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PROMISED LAND
 WYATT EARP:
AN AMERICAN ODYSSEY, BOOK 3

PROMISED LAND

MARK WARREN
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, a Cengage Company
Copyright © 2019 by Mark Warren
Maps: Copyright © 2019 by Mark Warren.
Five Star Publishing, a part of Gale, a Cengage Company

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if
real, used fictitiously.

No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be

reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, except as
permitted by U.S. copyright law, without the prior written permission
of the copyright owner.

The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information

provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have
any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information
contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be
construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these
organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION

DATA

Names: Warren, Mark, 1947– author.

Title: Promised land / Mark Warren.
Description: First edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star, a
part of Gale, a Cengage Company, [2019] | Series: Wyatt
Earp: an American odyssey ; book 3
Identifiers: LCCN 2019002605 (print) | ISBN 9781432857271
(hardcover : alk. paper)
 eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-5727-1
Subjects: LCSH: Earp, Wyatt, 1848-1929—Fiction. | Peace
officers—West (U.S.)—Fiction. | Outlaws—West (U.S.) v
Fiction. | Frontier and pioneer life—West (U.S.)—Fiction. |
Tombstone (Ariz.)—Fiction. | GSAFD: Western stories. |
Biographical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3623.A86465 P76 2019 (print) | DDC
813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019002605

First Edition. First Printing: October 2019

This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-5727-1
Find us on Facebook—https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage
Visit our website—http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/
Contact Five Star Publishing at [email protected]

Printed in the United States of America

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 23 22 21 20 19
 To Susan,
for letting me read to you forever
“Now, I am just an actor—a mere player—seeking to
reproduce the lives of those great gunmen who molded
a new country for us to live in and enjoy peace and
prosperity. And we have today in America . . . these
men with us in the flesh . . . one is Wyatt Earp.”
∼ William S. Hart, as quoted in the New York Morning
Telegraph, October 9, 1921
 Visit https://ebookmass.com
now to explore a rich
collection of eBooks and enjoy
exciting offers!
 CHAPTER 1
December 1879:Tombstone, A. T.
The Earps’ three-wagon train trundled over the desert sand on the
last leg from Tucson to Tombstone. The flat land on both sides of the
trail bristled with dry, prickly vegetation—squat mesquite trees,
bushy cat’s-claw, and dagger-like leaves of yucca and agave. Tall
saguaro cacti stood their ground like lone sentinels stationed
strategically out in the brush. These standing giants, the startling
rock formations, and the winding arroyos broke up the monotony of
the terrain, providing natural mileage markers for the journey. The
distant mountains completed a larger view of the Sonora desert.
Wyatt planned to know this route with intimate familiarity as soon
as his stage and transport business was up and running. Already he
was committing landmarks to memory and taking note of the wash-
outs in the road where a coach wheel could mire to the axle.
Having lived in the Arizona Territory for two years, brother Virgil
and his wife, Allie, led the caravan in their sturdy Studebaker, with
canvas sheeting arched high above their belongings. Their dog,
Frank, trotted alongside the four-horse team when he wasn’t sniffing
out jackrabbits and ground squirrels. Behind Virgil came James, the
oldest brother, who managed his team with his one good arm, while
in the back of his sheeted spring wagon his wife, Bessie, instructed
her sixteen-year-old daughter, Hattie, in the tedious methods for
sewing canvas with a waterproof stitching so that the seams did not
leak.
Bessie’s repetitive drills and Hattie’s juvenile complaints joined
with the constant jingle of the harnesses and the rumble of the
wheels to fill the emptiness around Wyatt and Mattie, who brought
up the rear. They had barely spoken since their stop in Benson to
water the horses.
 It had been an uneventful journey to the southeastern corner of
the territory, but now they began to encounter other migrators
drifting south from San Manuel and Willcox and west from New
Mexico. Just as the Earps were, all were drawn to the possibilities of
a new boom town that sat atop a trove of silver. It seemed that each
group of travelers had packed in haste, stacking their worldly
belongings into every manner of conveyance. Besides covered
wagons like Virgil’s, there were freight wagons, modified carriages,
and buckboards—some of these pulling flatbed hay trailers or two-
wheeled Red River carts lashed to a rear axle. Other than the
occasional passenger stage or bullion wagon making a run from
Tombstone to the county seat, there was no traffic moving against
this flow. Silver was the new siren’s song belting out its promises to
a country sinking in an economic depression.
They came from the big cities of the East, from the lake country
of Minnesota, from the northern plains, and from the tall timbers of
Oregon. Some hailed from Wales, Germany, or Denmark. Their
stations in life ranged from banking to hardscrabble farming. The
geological riches of Tombstone were like an insatiable flame drawing
moths of every stripe.
In spite of their differences, these travelers seemed to share one
trait: Wyatt could see the same glimmer of hunger burning in their
eyes. Or maybe it was hope. It seemed to set the men on edge, and
out of that nervousness they prodded their teams on at an
imprudent pace. In the women’s faces he sensed something else.
Resignation, perhaps. Or, if not that, the knowledge that they had
come to a time and place in their lives where there were no other
options.
From the driver’s box of his wagon Wyatt constantly studied the
rolling sea of desert scrub around him, so untouched by humans and
nearly devoid of wildlife except birds, snakes, and lizards. Taking in
the clean winter fragrance of the desert, Wyatt decided the
remoteness of this land was to his liking. Despite the constant blow
of fine, dun dust that found its way into every crevice of skin and
fold of garment, the desert felt like the perfect place for a new start.
The landscape was untouched and seemed somehow healing. Even
the endless outcrops of beige, orange, and blue rocks seemed to
sharpen the air with an antiseptic scent. Everything was new here.
And anything new seemed full of promise.
Judging by the number of commercial coaches that had rattled
past him since Tucson, Wyatt grudgingly began to accept the U.S.
marshal’s information about the stage line business in Tombstone.
Wyatt had noted four different business names on the sides of the
coaches, and, by the way the drivers had handled their rigs when
they passed, he was satisfied that these express companies were
staffed with capable men.
It would be hard to give up on his plan to establish his own stage
line. For two solid months now, Wyatt had held this idea in his mind
and run through the details of operation. He had even sketched a
blueprint and penciled a tally of the lumber he would need to build a
livery in town. The wagon on which he sat had been purchased for
this very enterprise. With the help of a carpenter, he had planned to
convert it into a passenger coach with a bullion trap hidden in the
floor.
The string of eleven horses following his wagon on a long lead
rope had been chosen for this enterprise. Each was stout and well-
suited for its draft capabilities—all but the long-legged racer, of
course. That stud would bring in money on private wagers and
formal competitions. No matter his profession, Wyatt knew there
would always be the time and the occasion for impromptu side bets
as well as organized races.

When the Earps watered their horses at the wells near Contention,
the women huddled together at the back of Virgil’s wagon and
prepared a light meal of cold biscuits, dried venison, and pole beans
preserved in a jar of brine. Allie hauled out a flat-topped trunk,
topped it with a faded red blanket, and sat. Without invitation
Bessie, Hattie, and Mattie joined her, and there they settled in to eat,
each with her back to the others. Frank, the dog, sat in front of Allie,
alert for any donations that might be afforded him.
 The Earp brothers stood at the tailgate, and, as they picked at the
food, they discussed their plans to set up a permanent camp on the
outskirts of Tombstone that very night. When finished, Wyatt walked
past the stage station into the brush to relieve himself. On returning
he moved toward the corral, where a hostler tossed a rope over the
head of a cinnamon-maned sorrel gelding. Wyatt propped a boot on
the low rail of the fence, slipped his hands into his coat pockets, and
studied the animals inside the enclosure.
The remuda was impressive—close to sixty well-muscled horses,
all in constant motion in the brisk December air, save the sweat-
soaked flanks of six at the water trough. These animals were spent
and dusted gray from the trail. Together they siphoned up water
through their long muzzles like a row of supplicants come to pray
before a holy altar.
When the sorrel balked at being led, the hostler dug into his
pocket and then teased the horse with a cupped hand near its
nostrils. The big steed lipped his hand once, took a hesitant step
forward, licked up the morsels of sweet grain with a thick tongue,
and then followed. The man laughed with a quiet growl and smiled
at Wyatt.
“Juss like some little spoilt baby awantin’ his candy,” he said,
shaking his head.
The man laughed again and walked the horse into the barn.
When he returned, he reset the loop on his lariat and threw it over
the head of a bay moving along the fence near Wyatt. The bay
backed away, walleyed, pulling the rope taut. Digging his heels into
the dirt, the hostler sent a quick curling wave up the rope to give it
slack, and then he jerked it twice. The bay stood firm but then
nickered and surrendered to the same ruse of the cupped hand of
sweet grain.
When he returned without the rope, the hostler walked directly to
Wyatt and rested an arm on the top rail of the fence. Looking back
at the horses, he fingered a pinch of tobacco from a small rolled bag
and pushed a wad into his mouth. The man’s whiskered cheek
bulged like a swell on a cactus. He offered the bag, but Wyatt shook
his head.
“I figure they’ve earn’t a little spoilin’, the way we use ’em up,”
the man said and chuckled. Chewing on the tobacco, he seemed to
settle in to study the herd in earnest, but right away he turned back
to Wyatt, cocked his head to one side, and raised his eyebrows until
his forehead wrinkled like a washboard. “Tell you what,” he said, his
voice now low and confiding, “winter or not . . . I wouldn’ wanna be
haulin’ ’round one o’ these rockin’ sideshows through this damned
desert sand with a damned whip snapping at my ass.”
When Wyatt said nothing, the hostler leaned away and spat a
brown dollop into the trampled dirt of the corral. When he turned
back, his eyes narrowed as he studied Wyatt from boots to hat.
“If you’re awaitin’ on the Kinnear stage into Tombstone, you’d
best juss settle in fer a while. Stage busted a axle and broke down
just this side out o’ Benson. We juss got word.”
Wyatt nodded back toward the Earp wagons. “Got my own rig.”
The hostler looked past Wyatt and frowned, studying the small
train as though appraising the soundness of each wagon for a desert
crossing. Wyatt shifted his gaze above the herd. Beyond the corral,
the Earp women walked up a low hill into the scrub brush toward a
crude privy slapped together with sun-bleached boards and a door
hung with baling wire. The small outbuilding was like a desert
monument, listing slightly to one side as though paying homage to
the constant winds. Bessie led the way with Hattie in hand, jerking
the girl forward when she lingered. Allie marched behind them,
muttering and fussing with her bonnet. Mattie quietly followed them
all, her forearms crossed over her stomach and her head turning
from side to side as she inspected the trail.
The hostler spat again and then looked at the side of Wyatt’s
face. “That’s a purty string o’ horses tied to that tailgate. Are them
yours?”
Wyatt looked at the man and said plainly, “I was thinking I might
open up my own stage line.”
 The hostler’s face wrinkled like a twisted rag. “In Tombstone?” He
stared back at Wyatt, waiting to see if he were supposed to laugh at
a man’s joke. When Wyatt’s pale-blue eyes held steady on him, the
hostler’s questioning expression hardened, and he began to nod, as
though he were now seriously considering such an enterprise.
“Tell you what,” the man said. He spat again, and then he wiped
at his whiskered chin with the back of a dirty coat sleeve. “We’re
’bout covered up with stages down here. The two big comp’nies are
at war, each one tryin’ to bury t’other.” He pushed back his hat and
stared to the southeast in the general direction of Tombstone.
“Cain’t rightly see how a new line could survive out here.” He
shrugged and gave Wyatt a sheepish grin. “Only so many teats to
suck off, you know. I guess you got to get there early to take your
place.”
“This ain’t ‘early’?” Wyatt asked.
The horseman laughed and hitched his head with a quick jerk.
“Things happ’n purty quick in Tombstone. I reckon a town can grow
up too fast fer its own good.” He forked his hands on his hips and
tried for a show of kindness in his face. “Tell you what . . . I was you
. . . I’d be thinkin’ ’bout another line o’ work.”
When Wyatt nodded, the man turned and again watched the
horses in the corral. The hostler seemed embarrassed and said
nothing for a time. Finally he twisted around and raised his chin at
the Earp train.
“Tell you what . . . you might wanna talk to the station manager.
He’d prob’ly buy them horses off you, if you’re of a mind to sell.”
Wyatt looked up the hill and saw Bessie and Hattie making their
way back down the trail. At the privy, Mattie now stood alone
outside the closed door, her arms still pressed against her belly as
though shielding herself from the unknown dangers of this new land.
For the hundredth time Wyatt tried to imagine Mattie as a mother to
the baby she was carrying. It was a difficult image to piece together.
Like trying to arrange plucked flower petals floating on water. But he
couldn’t fault Mattie. It was no easier to see himself as a father.
 Even before he climbed back into his wagon, Wyatt had accepted
the fact that he might have to abandon his plans to start his own
express company. Now he began to consider other opportunities.
Maybe he would invest in the land itself, hire a crew, and dig up
enough ore to interest another buyer. That he knew nothing of
mining operations ought not to deter him. Other men foreign to the
field had made their fortunes off of bold venturing and the grit to
stand by their decisions.
Besides the capital to get started, Wyatt knew that such an
enterprise would take some show of confidence . . . and timing.
These were tools he had employed as an officer of the law—such
intangibles sometimes proving equally as important as his Colt’s or
his fists. There was no reason he could not be one of those
entrepreneurs who came out on the top of an economic free-for-all
like the one going on in Tombstone.
He would have to learn the politics first. He needed to meet the
right people and get them to see that he was a man to get things
done. And he couldn’t let a few troublesome citizens get in the way
of that—people like Billy Smith in Wichita and Bob Wright in Dodge.
Now that he wore no badge, there would be no reason to incur
enemies as he had in Kansas. He might be able to stow his guns
away for good. Like an old pair of boots he had finally outgrown.
With the Earp party under way and Tombstone only hours down
the trail, Wyatt began to feel a little prickle on the back of his neck.
It was the same sensation he sometimes experienced at a faro
game, when he knew the next card from the box would either make
him or break him. Tombstone was a gamble, the biggest for which
he had anted up; but, like Virgil and James, he was all in.
Two hours later the three wagons came to a halt. At the head of
the procession, Virgil erupted with an uncharacteristic whoop that
carried back to his brothers’ wagons.
“That’s it!” Virge yelled, his big booming voice bringing up all eyes
to a plateau nestled inside a circle of hills just below the horizon.
From his place at the center of the caravan, James turned to
show his crooked grin to Wyatt. “You smell that?” he sang out in his
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teasing melody. “That there, son, is the sweet aroma of silver.” In
the wagon bed, Bessie and Hattie set aside their needlework and
peered around the wagon sheets toward the town.
When Wyatt took in the flat on which Tombstone had risen, the
same enigma struck him as had greeted him at every other boom
town he had entered. How could a place so isolated—in the middle
of so much empty space—accommodate a horde of fortune seekers
and their families? How could enough food get freighted out here to
sustain life? Tombstone was a level anthill of a settlement centered
in a wasteland of low hills, hostile scrub, and sharp, angular stone.
Only the knowledge of unseen silver below endowed the little rise of
land with any sense of luminescence.
Holding up his map to square with the surroundings, Virgil called
out to the wagons behind him and pointed north. There in the
distance, a long mountain range stretched like a jagged set of teeth
risen from a vast, flat plain.
“That there’s the Dragoons. And way off behind ’em . . . the
Chiricahuas. That’ll be where most of the timber comes from.
Apaches, too.” Virge paused to wink at his wife beside him. When
feisty little Allie showed no hint of being amused, Virge swept his
arm from west to south. “The Whetstones. The Huachucas. That
little bunch there . . . that’s the Mule Mountains. And way off in the
haze there . . . that’s old Mexico.” He laughed. “Reckon a man can
see ’bout as far as he wants here.”
That sounded about right to Wyatt. He took it all in and let his
gaze settle back on the camp lying beyond the deep gulch, where
the road appeared to have washed out. The town was already
growing past the tent phase, more buildings having sprung up than
he would have guessed. The distant bang of hammers and the grind
of a ripsaw carried to his ears like an anthem of industry . . . and the
hope of a man’s resurrection, his included. All Wyatt wanted was
something to carry away from this prickly desert to sustain him the
rest of his life in some other place with more favorable surroundings.
A big chunk of silver would do fine.
 When they were rolling again, Mattie pulled her shawl more
tightly around her narrow shoulders and leaned to be heard over the
rumble of the wheels. “Wyatt?” she said, her small and timid voice
even frailer here in the desert. “What about these Apaches? I
overheard two men talking about them back at the station. Are they
a danger to the people who live out here?”
Wyatt kept his eyes on the road ahead. Life was going to be hard
enough here for Mattie without her worrying about renegade
Indians. He pushed his lower lip forward and shook his head.
“If they do make any trouble, it won’t be in the town. It would
happen out at the fringes where the numbers of settlers are small.”
She continued to stare at him, her thin eyebrows lowered over
fearful eyes. “Isn’t that where we’ll be? At first, I mean?”
Wyatt looked at Mattie’s plain face, the skin on her pale forehead
creased with worry. Then he nodded toward her belly.
“We’ll be in close enough. You and that baby are gonna be safe in
Tombstone. You don’t need to be worryin’ ’bout Indians.”
Mattie turned back to examine the rough-hewn town that was
supposed to protect her. She did not appear comforted by what she
saw. Wyatt thought about patting her knee to smooth out the
concern on her face, but when she began fitting her bonnet to her
head and fastening the ties beneath her chin, he simply stared off
toward the silver-laden hills that held all their futures within its
domain.
Virgil’s wagon started up again and jostled its way toward the dip
in the road. James snapped his reins to follow. Wyatt spoke in a low,
raspy whisper to his team, and the train resumed its rattling
progress over the rock and sand toward this town with a graveyard
name.
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 veen, uivat hau'it hangotellen, ve'en koirat vengotellen, tulee
tarha Tapion, tulee väki Vellamon. Laskee päivä radaltaan
soiton kieltä kuulemaan, kultaa maat ja mantereet,
kalevaisten tantereet. Kuulee taivahalla kuu, katsoo tuores
tuomipuu kuinka nuoret karkeloi, kalevaisten soitto soi.
Soikaa siis, te soitot, soikaa, Kalevala kaunis on, kapo kaunis,
kultakutri kukkana on karkelon!

Kevätmietteissä.

Päivä jo laskee rannan taa tähtiä taivaalle kohoaa,

valkohohdossa kuuhut valvoo, kirkasna välkkyy virran kalvo,
välkkyy hopeahohdossaan, välkkyy keskellä usviaan.

Utuharsossa unten maan merenneitoset keinuu vaan,

keinuu unina aallon pinnan, aavistuksina ihmisrinnan,
keskeltä usvia harmaita herättää toivoja armaita.

Öinen kulkija katselen leikkiä Vellamon neitosten, keskellä

usvia kuljen yksin, kevättoivoin ja epäilyksin; keväthenkeä
huokuu maa, kevättoivoja kasvattaa.

Rinta kulkijan rauhaton unten lehtoon uupunut on, tähdet

tuikkivat lemmen tulta, kevättoivoja kuuhut kultaa, lehdossa
utuisten unten maan kulkija rauhaton rauhan saan.

Kultia kuuhuen katselen, totta vai valhetta — tiedä en.

Kultia katselen taivahalla, kultia katselen aallon alla, kultia
katselen virran suun, lahjoja kummia öisen kuun.
 Kuuhuelta mä kyselen: "Ken saa kultasi, lausu ken! Kelle
annat aartehes, kelle, yön ja usvanko lapsoselle?" Kuu ei
vastaa, ja usvissaan neidot Vellamon leikkii vaan.

Ainon kaiho.

Sopusointu rinnastani minne, minne haihtuikaan? Kaiho

kumma poveani aina, aina polttaa vaan.

Häntä rakastaako voisin,

sekö äidin tahto on,
mainettako unelmoisin,
ennen hoikka huoleton?

Rakastan ma vettä, mettä,

kultakummun kukkia,
kielon kastekyynelettä,
kotilahden lauluja.

Niiltä etsin lohdutusta,

nyt en niiltä löydäkkään,
mieleni on murheen musta,
nytkö lohduttomaks jään?

Kentät karkelen ja soitan, tuskat kummat tunnen vaan;

riemuella tyttö koitan, eipä riemu kuulukkaan.
Kerran lemmin…

Kerran lemmin koito lapsi, kerran raukka ma rakastin. Pois

on lenti lemmittyni, suistui armas surman suuhun; mieli
mustaksi mureni, synkkeni sydänalani. Siks on kulkuni katala,
polku päivän paistamaton, edessä on korpi kolkko, taivas
tähdetön takana.
12-13.IV.1597.

En tahtonut kansalle tuskia, en tahtonut vääryyttä, sortoa, en

tahtonut kansaani kostaa. Minä tahdoin yöstä ja hallasta,
minä tahdoin vieraasta vallasta tämän kansan jaloille nostaa.

Mun käskyni kankailla Suomenmaan sai kodit liekkinä

leimuamaan, sai soimahan sotatorven. Sain taistella kansaani
vastahan, mut herättää tahdoin unestaan ylös kontion
Suomen korven.

Mun käskyni kankailla Suomenmaan sai veljet veljiä

surmamaan, sai vuotamaan kansani verta, minä tahdoin
sorrosta, vainosta ja taistojen taakasta, painosta ylös nostaa
kansani kerta.

Mun käteni kansalle Suomenmaan ei antaa saattanut

apuaan, se armoton oli kuin rauta. Mut armoa aika ei sallinut
se, ja armotonna myös minulle nyt aukenee äkkiä hauta.

Nään sinne uskoni sortuvan ja toivoni Suomen kansahan,

sen vapauteen, vastaisuuteen, en nousevan rautaista kouraa
nää, joka kansani voisi jännittää ja herättää elohon uuteen.
 Valo vaipuu eloni auringon, pian yöhön pimeään peittynyt
on sen sammuva iltarusko. Kun kalman vuoteelle painan
pään, minä pirstoina toivoni suuren nään, nään sammuvan
eloni uskon.

Jo Manan neitoset maatavat, jo kalman tyttäret kaatavat

tään kontion Suomen korven… Mut kuulkaa ratsujen jyminää,
oi, kuulkaa! Mistä on melske tää ja toitotus sotatorven?

Minä kuulen tanteren töminää, maan perustuksetko

järkähtää, minä kuulen kalsketta kalpain! Minä kuulen
myrskyjen mylvintää, minä kuulen kuin raivoopi rajusää, minä
kuulen sortuvan salpain!

Minä kuulen sulavan Suomen jään,

minä kuulen: nuijilla isketään,
jo korven kontiot herää!
Läpi vuosisatojen harsojen,
sen kärsimyksien, tuskien
näen: paistaa jo päivänterä.

Minä näänkö vain haaveuniain,

minä vuoteellaniko houraan vain?
En, en, se uni se on totta —
Mut katso, katso, ken se on, ken?
Se käsi on kalman, tunnen sen! —
Nyt saat minut luoksesi ottaa!

Korven keskellä.
 Karun korven keskellä Pohjassa eli katajainen kansa, ja se
korvet raatoi ja perkasi ja muokkasi aurallansa.

Ja keskellä korpea kolkkoa

se taisteli, taisteli, kesti,
ja hallan ja nälkäkuoleman
sen kuokka ja kirves esti.

Vaan milloinkaan se ei sortunut,

ei konsa sen pettänyt tarmo,
sen oma kuntonsa kohotti,
ei antimet eikä armo.

Ja keskellä korpea kolkkoa

se kannelta helkytteli,
ja metsän pimeässä pirtissä
sen laulujen henki eli.

Ja se peistä ja nuijaa heilutti

kun uhkasi sorto, väärä,
ja se tunsi sen: valohon, vapauteen
oli sillä matkansa määrä.

Ja siksi se valon ja vapauden

sydänverellä omakseen osti,
ja siksi se valon temppelin
joka korven laitahan nosti.

Mut pimeät vallat ne pelkäsivät

valonvirtaa voimakasta,
ja pimeät vallat ne tahtoivat
valon estää virtaamasta.
 Ja pimeät vallat ne nousivat,
ukonpilvinä valon ne peitti,
ja keskelle kolkkoa korpea
ne kansan pimeään heitti.

Mut valonvirta on voimakas,

ken vois sen kulkua estää,
se ikuisuudesta syntynyt on
ja ikuisuutehen kestää.

Ukonpilvet ne valon jos peittääkin,

uhka haihtuva on se vain hetken;
sen jälkeen kahta näät kauniimman
valon valtavan voittoretken.

Sen jälkeen entistä uljaammin

taas nousee jumalan tammi,
sen jälkeen entistä armaampi
on loiskina metsälammin.

Sen jälkeen kahta kauniimmin taas sinelle siintää salo, sen

jälkeen kahta kirkkaammin joka majahan välkkyy valo.

Kylänkarkelo.

käy karkelohon kylän kasvava kansa, pelimanni jo soittaa

parhaillansa, ja kuluvi kesäinen ilta! Pian lampi tyyni on lailla
peilin, kera karkele, poikanen, nyt oman heilin, jotta notkuvi
sininen silta!
 Vain virrassa lainehet lipattaa, liikkuu ja järvellä sorsat
soreasti kiikkuu ja aaltoaa vihannat viljat. Ylös poikaset,
kuuset te kevähäiset, ylös neitoset nuoret, pellavapäiset, te
tään kylän lempeät liljat!

Kas, heinät ne heiluu ja nurmet ne nuokkuu, ja illan tuuli

niin hiljaa huokuu ja sävelet soivat, soivat Kas, tuoresna
tuoksuu kuunahan kukka ja nuori on neitonen pellavatukka ja
vainiot vihannoivat

Oi, soios soitto ja vinkuos viulu, pois kirvehes poika, pois

neitonen kiulu, tää ilta se ilta on ilon! Ota, poikanen, heiliäs
hellää vyöstä ja karkele huoleti päivän työstä nyt päällä sen
sillan silon!

Ja sävelet soivat ja lintuset laulaa ja poika se neitoa norjaa

kaulaa ja laskevi kesäinen ilta. Ja murheet murtuu ja huolet
ne haihtuu ja arkisurut ne riemuksi vaihtuu ja notkuvi sininen
silta.

Kas, kentät ne kukkii ja läikkyy laihot ja nuoruus surmahan

suistaa kaihot ja haihtuu elämän arki. Ja yksin nyt itkee tuima
Tuoni, povet nuorten kun paisuu ja sykkii suoni ja rinta ei
huolia harki.

Ja soios soitto ja vinkuos viulu, pois kirvehes poika, pois

neitonen kiulu, tää ilta se ilta on ilon! Ota, poikanen, heiliäs
hellää vyöstä ja karkele huoleti päivän työstä nyt päällä sen
sillan silon!
Tarina Pekasta ja vallesmannista.

Hän korven kolkasta tullut on nyt tietojen, taitojen maille.

Hän kuokan jätti ja lapion, oli oppia jäänyt vaille, mut
vanhanakin hän tahtoi koittaa ja vanhanakin hän tahtoi voittaa
viel' oksan tiedon ja taidon puusta.

Vaan kotikylässä elämä nousi, ja sana kulki nyt suuhun

suusta, ja kaikki virttä yhtä soittaa: jo herraksi Pekka tahtoo
koittaa!

Ja vallesmannikin ihmeissänsä nyt yhtehen hykersi

käsiänsä: "Mikä mieheltä mielen vienyt on, hän mennyt on
kansanopistohon! Voi ihmettä kummaa! Voi herranen aika! On
miehelle varmaan tehty jo taika. En ymmärrä mikä päähän
pisti, hän kohta on täysi sosialisti. Hän lehtiä lukee ja lausehet
pukee kuin oppia paljonki saanut ois. Hänen kerran kummia
kertovan kuulin ja päästä jo pyörälle tulleen luulin. Hän lausui:
'laps mökin pienenkin on oikeutettu oppihin.' Ja yhtä hyvin
kuin viljan hinnat tuns' Juhani Ahot ja Päivärinnat, ja draamat
Shakespearen tunsi hän — ties mitä ne kaikki lienevätkään, ei
mulle hyötyä moisesta työstä, mä ilman niitäkin osaan
ryöstää. Mä nauroin hälle, vaan vakavana näin virkkoi mulle
tuo vanha aasi: 'Sua, herra, työhön käskee maasi." Mä
lausuin hälle: "mä työtä teen, mä rästit kannan ja ryöstöt
annan?' Hän huokasi silloin syvähän, ei mitään virkkanut
enemmän. Kai huomasi, turha on vastaan koittaa, kai näki:
tyhmän ja pöllöpään mies sivistynyt aina voittaa." — Ja
tyytyväisenä, mielissänsä hän yhteen hykersi käsiänsä.
 Ja Perälän pitäjän vallasväki se eessään viisahan herran
näki, ja koko kylä se kertoa ties: "Niin viisas on meillä
nimismies, on sivistynyt ja vakainenki, ei häntä villitse ajan
henki. Ah, tällaisia jos kaikki ois, niin sovussa kansa elää vois,
ja Suomen kansa ja Suomen maa niin rauhassa saisi
kukoistaa!"

Pimeän pesä.

(Vuorilegenda.)

Ne tuikki ne tuhannet kynttilät ja valot kirkkahat välkkyivät,

oli valon juhla jalo. Ja vaikka joutui ilta ja yö ja vaikk' oli
päättynyt päivän työ, valoin välkkyi joka talo. Ja vaikka talvi
kattoi maan ja vaikka vihurit vinkui vaan, niin oli rinnoissa
kesä. Mut yks oli maja valoton, se pimeyden hengen asunto
on, se oli peikon pesä.

Ja valot ne välkkyi ja välkkyi vaan ja peikko katseli

kauhuissaan, hän silmiä siristeli ja vavistuksessa eli ja
huokasi: "ollappa oikea yö, niin silloin mullekin alkais työ,
minä valkeutta pelkään ja pelkään omaa selkään. Oi yö, sinä
suloinen lohtujen tuoja, oi yötä jos ijäti antais Luoja! Oi yöni, oi
yöni, mun peikon työni sä ijäti kätkisit maailmalta ja ijäti
kestäis peikkojen valta."

Ja peikko se tuimasti tirkisteli ja peikonsilmiään sirkisteli,

mut valoja syttyi ja syttyi vaan, ja peikko se potki kauhuissaan
ja pelosta pysähtyi veri. — "Mi joukko kumma kujalla käy, ei
 muita kuin valon soihtuja näy, siell' aaltoaa tulimeri." Ja peikko
pakenee joukkoa ja etsii pimeintä loukkoa. "Oi, kohta nyt
hukka jo perii!"

Ja valot valtavat virtaili, mut yks oli pimeän pesä. Ja kansa

valosta riemuitsi ja rintahan koitti kesä. Mutta peikko se
pelkäsi valoja ja pelkäsi toisia taloja; ne kaikki valoa virtaili —
Mut yks oli pimeän pesä.

Voiton saatte!

Lietsokaatte, lietsokaatte valonahjot valkeaa! Pilvet raskaat,

taivas tumma pimeyttä uhkajaa, vaarassa on isänmaa, kaikin
voimin lietsokaa! Lietsokaatte, lietsokaatte valonahjot
valkeaa! Lietsokaatte, voiton saatte!

Valaiskaatte, valaiskaatte maata valon airuet! Valaiskaatte

rikkaan majat sekä salon sydämmet, valaiskaatte köyhän tie,
joka metsäpirttiin vie! Valaiskaatte, valaiskaatte maata valon
airuet! Valaiskaatte, voiton saatte!

Taistelkaatte, taistelkaatte eestä ikitotuuden! Taistelkaatte

vastaan yötä, vastaan valtaa vääryyden, taistelkaatte eestä
lain, eestä oikeuden vain! Taistelkaatte, taistelkaatte eestä
ikitotuuden! Taistelkaatte, voiton saatte!

Seisokaatte, seisokaatte rivissä nyt joka mies, että rauhass'

aina palaa saisi pyhä kotilies! Vapautta puoltakaa! Teitä
 siunaa kansa, maa. Seisokaatte, seisokaatte rivissä nyt joka
mies! Seisokaatte, voiton saatte!

Lietsokaatte, lietsokaatte valonahjot valkeaa! Pilvet raskaat,

pilvet tummat vielä kerran halkeaa. Suomen, valon morsion
päivä silloin kirkas on. Lietsokaatte, lietsokaatte valonahjot
valkeaa! Lietsokaatte, voiton saatte!

Maamiehen kevätlaulu.

Oi kevään kauniin antaja, oi taivahainen Luoja! nyt viljaa

nuorta, nousevaa sä varjele ja suojaa.

Sä hoivaa hennot tähkäpäät

niit' ettei veisi halla,
niin paljon nuorta toivoa
nyt uhkuu kaikkialla.

Ja kevään hengen valaista suo pimeätä Pohjaa, ja poveen

salon synkänkin sä onni, rauha ohjaa.

Tahdon ikitulta.

Taivas! elä mulle anna kiiltokultaa; paljon, paljon enempi

tahdon, taivas, sulta.
 Tahdon, taivas, sulta
vaadin valkeoita,
innon ikitulta,
tulta, salamoita.

Niillä isken yöhön,

niinkuin isket itse,
salamoita singotan
maitse, manteritse.

Niillä isken yöhön,

ohi tähtisarjain,
kautta avaruuden,
halki vuorten harjain.

Niillä isken yöhön,

mik' ei kestä, särjen,
vasten valtaa väärää
käännän nuoles kärjen.

Niillä isken yöhön,

kaadan konnat, peikot,
nostan valoon, valtaan
sorretut ja heikot.

Halpa lahjas oisi kunnia ja kulta — Tahdon, taivas, sulta

tahdon ikitulta!
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