THE LAST BF THE WEIR§ 
 
 DODGE. 
 
THE LAST OF THE WEIRSMEN. 
 
 A TRAGKDV. 
 
 BY / 
 
 1/ 
 
 Erhest Green Dodse, 
 
 Class of 1893, 
 Berea College, Ky. 
 
 5 
 
 /^^S-3^^ 
 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR BY THE 
 
 ELM STREET PRINTING COMPANY, CINCINNATI, O. 
 
 1893. 
 

 TO MISS L. A. SLOAN, PROF. WM.I. THOMAS AND MISS HONOR 
 HUBBARD, TO WHOM, MY TEACHERS IN ENGLISH LITER- 
 ATURE, I OWE THE AWAKENING OF WHATEVER POETIC 
 TALENT MAY BE MINE, AND TO THE MOTHER WHO 
 DREAMED OF POETRY BEFORE ME, THIS WORK 
 IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 18i)3, BY ERNEST GREEN DODGK. 
 
THE LAST OF THE WEIRSMEN. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Softly the wester eve its mantle threw o'er the 
 forest ; 
 Softly rose the moon, and, glinting the 
 boughs between, 
 Lit a palace of ice, all pearls and diamonds and 
 torches. 
 Yearnfully beckoned the shadows, and flick- 
 ered away in the moonlight sheen. 
 
 Boughs all icicle-dressed, a world of crystal and 
 beauty. 
 Sprinkled and softened to white by the snow, 
 the still-fallen snow. 
 Faery and fair were the woods, but amid the 
 winter-night splendor 
 Lingered the while a shadowed spot, the 
 close-hung branches below ; 
 
 Shadowed, but shadowed with ice, half dark, 
 half tinged with the whiteness. 
 Deep 'mid arches and aisles, and mazes, foil- 
 ing the sight. 
 Stand not without, my song, but enter and 
 wait 'mid the shadows ; 
 Wait, and mark as the outlines grow and 
 clothe in the rising light. 
 
— 4 — 
 
 II. 
 
 Silently rises the smoke and wavers over the 
 dwelling, 
 All unswayed by the breeze in the arms of 
 stillness asleep ; 
 Warmly towers and curls, self-driven, up 
 through the night-frost. 
 Cheerly and bright is the blaze within, whose 
 sparks through the wind-eye leap. 
 
 Now from before the abode, and seen in the 
 gathering brightness, 
 Windeth a narrow path far into the forest 
 bare; 
 Narrow, but beaten with footprints, and thither 
 and hitherward pointing. 
 Ah ! they are all of a measure, and twain are 
 the feet that printed them there ! 
 
 Softlier rises the smoke in a blue wreath over 
 the dwelHng. 
 None is the sound from within, the sparks at 
 the roof-hole are none. 
 Haply the hands that have kindled care not that 
 the flame is failing; 
 Haply those feet have strayed without and 
 left it to blaze alone. 
 
III. 
 
 Yes, before the abode, half hid in its lingering 
 shadow, 
 Standeth a maiden fair, in garb of solitude 
 dressed. 
 Picturesque as the woods and chaste as the 
 heart of a virgin, 
 Draping for warmth the heedless arms, for 
 virtue the conscious breast. 
 
 Round and perfect the form, new grown to the 
 fullness of being. 
 Perfect, and waiting for love to crown her life 
 with its weal ; 
 Such is the maid, whose face shows forth the 
 passionate lover. 
 Simple in thought, save in homely craft, and 
 true as the forged steel. 
 
 Out from her wistful eyes she looks at the win- 
 ter-night splendor ; 
 Looks at the arches and spires, and mazes, 
 that 'wilder the sight ; 
 Looks at the feathery snow, that crowns the 
 icicled branches ; 
 Looks at the shadows that flicker away, or 
 hide from the shimmering light. 
 
— 6 — 
 
 Over the fair young face steals a look of won- 
 der and longing ; 
 Vainly she watches the shadows, e'en emptier 
 now than before ; 
 Sighing she looks at the path and thinks of the 
 two feet that know it, 
 Thinks of the thrice long years that have 
 passed since hunter has stood at the door. 
 
 Softly heaving her breast, she turns to enter the 
 dwelling. 
 E'en as she lifts the curtain and lingers still 
 in her gaze. 
 Far adown the miles, a score-fold hid from her 
 vision, 
 Marked is the snow by a stranger foot, half 
 lost in the 'wildering maze. 
 
 Cry, my song, for the future, dark as the shade 
 of the pine-trees ! 
 Cry for a yearning heart whose strife shall 
 falter and fail ! 
 Cry for the lone one's sorrow, flung as a breath 
 to the heavens ! 
 Cry for a squandered only hope ! Weep for 
 the closing wail ! 
 
 Nay, cry not, my song. As man, and not God, 
 taste the future. 
 Chance the way shall be fair, and perfect her 
 life as a rhyme. 
 Chance she will save her hope to the hour of 
 her one visitation. 
 Chance though she fail will heaven above 
 bring healing to wounds of time. 
 
IV. 
 
 *' Grandsire !" Slowly the old man turned his 
 head on the pallet, 
 Turned his aged limbs, all bent and wrinkled 
 and weak; 
 Made no effort to rise, for motion to him was 
 grievous. 
 Then he opened his out- worn eyes, and looked 
 as he heard her speak. 
 
 Dimly from out those eyes he saw a tinge of the 
 moonlight. 
 Then it vanished away as the curtain fell to 
 its place. 
 Dimly lit by the blaze, he saw the form of the 
 maiden, 
 Scarce outlined to his failing sense, yet fair in 
 its virgin grace. 
 
 ''Grandsire, listen!" she said. " Say on, my 
 child, for I hear thee." 
 Slow from his parted lips the accents faltered 
 and fell. 
 "Oh, couldst thou only but see the woods to- 
 night in their beauty, 
 Icicled, lit by the moon, and haloed with glo- 
 ries I never could tell !" 
 
** Child, it is naught," he said, *' the beauty and 
 show thou dost speak of; 
 Oft have I seen the same, and better, ere thou 
 wast born." 
 Then they lapsed into silence, the while the 
 blaze in the center 
 Flickered and leaped, and then on the wall 
 reflickered her sitting form. 
 
 "Grandsire, tell me again, if ever thou think of 
 my mother." 
 " Child, I have not forgotten. Methinks her 
 face I can see. 
 Twelve years old is her death, the memory fresh 
 as the yestern ; 
 Plainer before me to-night she stands than 
 ever mine eyes see thee." 
 
 " Tell me, sire, once more those dying words 
 of my mother." 
 "Daughter, speak, for I hear thee." The 
 old man's words came slow. 
 '' Was it that ere she died she laid her hands in 
 my tresses, 
 Blessing me, reading the future, and telling 
 the way that my feet should go ?" 
 
 "Child, she laid them there," he said, and 
 waited her answer. 
 "Said she I should be blessed with a lover 
 worthy and tall. 
 Seeking me for his bride, and come to me out 
 of the far-land. 
 True, and fit to clasp me and love me, body 
 and soul and all ? 
 
" Was it that we should dwell in the wealth of 
 each other's affection, 
 Making ourselves a nest where lone thoughts 
 never should stray ? 
 Was it that we should bloom into children, the 
 boys and the daughters, 
 Changing the wild and empty woods to a 
 home that shall throng alway ?" 
 
 " Daughter, 'twas even so. Remembering well 
 thou hast said it." 
 . " Thinkest 'twill all come true?" " Mayhap, 
 
 as the years roll by." 
 •' Grandsire, what is love ?" " Ah, child, thou 
 art young and a maiden ; 
 I am feeble and old," he said, and paused 
 with a vacant eye. 
 
 Then she loosened her hair, till it fell and cov- 
 ered her shoulders. 
 Slipped the shoes from her feet to rest them 
 of the restraint ; 
 Rose and loosened her robe, till it hung like a 
 cloth on her figure, 
 Laid the garment of warmth from her arms, 
 with stranger gaze unacquaint. 
 
 Then she sat her alone, for the old man listened 
 nor heeded. 
 Farther apart were they than 'twere if the 
 miles were between. 
 Stranger, yet bound by a love, they lived in the 
 dwelling together, 
 She with her longings, and he with his dreams 
 of the golden days that have been. 
 
— 10 — 
 
 " Grar.dsire, listen again, for strani^^^e seemed the 
 forest this evening; 
 Seemed as the shadows were quick, and not 
 as the nightly gloom ; 
 Almost seemed they could speak, but sure 'twas 
 only a fancy." 
 "Daughter, I sleep," were the old man's 
 words. Then silence fell in the room. 
 
 So she sat her alone, and watched as the twigs 
 of the forest 
 Kindled and leaped into blaze, and filled the 
 room with their glare. 
 Real to her then was the world and the toil- 
 marks over her fingers, 
 Real that save for their small-built home the 
 circling woods were bare. 
 
 But as the blaze died low and left but the glim- 
 mering embers. 
 Stronger the forms of fancy grew in the un- 
 sure light. 
 Deeply the old man breathed, and rhythm lent 
 to her dreamings; 
 Silent she sat and heeded not the moving 
 hours of the night. 
 
 Over the long-living embers her bare white arn i 
 she extended. 
 Warmly the breath of the coals arose an cir- 
 cled them o'er ; 
 Seemed to her in her dream 'twas the warm, 
 true arms of a lover. 
 Creeping nearer her heart and th.illing her 
 whole self more and more. 
 
— 11 — 
 
 Now on her bosom a hand is folded, nestling 
 and waiting ; 
 Faster comes her breath in tune with the 
 beating heart. 
 Vain were her weekday hand, but now in guise 
 of another. 
 Now in symbol it makes her thrill and gasp 
 and struggle and start. 
 
 So she arose in haste and paced the room all 
 a-trembling; 
 Seemed as the hours must break that held off 
 her wish so strong ! 
 All forgetting herself she fumbled the latch of 
 her throat-clasp ; 
 'Round her heart a dampness fell ; then leap- 
 ing it bore her along, 
 
 Till she disparted the clasp and bared her breast 
 in the dimness. 
 Then quick ashamed of her frenzy she clothed 
 her and knelt her in prayer ; 
 "Spirit of Stars, forgive!" she said, and rose 
 scarce a-trembling. 
 " Lover shall find me pure," she said. Then 
 she knew that her arms were bare ; 
 
 So, as often for warmth, and now newly first for 
 the hiding, 
 Took her a mantling shawl and covered her 
 form to the hands. 
 Then subdued and weak she sat once more by 
 the embers. 
 Watching with chastened but live-long wish 
 the forms in the pictured brands. 
 
— 12 — 
 
 Was it love in the maid that wrenched the 
 chords of her being? 
 Nay, those stilly deeps she never had wan- 
 dered nigh. 
 Nay, Love's angel form had never paused at 
 her threshold ; 
 Only she clutched at the skirt of her robe as 
 the shadow passed her by. 
 
 Over the fast fading embers the forms of 
 thought were a-flitting. 
 Fair and goblin alike played over each dying 
 coal ; 
 Till of the shifting throng one form grew clear 
 and abiding. 
 Watching and dreaming with half-shut eyes, 
 she clothed it with flesh and a soul. 
 
 Half she could see the face and half it was 
 turned in the shadows. 
 Noble and strong it seemed, where truth 
 would ever abide. 
 Over the chasm of time she saw him beck'ning 
 and waiting ; 
 " Come ! forever and e'er could I love thee !" 
 the still small voice replied. 
 
 Then it vanished away ; the coal broke twain in 
 the ashes. 
 Lingering still she arose and turned for respite 
 in sleep, 
 Lying down on her pallet a step removed from 
 the old man, 
 Sinking at length to a fitful rest while soothed 
 by his breathing deep. 
 
— 13 — 
 
 So as the night wore on they slept in the dwell- 
 ing together, 
 Knowing not that the moon was dimmed by 
 a passing cloud. 
 Stillness breathed a sigh that whispered away 
 into silence. 
 Then a laden bough gave way and fell with 
 an ice-din loud. 
 
 " Grandsire, wake and listen ! What noise was 
 that in the forest ? 
 Something strange in the ice— What! heardst 
 thou never a sound?" 
 "Daughter, I heard it not, and what were a 
 noise such a winter ? 
 Oft ere this has the sleet o'erweighed, and 
 borne some twig to the ground." 
 
 " Grandsire, sure thou art right," she said, and 
 turned to her pillow ; 
 "Sure 'twas only the sleet; mayhap I 
 dreamed it was more." 
 "I, too, would finish my dream. 'Twas naught. 
 Go on with thy rest, child." 
 Softly the stars through the wind-eye looked 
 on their sleep till the night was o'er. 
 
 Yet without in the wild a hunter is waking and 
 wand'ring, 
 Seeking a kindlier spot to rest from the fruit- 
 less chase. 
 Look ! a path in the woods ! He turns his foot- 
 steps adown it, 
 Thinking now at the end of weeks to rest in 
 a human place. 
 
— 14 - 
 
 Stranger, what of thy face ? Methinks there's 
 strength in its outHnes ; 
 Yes, but the death chased deer ne'er turned 
 for pity to thee ; 
 Yes, but shouldst thou love, thou'dst speak 
 with never a tremor. 
 Stranger, I love thee not, as the dawn en- 
 lightens thy self to me. 
 
 V. 
 
 •'* Greeting !" Startled sore, the maiden turned 
 as she heard it, 
 Looked and saw at the doorway, bathed in 
 the morning light, 
 Handsome, clad as a hunter, the young man, 
 even the stranger. 
 Yet she dared not answer his word, but 
 stepped, and shrank from his sight. 
 
 "Grandsire, speak, oh! speak to the stranger 
 there at the doorway !" 
 Quickly he strove to rise, but sank to the pal- 
 let again. 
 "Stranger, enter and rest thee; well art thou 
 come to our dwelling; 
 Enter, and tell us why thou'rt strayed so far 
 from the homes of men." 
 
— 15 — 
 
 So he entered and sat and rested, and spake 
 with the old man, 
 Then in the stray of his thoughts he glanced 
 where the maiden stood, 
 Met her blushing eyes, and marked them droop 
 as he watched her. 
 Truly he thought her passing fair in her full- 
 blown womanhood. 
 
 Yet within her breast a leaden heart was beat- 
 ing; 
 In the recoil of her frenzy she stood shame- 
 faced and weak. 
 "Is it lover?" she thought, "and how am I fit 
 to receive him ?" 
 Then she struggled with self, and won ; yet 
 waited, and watched him speak. 
 
 "Eld-sire, it is well that I found thee here in 
 the forest ; 
 Lonely in truth is thy home, all single out in 
 the wild." 
 " Stranger, yea, it is lone, and rare are the foot- 
 steps of hunters. 
 Often they came from the far-land hither to 
 hunt when I was a child. 
 
 " Even the daughter here has known the faces 
 of hunters. 
 Now the woods are forsaken ; the chase is an- 
 other way." 
 Then he paused and waited, seemed musing 
 of times forgotten ; 
 In the room were the young man's thoughts, 
 though he looked where the old man lay. 
 
— 16 — 
 
 Something unfamiliar dawned to her view as she 
 watched him, 
 Something new to her thoughts that she had 
 not imaged before. 
 Scarce could she read the message, — the faces 
 were few of her mem'ry, — 
 Yet she closed her opening heart, and waited, 
 and pondered it o'er. 
 
 "Sire, I came from the far-land, wand'ring, 
 seeking the great-deer. 
 Vain as yet is the hunting, though followed 
 many a day. 
 Empty now of provisions, I tire to wend with- 
 out ceasing ; 
 Haply I rest me here awhile, and morrow I 
 go on my way." 
 
 " Yea, it is well," said the old man, " as long 
 as thou wiliest thou'rt welcome. 
 Plenty of food is here to lade thee ere thou 
 
 go. 
 
 Stranger, I am of years, and old is my voice 
 for communing ; 
 Go and speak with the daughter there ; I rest 
 me awhile, I trow." 
 
 So he paused and turned, and the young man 
 rose in gladness. 
 " Only three steps," thought he, *' to where 
 the woman stands ! 
 Only three steps," thought he, "and I make 
 her better than stranger !" 
 So he went and looked on her face, and 
 reached her both his hands. 
 
— 17 — 
 
 Trembling sore and thrilled, forgetting all her 
 misgiving, 
 Warmly she took his hands, and greeted him 
 kindly and true. 
 Was it not enough that a stranger he came to 
 her dwelling ? 
 How her heart within her leaped with a feel- 
 ing vague and new ! 
 
 " Stranger, I bid thee welcome ! — and lone is the 
 life in the forest ! 
 Glad is my heart to see tliee, e'en for thy hu- 
 man kind." 
 Ansvvered, " I too rejoice me, for truly, maid, 
 thou art lovely. 
 Little I thought thus far in the woods so rare 
 a being to find." 
 
 All abashed she stood, half pleased, half 
 shocked at the boldness. 
 ^'Oh, why said he so!" was all her heart 
 could say. 
 Then she brought him food and set it ready be- 
 fore him, 
 Standing aloof and watching the while till his 
 hunger died away. 
 
 Then as she moved about and did the work of 
 the morning. 
 Silent he sat and musing, shading his brow in 
 part. 
 Oft she glanced at his face, for he looked not 
 up as she watched him. 
 What was that which made her pause and 
 gaze with a doubting heart ? 
 
— 18 — 
 
 Something cold and hard and eager over his 
 features ! 
 Quickly it faded away, but it left its scar on 
 her hope. 
 Aching, she turned to her task, and left him 
 lone to his musings. 
 Listen, my song, to his thoughts, as out of 
 the past to the future they grope: 
 
 *' E'en when the moon was old we came from 
 the far-land together, 
 Hunting, seeking the great-deer, accounted 
 the noblest prize, — 
 He, the right true-hearted, and I, his oft com- 
 panion ; 
 Bound together our hearts were then by hun- 
 dred kindly ties. 
 
 " Long and vain was our hunt ; the deer crossed 
 never our pathway. 
 Till, when the moon was young, the covering 
 snow-sheet fell. 
 Then we hasted and went, for we saw their 
 tracks in the whiteness. 
 Cautious and slow, with bated breath, we 
 stole to the sheltered dell, 
 
 "Ready my hand on the bow, and ready the 
 arrow for speeding. 
 When, at the edge of the covert, so near as 
 to feel her breath, 
 Suddenly, face to face, we met the doe of the 
 great-deer. 
 How she sickened and looked despair when 
 she saw her certain death ! 
 
— 19 — 
 
 '* Then she looked defiance, that would not bow 
 though it perish ; 
 Made no effort to flee, so near was the slay- 
 ing hand ; 
 When, as I quickly drew, that comrade leaped 
 upon me, 
 Struck the bow from my startled grasp, while 
 the deer fled away to her band. 
 
 "Then as they all took affright and quickly es- 
 caped from the valley. 
 We two staid on the spot and spake as never 
 before. 
 Yea, I withstood him there and each upbraided 
 the other ; 
 Yea, I smote him down, and strode through 
 the woods till my wrath was o'er. 
 
 " Then I returned, half relenting, but found him 
 not where I left him. 
 And, as the snow fell afresh, the traces were 
 covered and gone. 
 Somewhere among the miles, a score-fold hid 
 from my searching, 
 Even to day he wanders yet, or turns his 
 steps toward home. 
 
 *' Was it well that we parted, although the part- 
 ing was anger ? 
 Was it well that the snow its barrier threw 
 between ? 
 Yea, I deem it well, for else had we journeyed 
 together ; 
 Else this tender maiden's charms in truth I 
 never had seen. 
 
— 20 — 
 
 " Ha ! could it be that the friend knew aught of 
 this cot in the forest ? 
 Could he have planned the parting to pluck 
 this flower alone ? 
 Nay, I do him wrong ; he ne'er did wrong to 
 another. 
 Nay, and more, for he is not come, and he 
 will not,— all is my own ! 
 
 "Fortune is mine, and I take it! I want her 
 beauty ; I'll have it ! 
 Never, it seems to me now, have I seen so 
 fair a face. 
 Oh, could I only have come with the antlers 
 borne on my shoulders ! 
 Then should I not have seemed in her eyes as 
 a beggar, craving her grace. 
 
 " Yet I deem it is well, for where will she look 
 for another ? 
 Poor for a lover am I if I set not her heart 
 ablaze !" — 
 Breathing fast, he arose, and saw her eyes that 
 she watched him. 
 Then his time it was to flinch and falter be- 
 fore her gaze. 
 
 But as the day wore on he told her out of his 
 story ; 
 Told not all, but iii part ; but she no word of 
 her woe. 
 Little the old man said, but the youth spoke 
 often together ; 
 Till when the even came they replenished the 
 blaze and sat in its glow. 
 
— 21 — 
 
 Deeply the old man breathed and filled the 
 roonm with the rhythm. 
 Silent the watchers were sitting, buried each 
 in his thought. 
 "Maiden," he said at length, "I deem the 
 father is sleeping." 
 " Yea," she answered, and trembled to think 
 with what that slumber was frought. 
 
 "Listen, I tell thee the truth: I've seen full 
 many a maiden. 
 Yet of them all not one has seemed to mine 
 eyes so fair. 
 Now I deem it well that I choose thee, clasp 
 thee, and own thee. 
 Lone no longer thy life shall be ; this home, 
 but a husband is there." 
 
 Thus he spoke and she trembled ; her life swam 
 giddy about her. 
 Now she felt she was wanted, the hour for 
 which she had prayed. 
 Why should she reck of his face, though it be 
 not memory's picture ? 
 Here a lover was sitting and waiting, and why 
 should her voice be delayed ? 
 
 Then he moved closer, she rose, he arose and 
 pressed him yet nearer. 
 Reached his open arms, but she stepped and 
 shunned his embrace ; 
 " Nay, hold back thy hands! I have not said 
 that 1 love thee !" 
 Scarce knowing why, they dropped to his 
 side, and a new blush stole to his face. 
 
— 22 — 
 
 Then she relaxed her heart as she saw him 
 stand and obey her. 
 Half she repented herself and longed to fall 
 on his breast. 
 He was a man and young, and she was a woman 
 and maiden ; 
 Half she longed to feel his strength and there 
 at length be at rest. 
 
 "Sir, it may be so, but wait, for thou art a 
 stranger. 
 Never, never I wed save whither my heart 
 doth move. 
 Haply 'tis unto thee, but as yet I have not 
 known it. 
 Go and leave me alone awhile till I my 
 thoughts can prove." 
 
 *' Woman, 'tis well thou shouldst take me. 
 And wilt thou wait for another ? 
 Untrod after 1 leave thee the path behind me 
 will be. 
 Now I am even here, and yea, thou wilt not re- 
 ject me ! 
 Is it thy pleasure to wait as I stand here ach- 
 ing and burning for thee ? 
 
 "Nay, I say no more ; thy own free willing shall 
 do it. 
 Thee three days do I give to rejoice in thy 
 solitude ! 
 Morrow I go to the chase, and thou canst finish 
 thy thinking. 
 Then I return, and remember well I return to 
 do thee good." 
 
— 23 — 
 
 then with sbfter speech they parted each to 
 his resting, 
 He to the cot in the corner, o'ercome by 
 watching to sleep ; 
 She to the old man's side, on the floor, her head 
 on his pallet, 
 Breathing deeply, too whelmed for thought, 
 till she sank to a slumber deep. 
 
 Undisturbed was her rest, for the deepest amaze 
 is dreamless. 
 No thought passed through the room ; the 
 cares of the day were at close. 
 Stillness hovered and wrapped them ; the whole 
 earth waited the morrow ; 
 No eye looked at the time-smitten moon, as 
 guilty and late it rose. 
 
 VI. 
 
 One form stood in the room ; the old man lay 
 as his wont was. 
 Darkness had folded her wings and crept from 
 the morning light. 
 '' Grandsire, we are alone ; the stranger is gone 
 o'er the morrow. 
 Now can I freely tell thee all, — for he spake 
 with me, sire, last night." 
 
— 24^— 
 
 ''Speak, my child, I will hear thee, whate'er 
 thou hast of the stranger." 
 So she told him all, arid he listened and gave 
 her heed. 
 Long together they talked of the past, of her 
 hopes and misgivings, 
 Till, aweary, he sank in rest and left her still 
 in her need. 
 
 Under the touch of her breath his heart's last 
 coal from the ashes 
 Had for a moment revived, and kindled anew 
 into blaze. 
 Quickly it spent its life and turned to clay in 
 his bosom. 
 Scarce did he listen or hear her words, but 
 lay in a vacant daze. 
 
 So she turned to herself and bitterly thought of 
 the future. 
 How, when each path went astra}', could she 
 in her darkness decide ? 
 Half she doubted to love him ; the still small 
 voice never blessed him. 
 Yet how long seemed the aching years ere 
 fortune again betide ! 
 
 Sweeter to her appeared his love than waiting 
 and breaking; 
 E'en should it fail, the children would add 
 their bloom to her life. 
 Sn she struggled and fought, and dared nc't 
 come to the vict'ry ; 
 E'en when she saw it she turned away and 
 plunged yet again in the strife. 
 
 1 
 
— 25 — 
 
 Till, when the mid-day was past, it all came 
 clear to her vision. 
 '* Nay, it never can be, though the hope of 
 the future is dim. 
 Nay, I love him not, though my lone heart 
 leaped at the meeting. 
 Haply I love his passion and kiss, but never 
 do I love him." 
 
 So she grew more cheerly and knew not how 
 she was wounded. 
 " Grandsire, now it is done; I do not love 
 the man." 
 '* Daughter, is it thou? Good-night, my daugh- 
 ter, I bless thee." 
 So she left him still to his rest, and her un- 
 touched duties began. 
 
 Not all sad were her thoughts ; she had felt not 
 the depths of her wounding. 
 Whilst the daylight was hers with victory's 
 warmth she was blest. 
 Once she paused and trembled, but found for 
 her heart new courage. 
 Still she busied her to and fro, till darkness 
 called her to rest. 
 
 Then she clad for the night, unloosened in part 
 her raiment. 
 'Round her disprisoned form let darkness a 
 sure watch keep. 
 So she lay on the couch and thought how yes- 
 ter he pressed it. 
 Drew the coverlet over and 'round her, and 
 thought, " I lay me to sleep." 
 
— 26 — 
 
 Ah ! but sleep had fled, and came not near to 
 her eyelids. 
 Thoughts came thronging and whelming to 
 trouble her heart's repose. 
 Weak was the day to move ; 'tis the strength of 
 the night shall crush her. 
 Though the hours of light were spent, day's 
 labor was not yet at close. 
 
 "Ah me ! What have I done?" was all she 
 could think as she lay there. 
 *' Even my chance has been no longer to pine 
 alone. 
 Have I been wrong? Could it be? Yet how 
 can I face him and tell him ? 
 How can I tell him I love him not when long- 
 ing to make him my own ? 
 
 " What may I think of the years that stretch 
 out weary before me ? 
 Hope is a mockery, sooth, should it bless 
 when the need is dead." 
 Short to her seemed middle Hfe and old age, dim 
 in the distance ; 
 Endless the seasons' round wherethrough her 
 life^vay next she must thread. 
 
 ' Round her heart a vise seemed closing and 
 crushing her life out. 
 Over each restless nerve the agony hurried 
 and thrilled. 
 Was it her spirit so hurt that her frame beheld 
 it and sickened ? 
 Yea, her heart-strings, long o'ervvrought, gave 
 a cry that could not be stilled. 
 
— 27 — 
 
 Hasty she threw back the cover and rose to her 
 feet in the darkness, 
 Drew the curtain without and looked at the 
 gloomy night ; 
 Under the forest boughs no eye could fathom 
 the darkness. 
 Silent and tall the giants stood with their 
 branches dim and white. 
 
 Maiden, I see thy face in the stilly dim of the 
 starlight ; 
 Nature's peace is near thee, waiting to make 
 thee whole. 
 Over thy face methinks the lines are softened to 
 beauty ; 
 Yea, thou shall conquer yet this time and win 
 thee rest to thy soul. 
 
 So she gathered a shawl around the white of her 
 garment. 
 Sat her down in the doorway and gazed at the 
 sky above. 
 *' Father of Stars, look down, and make me 
 strong for the waiting ; 
 Give me light to know Thy way, and teach 
 me love for Thy love ! " 
 
 Lo ! and lo in the east ! the midnight moon is 
 risen ! 
 Faint is its paly light as first through the for- 
 est it streams. 
 Now it mounts to the sky, lights softly the 
 woods in their beauty, 
 Crystaled, cathedraled in ice, and restfuUy 
 bathed in the still, floating beams. 
 
— 28 — 
 
 Small to her then did appear what darkness lin- 
 gered around her ; 
 Minished and shrinking away, yea, counting 
 as naught in her sight. 
 Far off shone the heavens, and all the way was 
 a moonbeam ; 
 Up to the Great White Throne above the 
 pathway was strewn with light. 
 
 Thus her life spread out in strange, new mean- 
 ing before her ; 
 Short are the years of darkness ; the hope be- 
 yond them is long. 
 Yea, the trial is brief, though it blind the eye to 
 the future. 
 He who is Father will bring it to pass with 
 her who waits and is strong. 
 
 Look ! she clasps her knees and bows her fore- 
 head upon them ; 
 All the surcharge of her heart, long hoarded, 
 flows in those tears — 
 Copious tears and free, that fall and moisten her 
 raiment, 
 Till she weeps herself into rest and peace that 
 triumphs o'er fears. 
 
 So she sat on in silence and knelt her head on 
 her white robe, 
 Looked not up at the night as it turned and 
 sank in the west. 
 Till when the winter dawn looked down at the 
 door of the dwelling. 
 Still it found her leaning there, asleep and 
 taking her rest. 
 
— 29 — 
 
 All that day her heart was light with sense of 
 o'ercoming, 
 Chastened and tinged with grief, but better 
 than e'er before ; 
 For instead of a girl a woman was thinking and 
 doing. 
 Now she was ready to send him afar and reck 
 of his face no more. 
 
 And when even was come she busied her still 
 with her labor, 
 Cared for the old man's needs and gave him 
 her heed and her thought. 
 Dreams that waited to move her came not in 
 'mid her duties, 
 And when the hour was come she slept, un- 
 hindered by heart overwrought. 
 
 When the hunter returned with the antlers borne 
 on his shoulders, 
 She was at door to meet him, had heard the 
 ice-twig break. 
 Hunter, look at her now ; thy answer read on 
 her features. 
 Few were the words that need be said ; he 
 knew all ere she spake. 
 
 "Sir, thou knowest well my heart I never can 
 give thee. 
 Soiled were my hands to touch thee ; the why 
 let thy own self tell. 
 Yea, I love thee not, though my lone heart 
 leaped at the meeting. 
 Now as nought but a chance acquaint I bid 
 thee forever farewell." 
 
— 30 — 
 
 Still they talked for awhile, but little they said 
 that concerned them. 
 Nought could pass between them since they 
 were strangers once more. 
 Then she gave him food to speed him well on 
 his journey. 
 When in silence he rose and was gone the 
 antlers lay at her door. 
 
 There for a moment she stood and gazed at the 
 cast-off trophy ; 
 Quick they were seized and lifted and into the 
 red blaze cast. 
 Round them leaped the flames and burnt them 
 down to a cinder, 
 And as the stench arose to heaven, she 
 watched and buried her past. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When the winter had melted, and moist spring 
 dripped from the branches. 
 When all the leafy boughs were choral with 
 song of bird, 
 When through the open doorway gently the 
 zephyr was breathing, 
 Then from within the narrow abode a quiet 
 sound was heard. 
 
— 31 — 
 
 She was sitting and weaving before the loom in 
 the corner, 
 Even the little loom that the grandsire made 
 long ago ; 
 Slowly, — for is there haste? and few are the 
 needs that compel her, — 
 Steadily sways the beam, and glides the shut- 
 tle hither and fro. 
 
 Now she closes her work and steps to the door 
 of the dwelling. 
 Nature invites her forth from the home to the 
 outer joy. 
 Wide she opens her eyes to drink in the green 
 of the woodland, 
 All instinct with color and life, and freshness 
 that scarce will cloy. 
 
 So she strays without through the mazy paths 
 of the greenwood. 
 O'er her the branches rustle and sprinkle her 
 face with dew. 
 ' Round her the flowers smile to tell of the glad 
 new season. 
 Mosses and lichens and grasses and ferns dis- 
 played in varying hue. 
 
 Now she pauses a bit and looks at the* branches 
 above her ; 
 Two birds are building their nest and lining 
 it soft within. 
 Birdies, ye do her wrong ; she sighs in the midst 
 of the beauty, 
 Draws more closely her fore- robe about her, 
 and saunters on through the green. 
 
— 32 — 
 
 Here is the open spot where good things soon 
 will be growing ; 
 Farther, the work of the ice, these fagots are 
 strewn to the ground. 
 Stooping, by one and by one she gathers them 
 up for her using. 
 Still she wanders adown the path where her 
 feet so oft have been found. 
 
 Till she comes to the brook soft purling over the 
 pebbles. 
 Empties her load from her arms, lies down by 
 the water's side. 
 Now she is young once more, and childhood 
 quickens within her ; 
 Two bare feet, she stretches them out, and 
 dips in the rippling tide, 
 
 Resting her head on her arm and watching the 
 play of the wavelets ; 
 All of her girlhood's dreams come floating 
 back to her soul. 
 Out from the great beyond a blessing is drifting 
 to meet her, 
 E'en as the waters that kiss her feet come 
 rippling down to their goal. 
 
 Sweet is the wash of the stream, and the sound, 
 the type of forever, — 
 Ah ! thou sharp little stone ! She moves, and- 
 the touch is pain! 
 Now, with the child-mood over, still (rising) she 
 looks at the water. 
 Draws her shoes to her feet and slowly turns 
 to the home again. 
 
— 33 
 
 All around her the earth is singing the hymn of 
 the season. 
 Ah ! but she sees nor hears, but saunters 
 with listless mien. 
 Here but awhile ago she lost herself in the 
 beauty. 
 Still it is there, but she sees nor hears for the 
 veil of thought between. 
 
 Dimly afloat in her mind a half-remembered 
 feature 
 Seems to be struggling for shape as hitherto 
 in her youth. 
 Half prophetic it bides ; she opens her heart to 
 receive it. 
 Is it the voice of the future to her or is it the 
 image of truth ? 
 
 ** Yea, it will be," is her thought, '' and I must 
 wait for the coming. 
 Surely and one is sent from Him who my own 
 life gave. 
 Haply the time is long, but day by day is the 
 waiting. 
 Ah ! if it should not be on earth ! Still wait; 
 there is hope in the grave. 
 
 " So will I save my heart to the hour of its one 
 visitation ; 
 And if the years should mock, I'll neither for- 
 get nor despair. 
 There can be cheer in the life, and when the 
 deatli shall o'ertake me, 
 Then with a spirit well preserved will I pass to 
 the life over there." 
 
— 34 — 
 
 Quickly a voice steals in and gives the lie to her 
 promise. 
 *' Easy it is to dream, but the time will find 
 me out. 
 Have I this strength to endure? And if, yet 'tis 
 for a shadow !" 
 Still ! rude voice ! the peace returns ; let slum- 
 ber again the doubt. 
 
 — It was a drearysome morrow ; the rain dripped 
 in through the wind-eye. 
 Yet the blaze in the center was cheering the 
 room with its glow. 
 Hour by hour she wove, for the web was nigh 
 to the finish ; 
 Ever she swung the beam and glided the 
 shuttle hither and fro. 
 
 "Long have I worked," she thought, "and now 
 I will finish the garment. 
 Soon the father shall wear it instead of the 
 worn and old. 
 Little I hope for words, for it is not so with him 
 longer; 
 Yet will he move his hands on the garment, 
 and then my hands he'll enfold." 
 
 So she wrought with a will, and glad seemed the 
 shuttle unto her. 
 " Nought is given me now but to think for the 
 old man's need. 
 Never before was his living so sacred unto me, 
 so precious ; 
 Now I have nothing, he nothing ; though 
 scarcely he know of m\- doings nor heed." 
 
— 35 — 
 
 Still she wrought with a will and deemed the 
 labor a pleasure ; 
 Thought not how frail the joy if the old man's 
 breath is its spring. 
 Now it is ta'en from the loom and the stitches 
 are finished around it. 
 So she rose and went to his side and brought 
 him the new-made thing. 
 
 Smoothly he breathed as she watched him, and 
 seemed not heavy with slumber. 
 "Grandsire, here is a garment. Look; it is 
 new, and thine! " 
 Then she touched his hand, but he gave no to- 
 ken of answer ; 
 Though she called him ever again, he heard 
 not, gave no sign. 
 
 Yea, his spirit had flown, or ever the death of 
 the body. 
 Long she labored to move him ; she labored, 
 but could not avail. 
 Never again will he heed, or know the touch of 
 her fingers ; 
 Such was her strange, new loneliness ; her cry 
 was a bitter wail : 
 
 *' Father of All, give ear, for now is the time 
 that I need Thee! 
 While that I needed Thee not, I always 
 deemed Thou wert near ; 
 Now I am smitten with loneHness, and if Thou 
 canst, O Spirit, 
 Give me some friend, or if not so yet, send a 
 voice that my soul may hear ! 
 
— 3G — 
 
 "Dost Thou hear to my cry? Or hast Thou 
 forgotten me who ly, 
 Here where so few have lived to call Thy 
 thought from the sky ? 
 If Thou canst give me help, I pray Thee, tarry 
 not longer ! 
 But if Thou wilt do nothing for me, I pray 
 Thee, grant me to die ! " 
 
 Yet she died not at all, though she felt in her 
 heart no answer, 
 Thought she was so forgot that even to die 
 was forbid. 
 If the Angel of Answer drew near and wept 
 with her sorrow, 
 She in her pain knew it not, though in more 
 silent grief her being was hid. 
 
 Only she heard the wind as it sighed and moaned 
 in the forest, 
 Bringing a chill of the north and driving the 
 remnants of rain. 
 Were it indeed a cry of anguish, she could en- 
 dure it ; 
 Half would it be a companion to her, though 
 it tell but of grief and pain. 
 
 But it was nothing real — the voice of the void 
 that cared not. 
 Minding her of her petition, lost as a breath 
 in the air. 
 So as the long day wore, the wind still answered 
 and mocked her ; 
 Only this, that it came from afar. A glimmer 
 of hope was there. 
 
— 37 — 
 
 — Morrow and yet to-morrow and days yet 
 further he lingered. 
 While he was left her at all, she gave him all 
 of her care ; 
 While she watched him fail and knew that the 
 grave was before him, 
 Counting him last she could call her own, she 
 clung to his Hfe in despair. 
 
 Night has come to the earth and I see her kneel- 
 ing beside him. 
 All that she held most precious seems fading 
 away with his breath. 
 Gently she parts the garment that useless covers 
 his bosom, 
 Feels its warmth with her hands and clings as 
 if staying its flight in death ; 
 
 Tenderly lays her ear to his heart to list to its 
 beating ; 
 Counts the failing pulse. In silence the mo- 
 ments flee. 
 Come, turn away from the room and leave them 
 alone together. 
 Say I together, his soul on its flight ? Come 
 away ; it is not for thee ! 
 
-38- I 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Look at the low-hung pine that stands alone 
 'mid the spring trees. 
 Look at the grave beneath it, a little with grass 
 overgrown. 
 Look at the woman's form and the tear-marks 
 over her features ; 
 List to her thoughts as she lies supine by the 
 lonely grave alone. 
 
 " Shall I upbraid myself to have gazed so long at 
 the branches 
 That I forgot my sorrow, that I forgot to 
 weep ? 
 That I forgot the grave and my anguish of soul 
 for the old man, 
 Or that I suffered the grass of hope o'er the 
 grave in my heart to creep? 
 
 '•Nay, I upbraid me not. One time I thought 
 I could never 
 Live when he passed away, but my heart is 
 not as of yore. 
 Then my thought was divided ; his life was be- 
 hind, hope before me ; 
 Now the grave to which he is gone is before, 
 and hope is before. 
 
•'So that I am not false to the sorrow that rose 
 within me, 
 If I look to the future and watch for the lover 
 to come. 
 Endless ago it seems since first I longed for his 
 presence ; 
 Now I'm alone, and haply the time draws near 
 when the waiting is done." 
 
 Then she arose, went home, but sat down and 
 folded her fingers ; 
 Little had she to do when but for herself she 
 could care. 
 So she waited her hope, but each day grew 
 twain in her loneness ; 
 Yea, and the twain were lengthened to four 
 by the idleness that she must bear. 
 
 So that it seemed that the moon long wont to 
 hasten its journey. 
 Passing the stars by night in its endless search 
 for a goal. 
 Now grew tardy and slow, and paused as it 
 were in sorrow ; 
 Till at last, in the wreck of days, the 111 Voice 
 stood by her soul : 
 
 ** Woman, didst thou do well to refuse the man 
 who came nigh thee. 
 Just since thy fancy's dream and his flesh 
 were other and twain ? 
 He was fashioned a man, could have wrought 
 with thee as with a woman ; 
 Then though he were but an alien to thee, 
 yet a goal for thy love would remain. 
 
— 40 — 
 
 '* 'Twould have been thy dehght, and He who 
 forgot would not hate thee. 
 What if he come again ? — for he knows the 
 way to thy home — " 
 "Nay," she cried in her strength, '^ Jiis steps 
 will not turn again hither. 
 But another — and let me not blush — I know 
 he will surely come." 
 
 Ev'n to the last too pure to go a-whoring with 
 shadows, 
 Quickly to flee from her thoughts she turned 
 and went out-a-door. 
 In her hand was a weapon, for she would go to 
 the hunting ; 
 Thus she busied herself with that she seldom 
 had done before. 
 
 Till as the time wore on, her hands grew rude 
 with the hunting. 
 Wholly her life seemed changed, but the old 
 life was covered up there. 
 What she always had hoped lay hidden deep in 
 her bosom ; 
 Only she whiled the time away to save herself 
 from despair. 
 
 Yet she was verging on change and found a love 
 for the hunting; 
 Till it chanced one night that she slept 'neath 
 the open sky, 
 Far away in the woods, and the next day willed 
 to go farther. 
 Soon she paused by a gliding brook and 
 watched the waters go by. 
 
I 
 
 -- 41 -. 
 
 " Shall I step over," she thought, '* or return at 
 once to the dwelling? 
 Why should 1 follow the chase when it's not 
 for the flesh that I care ? 
 If I return not at once, 'tis another night in the 
 forest. 
 What if he come to the home to day and I be 
 not ready there ! " 
 
 So she turned to the dwelling ; the steps of her 
 feet came faster, 
 Faster than they had been when her face was 
 the other way. 
 Hurriedly came her breath, as it had not come 
 in a long time. 
 Till she reached her empty home and waited 
 the livelong day. 
 
 Then a day and a day and the days that fol- 
 lowed she waited. 
 Till her hope grew weak and trembled, but 
 filled her still. 
 Few small things she did that came to use her 
 attention. 
 Till she bethought her to weave at the loom, 
 yet could not weave with a will. 
 
 Slowly she drew the thread and swung the beam 
 as the craft is. 
 "It is for lover," she thought, " a garment 
 that he shall wear." 
 So her thoughts came in and drew her mind 
 from the weaving. 
 Ever between her look and the work crept the 
 dreamland faces fair. 
 
— 42 — 
 
 Till she went to the door and left the labor un- 
 finished. 
 " What though he come to-day ? I shall not 
 see him in need. 
 Morrow when he shall come, 'tis then I shall 
 finish the garment. 
 He shall stand beside me the while and shall 
 watch the shuttle speed. 
 
 ** Arid he shall love me then, and stooping adown 
 
 shall kiss me ; 
 And I shall question him naught if only he 
 
 ask for love. 
 But I shall tell him yea, and when I look up he 
 
 shall clasp me. 
 Thus will I raise my unclad arms and cling to 
 
 his neck above." 
 
 So she lifted her arms and watched to behold 
 them tremble, 
 Hasted the flow of her breath, and said, " It 
 will all be so, — 
 Why am I not more thrilled ? for oft has it been 
 in the past time ! 
 So" — she arose — "my heart to his heart, 
 shall I feel its throbbing glow ! " 
 
 It was a mockery, sooth ; it seemed to her so as 
 she stood there. 
 Harshly into the air her laugh rang bitter and 
 keen. 
 " If ' he' should see me now he would think I 
 was blessing a rival ! 
 This same rival is right thin air, and yet — it 
 is worthy, I ween ! " 
 
Bearing a dull cold ache she turned from the 
 door, and behind her 
 Dropped the curtain in place and sat her down 
 in the gloom. 
 All day long she sat, and all day long of the 
 miOrrow ; 
 Rising only to take cold food she wearied her- 
 self in the room. 
 
 For she dreaded to look without at the paths 
 of the forest. 
 Every chance little sound sent her listening 
 nerves a thrill. 
 'Twas but a falling leaf that rustled against the 
 dwelling ; 
 Over her frame the shudder ran, but she sat 
 in silence still. 
 
 '*Nay, I will not look without. For often 
 enough I have done it ; 
 I can endure it no longer. When truly he 
 comes, I will greet." 
 But when night came on her taut nerves slacked 
 with exhaustion. 
 And she sank to a slumber, but tossed, and 
 found no whole rest sweet. 
 
 It was another day, and weary she rose in the 
 morning. 
 'Round her the room in gathered dirt and 
 confusion lay. 
 It was the time to cleanse, but now she dreaded 
 to touch it. 
 "It would be ill that he find it thus — But 
 he will not come to-day. 
 
— 44 — 
 
 "I will do it to-morrow ; there is no haste for the 
 present." 
 But when the morrow was come the listless 
 mood was strong. 
 Yet she cleansed in part, but did not search for 
 the corners ; 
 Then she loitered and wondered why the 
 droning hours were so long. 
 
 It was another day, and she must go to the for- 
 est, 
 For the food was now ripened, and she must 
 garner it in. 
 Ere she started she ate and did the work of the 
 morning ; 
 Chance-wise she felt of the locks of her head 
 and slid her fingers between. 
 
 Somewhat tangled and rude they were from a 
 night of tossing. 
 "Oft have I dressed this hair, and haply to 
 little avail. 
 He will not come to-day; and I must haste to 
 the labor. 
 Just this once I will let it pass ; to-morrow I 
 will not fail." 
 
 Toiling the day went by, and another, and it was 
 the even ; 
 Dust-stain, toil-stain, heat-stain covered her 
 body o'er. 
 " I'll not bathe me tonight, for to-morrow again 
 I must soil me. 
 Then when all this work is done, I will cleanse 
 me and be as before." 
 
— 45 — 
 
 For her task had been grievous, and weary she 
 turned to her pillow ; 
 Yet her heart seemed whispering, "Nay, but 
 thy custom keep." 
 Only her feet and her arms, arising, she passed 
 through the water ; 
 Lay, and her most soiled outer garb she cast 
 away from her sleep. 
 
 It was another day, and the best of the harvest 
 was over ; 
 Yet she could gather more by searching 
 here and there. 
 " Have I enough in store to furnish me safe for 
 the winter? 
 What if the stranger should come and be 
 mine? Then have T enough to share? 
 
 •'There is a plenty for me, and he will not come 
 for a long time ; 
 'Tis not the season of chase till the moons ot 
 the winter shall roll. 
 And if perchance he should come, he may bring 
 food from his hunting." 
 So she returned to her rain-beaten home, and 
 idleness seized her soul. 
 
 Sleep, my song, till the winter, that came in 
 terrible fierceness. 
 Out in the forest the blizzard screamed and 
 writhed and whirled. 
 Many a year had it been since ever so stern a 
 freezing. 
 'Round the building the tempest drave and 
 down through the wind-eye swirled. 
 
— 46 ~— 
 
 There in the room the woman was crouching 
 beside her pallet. 
 Feebly the blaze of light wood fought with 
 the eager air. 
 All the cloth in the dwelling was huddled closely 
 around her, 
 Yet her feet and her fingers were numb. She 
 had not strength to despair. 
 
 But she waited on dumbly and only rose when 
 it must be. 
 Long her lips had been silent; she suffered 
 and gave no cry. 
 Ah ! an' that winter lingered and clung to the 
 earth as never ! 
 Yea, and hunger pinched her form ere the 
 dawning of spring was nigh ! 
 
 But it was over at last and she found wherewith 
 she could feed her. 
 Thus in the woods one day she knelt by a 
 placid stream. 
 Then she beheld her face and the marks of loss 
 that had scarred it, 
 And she sickened to feel it was real and not 
 but a watery dream. 
 
 There for a moment she gazed and the pain cut 
 deeper her features. 
 Then she lifted her hand and smote the water's 
 face. 
 "Hide thee! show me no more my features, 
 impudent water! 
 Ha! hast wrinkles too? They'll heal, but 
 mine no time will erase !" 
 
— 47 - 
 
 Then she arose,, not sighing, and dragged her 
 feet to the dvvelHng ; 
 Paused for a moment without ere she Hfted 
 the curtain of skin. 
 " He will never come ! And why should I reck 
 though it be so ? 
 Time will slay me ; I give it up ! " And so 
 she passed within. 
 
 Time did not cease its flight when the woman 
 ceased to regard it. 
 Still did the turning skies look down on the 
 lonely cot. 
 Few were the seasons that passed, but each in 
 her aimless drifting 
 Wrought in her life the work of twain ; she 
 withered and heeded it not. 
 
 Yea, her frame grew rigid, her step grew leaden 
 and heavy. 
 'Twas not the stress of years ; her woman- 
 hood's span had been biief. 
 Twas that her better self did shrink and shrivel 
 within her. 
 Dreading the pain that had made up its life it 
 sought in death for relief. 
 
 Yet it could not escape the pangs of its own dis- 
 solution. 
 Long it slumbered, though dying, but woke 
 at the last in pain. 
 It was a winter's day, not cold, but mild in its 
 crispness. 
 Still was the air, and after the sun had set from 
 its journey again, 
 
— 48 — 
 
 Softly the wester eve its mantle threw o'er the 
 forest ; 
 Softly rose the moon, and, glinting the 
 boughs between. 
 Lit a palace of ice, all pearls and diamonds and 
 torches. 
 Yearnfully beckoned the shadows, and flick- 
 ered away in the moonlight sheen. 
 
 There without at the doorway the woman was 
 standing, and saw it. 
 Then she paused and remembered, and agony 
 filled her soul. 
 All the ghosts of hopes came thronging back to 
 her vision, 
 Till she trembled and turned from the door in 
 grief she could not control. 
 
 'Twas not wholly despair, — for had she a hope 
 to despair of? 
 Nor was it yet the return of the longing that 
 smote her before. 
 It was a gasping for life, a strong recoil from her 
 deadness. 
 It was a longing for a longing, to feel what 
 she felt of yore. 
 
 Still the tempest raged within her enfeebled 
 spirit, 
 Fleeing the pain of life and dreading the pain 
 of death ; 
 Till, more quickly exhausted, she dropped her- 
 self on the pallet, 
 Thinking thoughts of wretchedness and dis- 
 mally drawing her breath. 
 
— 49 — 
 
 So as she lay and mourned, she saw the stars 
 through the wind-eye, 
 Deemed it was they had betrayed her and 
 shrank away from their sight. 
 Mightier soon than pain she found the behest of 
 habit, 
 Drowned her sorrow in hazy sleep. And it 
 was a weary night ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 'Twas 'pon an autumn day ; a deer far out in 
 the forest 
 Fled as 'twere for its life, and looked not back 
 in its flight, 
 Bounding now through the thicket atid now 
 where the forest lies open ; 
 Now it meets a deserted path, leaps over, is 
 gone from sight. 
 
 Hunter, what of thy face, as thou chasest the 
 fleet deer's foot-prints ? 
 Something manly and true — Look ! why does 
 he pause as he speeds? 
 Is it even a path ? He stoops and carefully 
 scans it ; 
 Leaving the deer to seek for its own, he 
 follows the path where it leads. 
 
— 50 — 
 
 Why in the old abode should the woman that 
 one idle morning 
 Dream of her childhood days, that seemed 
 forgot long ago? 
 Look ! the eddying breeze is whirling the leaves 
 on the pathway ; 
 Now to the house and now to the woods they 
 waver to and fro. 
 
 And as she sits, still dreaming, the steps draw 
 nigh to the doorway ; 
 Now he stands at the curtain, looks in, be- 
 holding it all. 
 " Woman," he said, but she heard not, or made 
 it a part of her dreaming ; 
 Undisturbed by thoughts of the real she sat, 
 not heeding his call. 
 
 *' Woman ! " he cried again. All slow she arose 
 and faced him, 
 Helplessly looked at the doorway. Ah ! 'twas 
 a vacant gaze ! 
 Haggard and worn was her visage ; he marked 
 it all as he watched her. 
 Slowly she 'gan to tremble, slowly the light 
 dawned in on her daze. 
 
 Strange was the glance of his face ; he wondered 
 after the woman. 
 Moved, and she saw him move, as he offered 
 to enter the door. 
 '* Woman, may I come in and rest me awhile in 
 thy dwelling? " 
 Then she gave one lonely cry, and swooning 
 fell to the floor. 
 
— 51 
 
 Later this selfsame day they sat with the coals 
 between them. 
 Shaken and weak was her frame, her face as 
 pale as the dead. 
 '* Why should my coming so smite thee ?" Still 
 she answered him nothing. 
 ''Long thou art sitting and watching me, wo- 
 i^an— " " Sir, I have dreamed," she said. 
 
 Then did he gaze at her face, all earnestly search- 
 ing its features. 
 "Girl, thou wast lovely once, yea, lovely — 
 long ago !" 
 - Sir, say it not !" she said. *' What thou know- 
 est not, I remember." 
 "Is it that two-score years," he thought, 
 " have smitten her life? Not so." 
 
 Long he sat in the silence and gazed at the coals 
 before him. 
 Out of his sight she stood, and half forgot her 
 despair ; 
 Smiling weak, like a child that is yearning out 
 of its sickness. 
 Toward him stretched her idle hands as she 
 watched him sitting there. 
 
 But when he moved just a finger, she thought 
 of herself and shuddered. 
 " Should I mock as a fool, and dream of youth 
 again ? 
 Nay, I love him not,— I only would that I loved 
 . ' him!" 
 
 Shrank to herself Hke a last year's leaf ; he 
 looked ; in her face was pain. 
 
— 52 — 
 
 "Woman, hast thou been here — " "Sir, hold 
 thy peace, for I bid thee !" 
 "Tell me, what is thy life?" She waited; 
 " Death !" she said. 
 Then they sat by the coals and did not speak 
 for a long time. 
 "Woman, I would thou wert not old!" She 
 heard, but her heart had fled. 
 
 " Silence ! I bid thee silence ! And thou must 
 leave, or I hate thee !" 
 " Yea, I must leave," he said, " and go my 
 way to the chase." 
 Soon he arose from his seat; she trembled and 
 longed to make answer, 
 Watched his movements one by one, and 
 watched the lines on his face ; 
 
 Watched him take his weapon, and gird himself 
 for the going, 
 Watched him pause ere he went, as if he would 
 fain say more ; 
 "Sir, remember not; forget the cot in the for- 
 est!" 
 But he answered her never a word ; he gazed, 
 and passed from the door. 
 
 Then she stood by the curtain and watched 
 adown the pathway ; 
 Strangely out to the forest her heart was torn 
 and drawn. 
 Shading her brow with her hand, she gazed at the 
 vanishing footsteps. 
 Now the branches have gathered between and 
 hidden the last, — he is gone! 
 
— 53 — 
 
 Still as the dead she stood, then stretched her 
 hands toward the forest. 
 Something broke in her heart and checked 
 the starting tear. 
 Rose her helpless cry, ''Come back! Come 
 back! For I love thee!" 
 But no ear gave heed to her voice. The 
 leaves were brown and sere ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Wildly the frozen wind is whirling on through 
 the forest, 
 Sweeping the hard, cold earth and searching 
 everywhere, 
 Tossing the naked boughs, and bellowing, sigh- 
 ing, sobbing. 
 Raising the voice of desolation, voice of the 
 empty air. 
 
 Here is the old abode, and the wind is surging 
 around it. 
 All time-eaten it stands, and quivering, tem- 
 pest-tossed. 
 Hark! no sound from within! 'Tis the wind 
 that is moaning and crying! 
 Wildly rises the smoke from the wind-eye, 
 wavers in air, and is lost. 
 
— 54 — 
 
 Look not within, dead song ; despair is better 
 unheeded ! 
 Look not in at the woman, crouching — nay, 
 look not ! 
 Search not into her heart ; the air shall tell of the 
 anguish ! 
 Only the wind at the roof-hole now may peer 
 in the lonely cot. 
 
 — Still the wind swept on, low moaning over the 
 building,- 
 Wailing of things that it knew not, ceaseless 
 by night, by day. 
 Wildly the blue smoke rose, and wavered, beck- 
 oning, yearning ; 
 Ah ! none saw ! no answer came, while life's 
 years ebbed away ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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