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N old, old diary to-day I found; though the pages seemed forlorn, They carried me back to the long-ago; ere the cradle-history born; To the time when the glaciers swept the earth, in a martial sort o' way And I was dispatched from a planet far, for a write-up, as one may say: To the post of pilot I was assigned, by the Ruler who pilots all The craft that is known to us locally--in fact to the globe, the ball; A quarter at least of a million years, since the happenings came about As the record appears, though the print is dim; yet this I figure out. When first this mountain of ice I reached, of which I had heard before, A fascination intensely deep, then rapped at my humble door, And I stood in awe of the powers above and the Hand that shows between The peaks of the glaciers and firmament that is known through a golden beam. Far north of our chain of charming lakes, I was placed on this massive flow In height four hundred feet at least; it was fed by the rain and snow, And it moved along like an avalanche--only more staid and strong; And it ploughed out the earth, for bed of lakes, which later came along. We have wondered oft how they came about, but the traces well reveal The indexed work we may look upon, as the truth does not conceal In mountain passes; in night or day, the paths the monarchs sought, Nor the way of the glacier that moved ahead, and the valleys thus it brought. You ask how I lived on this mountain cold; no blankets to keep me warm; Not even a shanty as on a raft, to shield me from the storm; All this was arranged ere I left the sphere; the home of my first abode; Ere I was sent, as are men to-day, and known as the Knights of the Road. The hardship seemed slight when I paused to think of the benefit to accrue To science, in thousands of years to come--if my battle could carry through, And as mind over matter we all concede is a link in the worthy chain, I found that the hardships the body bore, were builders for the brain. The falls of Niagara were then unborn; unknown in that morning gray, And the many charms that led us on to the height of a better day; The water coursed down to the depth below; the glacier had formed the bed To be occupied by a maddened stream, but conquered, with passive head. The Hand that is found in mighty works, through corrosion cut away Through thousands of years the great old rocks, the walls we may see to-day, Which are telling the tale of how they came--how the chasm was formed below : Exactly the same as the torrent tells to-day, of the long ago. But again to the glacier let's hasten back and pilot it down the way To be known as the Conewango vale, in time of the coming day; Where a creek by the name now creeps along; as the natives years ago While the pale-face was still across the sea; ere the compass he came to know; There were thousands and thousands of years no doubt, ere man was booked this way, That the glacier succumbed to the melting rays of the sun, for a genial ray Had touched the heart of the golden peaks, as a spire to the sky, And chiseled its name oil the great old rocks--a, mark in passing by. At the time of the glacier, our little earth stood different towards the sun: But a jog occurred, permitting the rays more direct in their course to run: And that seems the reason the glacier left, but its time-mark still remains In the form of the kettle holes to-day, geologists' golden grains. I saw the lights from the frozen north, that gently rose and fell As if to whisper a word to me, there is something we wish to tell; And my soul was filled with charms of life as I gazed at the northern glow So full of sweetness, it made me glad of a beam so fair to know. Along a valley I smoothly moved, in an atmosphere most rare, And a breath inspiring came to me, banishing chill and care; And something said in a genial tone as ever has come to me, The Conewango shall be the name of the valley you chance to see. 'Twixt Akeley and Russell are kettle holes, in a very peculiar form, That the glacier left as an autograph, after the frozen storm. And the "International," in summing up, in very candor states That these are the greatest the records show, in our good United States, Out north of Warren, high on the hills, the sand is there to show Exactly the course the glacier went, and by the sand we know That it is the witness and speaks the truth; though ages roll away And the glacier has gone, in the sand we find the tracks of an ancient day. The little borough of Warren stands close by the bank of the slender stream, By the Allegheny River known and smoothly it flows between The northern and southern parts of town, which rests on a glacial bed Some forty feet above the stream--by the Conewango fed. A terminal moraine the great gravel bank, and here as a pilot I stop, For my great icy monster succumbs to its fate, and suddenly a deafening shot Resounds through my ears; the cause may I tell--a substance as radium now known Converts into millions of atoms my form; to my old former planet I'm blown. And there were assembled the atoms again, which went to the winds as I said For a factor was working as always has worked, for the soul and the heart and the head. Thereby was enabled to tell you the tale, as soon as my senses could rally Of how, on the glacier, I rode down the vale; the sweet Conewango's old valley. |
