A Ranger's Biography
An autobiographical poem
by John Harwood Pierce
April 22, 1890

The following is a transcript of a handwritten manuscript by John Harwood Pierce entitled, "A Ranger's Biography." It is a poem of some 269 lines, written on 12 sheets of paper. The sheets are roughly sewn together with red ribbon and fine brown silk twine forming a booklet. Diagonally, across the top left corner in the author's handwriting are the words: "Please return to the author."

A Ranger's Biography

Far in the North where the glaciers glide,

And the bark canoe with its skillful guide,

Shoots through the foaming rapids where,

The rocks are thick and sharp and bare.

Far in the North where the sun dips low,

And the red skin bends the savage bow,

Land of snowshoes and cabashaws,

Bears and wolves with bloody jaws,

This is the place where I was born

And six foot deep was the snow that morn.

No bridal robe is half so fair,

As the snow and frost the pine trees wear,

And the tender songs of the swaying limbs,

Is wedding march or funeral hymn.

Stately and strong their spires arise,

And over their tops the vaulted skies.

From the mountains' brow the falls out spring

The foam turns frost on the breezes wing,

Casting the diamonds far and wide,

From the lowly vale to the mountain side,

No purling brook but a mighty river,

A force that makes the great rocks quiver

And the double base of the ceaseless roar

Grows loud or low as the wind sweeps o'er.

The grottos and caves, the sculptured halls,

Beneath and back of the grand old falls,

Nature's work shop, wonders home,

Every niche from floor to dome,

Is filled with the gems and curious arts,

That are worked without hands, or eyes or hearts.

An old brown house, and numerous fields,

The orchard garden and thicket yields

Fruits and flowers and singing birds,

While mother's and sister's loving words

Awakes the music of heart and soul,

Sweeter than all the notes that roll

From organ's tones though rich and grand,

When the keys are touched with the master's hand

And mother's mother I see her face,

Bright with love and sweet with grace.

The brow was seamed and the eyes were dim,

But God loved her and she loved Him.

Wild were the boys in that backwoods home,

And the girls were wild as the deer that roam

Nature was strong in their bounding veins,

Colts that never were broke to reins

And so it came that one fine day.

I picked up my bundle and walked away,

I was less than twelve when I left my home,

And never since then have I ceased to roam.

The grand prairie of Illinois

I trod alone,

A careless, busy, laughing boy.

Yet oft a groan

Would come unbidden to my lips

For poor, so poor

Was I, that all the finger tips,

Worn out with toil

Would tinge the yellow ears of corn,

With my warm blood.

Or when the harvest sheaves were bound,

In stations long,

I tottered o're the hot and dusty ground,

Thinking a wrong,

If once the old reaper juggernaut

Should come with roar

To find me gasping "Yes, I'm caught."

A man no more,

Only a little boy, the thought,

Still nerved my arm,

And though I lacked the years, I wrought

Full hand upon the farm.

What sounds are these I hear?

The cannon speaks!

Louder, nearer, yet more near,

And now Columbia shrieks,

And calls to arms her sons.

Sires of Revolutionary fame

Spoke to my soul.

And I essayed to place my name

Upon the roll.

And be a soldier in the ranks.

And then they looked upon my slender form

And asked my age,

Then turned away and said the storm

Of battle must not rage

Around such little boys.

But now the wreck of bloody fields

Is borne on every train

And every daily paper yields

Each page to one sad strain

Of woe and wounds and death.

And yet again, and still once more,

I stood rejected.

Then Captain Moffatt's open door,

And field white tented

Gave welcome call to me.

Poncho-roll, carbine, sabers, haversack, revolvers, and canteen

With very little boy

Rations, ammunitions, water, spurs and fifty things I seen,

All ready to destroy

Jeff Davis and his army.

And why so seed the field of strife?

Ah man is savage,

And war is dear to him as life;

He recks not of the ravage

The dragon's teeth can make.

And in our cause I saw the right,

The slaves glad jubilee,

The first faint dawning of the light

That was to make them free,

As God ordained.

Closely we struggled life for life,

The boys fell thick and fast.

Moffatt, Dature, Weaver, Fyfe

Scores from our hundred passed

Into their rest.

We struggled o're the rights of men,

For liberty and light

And now we see what man saw when

Old Israel's flight

Was guided by the hand of God.

How proudly through the Red Sea waves

Our nation came;

While slavery found a crimson grave

And treason the same

In that dark tide.

Learning is another name for power.

Columbia, Harvard, Yale. The flower

Of all our land is there,

And in those grand old halls

The doors swing wide, when Croesus calls.

The poor, their hands are bare

Of gold, and only those with golden keys

May enter there, although upon their knees.

The poor should come.

Hence I, who never had the common school,

Might now have been a mere rude tool.

Unlettered, dumb.

Only the white haired lady of the home,

Deep read in many a musty tome,

Called me to learn,

The thousand mysteries that environ

Holding in bands of slavish iron,

The hosts that earn

Their bread by sheer brute force,

And think but little of the source

Of wealth and power.

'Twas at her feet, a love for learning,

That never yet has ceased its burning,

Came like a flower

Bright with the sun, and yet the pages

On which the world's great sages

The truth unrolled,

Were never to me taught,

By schoolmen trained in thought

I lacked the gold.

Far in the South where hangs the funeral moss

Where walls have tears,

And cypress, pine and live oak toss

And moan their fears.

Far in the South by fevered swamp

And alligator's lair.

Where Ebon Dinah and her dusky Pomp,

Have gunnysacks to wear.

Far down where reeds like bamboo grow,

And serpents vile.

Fill the dark waters of the foul bayou,

Swimming in file.

Down where the cutthroat pirate crews

Started the towns

And the witches froth their children's brews

In coal black gowns.

And there this ghastly Ku Klux Klan,

Found me one night;

For teaching, I was under the ban

Of death or flight.

I wandered then through many states

Adventures seeking,

A free lance, careless of the fates,

And plain in speaking.

And next with bride so sweet and fair,

A year went by.

Death came, and touched her raven hair,

"Don't cry, so John, don't cry."* [* "These were her dying words = the last on earth," written at the bottom in someone else's hand.]

What need to tell the weary tale,

Of sorrow's blight.

Oh how I struggled, but to fail

To reach the light.

Sometimes the clouds dissolved

And youth held sway,

Life's problems must be solved.

We soon turn grey.

And I sought and found a wife,

But joy has wings,

Mine was the fault, darkening our life

With sorrow's strings.

Ask me not to tell you all,

My heart is sore,

I've drained the dregs of gall

Can I say more.

For years the boundless plains,

The Rocky Mountains and the prairie

O'er ranch steeds I drew the reins,

Learned to be quick and wary.

For years on "Rosey's" Omaha Bee,

Each day I wrote a column,

Of what had been, or what would be,

The ad, the fad, the bridal glad, or funeral solemn.

And as my "Ranger" nom de plume,

In correspondence grew quite famous,

Gold poured from many a Black Hills flame

Which made us proud, and who could blame.

For the rush that filled the Hills,

Was all our own creating,

And still we loomed its golden hills,

Till Bradstreet gave a lofty rating

And then to the Western Magazine

I gave some years of labor

And sold it when high tide had seen

The public praise our "Saber."

Next, I made a curious bell,

And the sales were fast increasing,

Which made me think I might do well,

To invent without ceasing.

But far away from the prairie sea,

Frontier towns and honest faces,

I found the harbor that took the tea,

And lived in wooden nutmeg places.

And next the Kingdom of Tammany Hall

With the tigers, bulls and bears,

Has stolen my stock, my bullion all

And left me a load of cares.

But still there is wealth in the mines of thought

And boundless the fields for inventions.

Though vainly I seek, I yet shall be sought

By those with coupons for a pension.

And yet while I will quite concede,

A love for things auriferous,

And gladly run my eyes to feed,

On even the argentiferous.

I still regard, of little worth

E'en riches without measure

Compared to those beyond the earth,

Where thieves steal not the treasure.

And now my friends and children dear,

These lines have run along,

Until I now begin to fear

You'll vote them far too long.

But could I tell of all my days

And what was done and said

You'll ponder o'er my devious ways,

And the wondrous life I've led.

A life that has been like my rhyme,

Rude, broken, changing, wild

My lines were cast in storming tones

And I misfortune's child.

You would not care, should I confess

To hear the full confession

And know you'll say God would not bless

One with such sad possession.

But Christ has died for even me,

And to his cross I'm clinging,

The homeless Man of Galilee,

Forgave the greatest sinning.

And so with charity for all,

Forgive and be forgiven.

Death comes with coffin, hearse, and pall

God give us rest in heaven.

At the end, the original manuscript it is signed

John H. Pierce
84 E. 113th St., N.Y. City
March 19th, 1890

Below the signature and address is an "Over" leading to a dedication page.

The dedication page at the end reads:

April 22nd 1890
312 West 135th St.
New York City

Dedication

To Clarrissa, my sister dear, so patient, strong and wise,

To my daughter "Baby" sweet I cannot see, tears blind my eyes,

To Edgar, son, the six-foot man, may angels guard his way,

To Council Brodrick, sunny face, he is seven years old today,

These I love, with love that cannot change,

And yet, 'tis strange,

That over warm hearts, cold snow should fall,

And doubt and fear like funeral pall,

Should crush remembrance of the past,

And it's dear joys, too sweet to last.

We love, 'tis God's decree,

And if our hearts are free,

The ties of kindred draw

This too is God's great law.

And cannot be repealed

Then let us loyal yield,

A line of love and hope,

And though my lines may never cope

With famous lays

This simple story of my days,

Is Yours.

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