze, through the changeless daysBrown herds that wander, straying,

Through all of the light and into the night,

Where the coyote's cubs are playing.

Brown as a statue of bronze is he;

Manly and strong, jolly and free;
The foothills echo the song he sings;

His saddle's a throne that is better than kings',

And the cowboy has no tears or fears,

As he rides the range and herds the steers,
With a laugh that ripples and rings,

And a "Whoop! who-ee! who-ee!"

He rose from a feast and came out of the east,
With life in his pulsing veins;

And scorning a track, on his broncho's back,
He flings to his beast the reins.

Gay, careless and free, in the saddle, is he,

A king in a realm his own,

And the lessons he learned in school he has turned
To trimmings for his throne.

He is wild, you are told, but your honor and gold
Are safe where he is on guard;

He flouts the cheap ranks, and he needs no banks,
Steel-riveted, bolted and barred,

To a brotherly call he will render all

That reason, or more, could entreat;

He is open and square, and his heart is as bare
As the hoofs of his broncho's feet.