The Fight of the Wolves

The poem below and its introduction by Prof. Scott appeared in the Oklahoma State Capital of Guthrie, 17 Apr 1900. It also appeared in the weekly edition with the headline: MISS VERGIE ROE / A NEW OKLAHOMA POETESS.

The Fight of the Wolves

by Vergie Roe, 

Guthrie & Carney OK

1900

A low bent, whirling sky of sombre gray

Hung round the clear-cut horizon, where lay

A wide expanse of snow, all cloudy white,

Which by its very fairness held the lost day’s light.

With tossing heads and pawing of the snow

And tails turned where the strongest plain winds blow,

Pressed close together in the waning light,

A bunch of ragged western ponies wait the night.

They rub against each other, push and squeal,

With many a teasing bite and flying heel,

When, lo! from way beyond the drooping sky,

Comes trembling down the wind a long-drawn quivering cry,

And mark the change! Each shaggy mustang’s eye

Is filled with fire, each head is tossed on high;

For better far than tongue can tell

Those frightened horses know the dismal, horrid yell;

Wolves! and in the dreary, snow bound light,

The little band forms bravely for the fight.

Down from the north a skulking form appears;

Then shadowy followers gaunt, with eager, pointed ears.

They gather in a pack and slowly swing,

A waiting circle ‘round the ponies’ ring.

The fight begins. A grey, grim-visaged sire,

With red, low-hanging tongue, and eyes of lurid fire,

And strong ribs showing through the roughened hair,

A half tail longer than the largest there,

Emboldened by the presence of the rest,

Springs straight, with savage force, upon a broad, warm breast.

The fight is on! A cloud of flying mane!

With sharp hoofs flashing through and through again

Cut at the dangling form that sways and clings,

And tears the cringing, quivering flesh each time it swings.

And thus all round, opposing strength and might,

The battle rages fiercely through the night.

At last a faint, grey streak foretells the day,

And baffled, battered, beaten back, robbed of their prey,

The fear of daylight quenching all their fire,

The gaunt, grey wolves reluctantly retire.

The sun rolls up and sees across the plain,

With haggard eyes, and hanging head, and blood-washed mane,

A bunch of western ponies, gashed and torn,

Ragged, unkempt, and panting in the morn.

Down in the snow, with fiercely, redbright eyes,

And broken, useless back, the savage wolf-king lies.

He drags his massive shoulders up with pain,

To watch his whilom subjects cross the plain,

With wild despair and rage he sees them go,

And sends one plaintive, dying howl across the snow.