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Mark Loan 
 
 A Tale 
 
 Ob IJHh — 
 
 WESTERN RESER VE PIONEERS. 
 
 CLEVELAND: 
 
 WILLIAM W. WILLIAMS. 
 1884. 
 
MARK LOAN 
 
 A Tale of the Western Reserve Pioneers 
 
 By the Author of "The Hunter of^fhe Shagreen." 
 
 
 CLEVELAND, O. 
 
 WILLIAM W. WILLIAMS 
 
 j 884 
 
7S5U11 
 
TO FLORENCE 
 
 IN MEMORY OF HER LAST DEAR HOME-STAYING. 
 
 May i, 1884. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I. THE PIONEERS - 9 
 
 II. THE GOLDEN RULE - - - - - 11 
 
 III. MARK 12 
 
 IV. THE SHADOW - - - - - 21 
 V. THE POET ------ 25 
 
 VI. GOD'S WAY - - - - - - 33 
 
 VII. ANN ------- 38 
 
 VIII. THE FLOOD 43 
 
 IX. MARK LOAN'S SPRING 48 
 
 X. HIS MISSION - 62 
 
 PUNDERSON'S POND 65 
 
MARK LOAN 
 
 A Ta/e of the Western Reserve Pioneers. 
 
MARK LOAN 
 
 I. 
 
 THE PIONEERS. 
 
 Far from the older eastern world remote, 
 
 Walled round by western forest shade profound, 
 Warring with nature wild, the fathers smote 
 
 The huge trees, whose fall, with wide resound, 
 Shook the virgin earth. On that distant ground 
 
 They made their homes. Theirs was a moveless age, 
 Time stood still as slowly they wore away 
 
 The forest. Ceaseless, stout the war they wage, 
 Nor genius nor high thought called into play ; 
 
 Nor books nor journals — culture small had they, 
 But clear'd land, tamed steers, hunted, wove, spun ; 
 
 Wore their dull lives with toil, waiting the day 
 Of better things, higher life — so they run 
 Their weary rounds, till all their days were done. 
 
 I know that was a rude, hard primal life, 
 Such as all men live " in the beginning," 
 
O MARK LOAN 
 
 When hand and thought are constant in the strife 
 
 For existence, which they are ever wringing 
 From surroundings harsh ; to which the soul is bent 
 
 And body given. Yet memory more kind 
 Hath, in the passing years, with sweet intent, 
 
 Lost all the loveless things ; and now I find, 
 On all within her arms, the wondrous play — 
 
 The light of that old and seeming better day, 
 Shining with serene and steady ray ; 
 
 Nor shadow, nor mem'ry of darksome night, 
 
 Nor sorrow, grief, nor pain, nor any blight ; 
 
 But all lies sweet and sacred in that light. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 
 II. 
 
 THE GOLDEN RULE. 
 
 Those were the days of endless toil ; 
 Each waking hour had its moil. 
 Whose mem'ry reaches that time olden, 
 Recalls this as the sub-rule golden. 
 
 " The greatest thing of all is work, 
 The greatest man the greatest worker ;- 
 
 The meanest of all things is shirk, 
 The meanest man the greatest shirker." 
 
 Hard was the rule, the working hard, 
 For outer man, for inner worse ; 
 
 The form was bent, the soul was marred, 
 The mind grew sordid 'neath its curse ; 
 
 Yet no man, woman, child might draw 
 
 Themselves from reach of this stern law. 
 
12 MARK LOAN 
 
 III. 
 
 MARK. 
 
 s 
 In that old world was never known 
 A boy so idle as Mark Loan. 
 It was not that he wanted grace ; 
 
 Harmless he was as child might be ; 
 Seemed ever he was out of place, 
 
 Unless beneath a wild- wood tree, 
 Living a part in his own dream, 
 
 Rapt in another world away ; 
 In our life did it ever seem 
 
 He had no part for work or play. 
 
 The Loans were thought a common band ; 
 The men were all of griping hand ; 
 Close, thrifty, given all to delve, 
 To grub with hoe, or axes helve; 
 Of old and young were ten or twelve. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 13 
 
 The girls hard working, decent, plain, 
 Good folk to grapple with the wood ; 
 
 Dull witted, sun-browned. In the main 
 With their neighbors not ill they stood ; 
 Tho' little known for ill or good. 
 
 Poor Mark was with the younger fry ; 
 With them — not of them; how or why 
 He was found in their common brood 
 All wondered. His seemed other blood, 
 Of other mold, another race ; 
 Large, dreamy eyes, blond, girlish face ; 
 Tall, slender, having much of grace ; 
 Shy and gentle from his birth, 
 Pensive, sad, never showing mirth ; 
 From the first counted of no worth. 
 Useless his hands for daily toil, 
 
 'Twas not so much that he would shirk, 
 As that he was not born for moil. 
 
 To him the common, coarse, hard work 
 Was not assigned. This understood, 
 
 Quite young an outcast Mark became; 
 Neither stripes nor yet want of food 
 
14 MARK LOAN 
 
 Gained him to work. Prison nor pain 
 Won aught from him save patient tears ; 
 
 Nor murmured nor did he complain, 
 When bidden from their board remain, 
 
 And hungred he would steal away 
 To his own world, the lonely wood, 
 
 Ling'ring there the live-long day. 
 From nature's hand he sought his food ; 
 
 He was her own well favored child; 
 From his stepmother, him she took 
 
 To her breast, nursed him in her wild 
 Ways of life. Taught him where to look 
 
 For meat and shelter ; him she made 
 One of her own loved, cherished throng 
 
 Of children, dwelling in the shade 
 Of her great wood. Him, led along 
 
 Her secret ways, by stream and glade, 
 Nothing fearing, none were afraid 
 
 Of him — a harmless, graceful thing, 
 Whose form filled them with brutish awe ; 
 
 Yet naught of terror did he bring, 
 But by sole force of the great law, 
 His presence ruled. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 15 
 
 -The deer would feed 
 
 At his side, turning great soft eyes 
 On him. The timid doe would lead 
 
 Her fawn across the leafy mead, 
 And meet him there without surprise. 
 
 The partridge drummed beneath his eye, 
 The turkey-hen still kept her nest 
 
 If there, by chance, he passed it by ; 
 Or where he went, or sat at lest, 
 
 Unfrightened stole the wild things shy. 
 Of rav'ning things he had no fear, 
 
 Nor bears avoided more than deer. 
 
 He knew the ways of all wild things, 
 
 Their homes and haunts ; of all the birds, 
 Where each one built, the note it sings 
 
 Yet ne'er betrayed by sign or words, 
 Them to the hunters of the wood, 
 
 Who often in its solitude 
 Met him wand'ring beneath its shade, 
 
 Or by the feet of old tree laid. 
 He loved the trees — each greenwood tree, 
 
 As if 'twas planted by his hand ; 
 
l6 MARK LOAN 
 
 He loved the plants, and watched to see 
 Them prink in spring through all the land. 
 
 He loved to wander by the stream 
 
 And list its murmur; on its banks 
 Lie cloud-gazing, as in a dream, 
 
 Where the great trees stood thick in ranks. 
 'Twas grief to have a tree cut down ; 
 
 He could not bear to see one fall ; 
 'Twas woe the forest to discrown ; 
 
 He loved the trees, the wild things all; 
 The humblest plant that budded there 
 Was object of his love and care. 
 
 No creeping thing that there had birth ; 
 
 No insect floating in the air 
 On filmy wing ; what ere the earth 
 
 And sun gave life, his kindred were. 
 All living things to him were joy ; 
 Nor any life would he destroy 
 Of any thing beneath the sky ; 
 Nor would he see a creature die ; 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 17 
 
 Nor of any slain would he partake. 
 
 With tender care guarded his tread, 
 Lest 'neath his foot 'twould be the fate 
 
 Of some tiny thing, its life to shed. 
 
 So loving, tender, large his heart, 
 
 Throbbed warmest for his human kind ; 
 
 Though in our world he had no part, 
 And in our love did never find 
 
 Return. From the first misunderstood, 
 
 Banned from birth by kindred blood; 
 
 Who gave him being in him found 
 
 Something scarce of human kind; 
 
 Dark words and hints from them went round, 
 
 Poisoning much the vulgar mind. 
 
 On their hearth sat a withered crone — 
 A half-witch wife — old granny Loan ; 
 Malignant foe of Mark was she, 
 
 And would have had him left to die ; 
 And such, quite sure, his fate would be, 
 
 But that a sister, furtive, shy, 
 
 Did his childish wants supply. 
 
1 8 MARK LOAN 
 
 And often on her tender head 
 The curse of his was freely shed. 
 
 "Thou dost not work and shalt not eat,' 
 The mandate stern, oft did repeat 
 The father of the churlish band 
 To the poor boy, as oft his hand, 
 
 And oft his voice drove him away 
 From food, as from the shelt'ring roof, 
 When all turned from him aloof, 
 Save the loving sister — tender Ruth; 
 By stealth scant scraps to him supplied, 
 When stricken was the girl and died. 
 Henceforth for him were rags and scorn, 
 Nor kindly none, since that sad morn. 
 The old crone to them all declared 
 That poor Ruth's fate was due reward 
 For her transgression. God had bared 
 His arm to punish. Full regard 
 By all the rest was duly paid 
 To the mandate of the cruel head. 
 That day the father's will was law 
 
 To all the household, old and young. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 19 
 
 None dared obedience withdraw, 
 None questioned mandate of his tongue. 
 
 When there lay his dear Ruth in death, 
 Mark saw that came no more her breath ; 
 That moveless was her tender head, 
 And came to him that she was dead ; 
 
 Well nigh his life was rent away; 
 No word he spoke, no tear he shed, 
 
 But in a deadly stupor lay, 
 Not knowing what was said or done; 
 
 While the blank hours passed away 
 They placed him in a loft alone. 
 
 The neighbors gathered from the wood ; 
 
 A prayer was said, a hymn was sung, 
 As by Ruth's open grave they stood ; 
 
 And ere the evening shade had come 
 Her form was hidden in the clay, 
 
 When to their cabin homes they past, 
 
 None saw Mark, none for him asked. 
 A hunter, at the close of day, 
 
 Came near the freshly-made small mound, 
 
MARK LOAN' 
 
 And there, half naked, near it lay 
 The poor boy Mark, upon the ground; 
 
 He lifted him and bore away 
 To his hut. Had met him in the wild, 
 Knew something of the lonely child. 
 There many days did Mark remain, 
 And something of his strength regain. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE SHADOW. 
 
 Little of Mark to us was known ; 
 
 A wand'ring, weak and harmless lad, 
 Crazed and driven forth to roam 
 
 By perverse spirit, lone and sad. 
 None knew the course with him at home ; 
 Small dealing was there with the Loan, 
 Who dwelt where few §had cause to roam. 
 'Twas said that Mark was crazed and strange, 
 
 That nothing for him could be done , 
 'Twas given him the wood to range, 
 
 A curse upon the Loans said some ; 
 A working out of some weird fate 
 
 That filtered in their sordid blood. 
 That once a youth of higher state 
 
 Had loved a daughter of the brood. 
 There was mishap in olden time, 
 
 And a great wrong was somewhere laid ; 
 
MARK LOAN 
 
 This Mark was latest in that line. 
 
 Granny Loan something of this said ; 
 And there was that in the child's form 
 And eye, something by him worn — 
 
 Some confirmation of the tale 
 Men saw. Many strange things were told 
 
 Of the boy. Some said there was a veil 
 On his face at birth, and legend old 
 
 Of its portent. 
 
 To watch a stream 
 
 Often had he been known for hours, 
 And so the clouds — as in a dream ; 
 
 List'ning the voices of the wind ; 
 
 Joy in the swish of leaves could find ; 
 Passion strange had he for flowers ; 
 
 Would lie all day for song birds' note, 
 Watch a woodpecker drill a hole ; 
 
 Unheard voices seemed to float 
 On the air, for him. Fragrance stole 
 
 On the breeze to him alone ; 
 
 His ways were strangest ever known. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 23 
 
 For him all boys had sorest scorn ; 
 
 He would not work, a coward was, 
 'Twere best that such had not been born — 
 
 The stern award of all their laws. 
 If he ventured — as he some time 
 
 Into their presence did — coarse jibe — 
 Something in boy's rude, rough line — 
 
 Assailed him. Some of the brutal tribe 
 Called him names — "coward," "girl-boy," "shirk;" 
 
 Set smaller to jeer him. ' ' Crazy," 
 " Lived on bark and roots ;" "would not work ; 
 
 Would starve first — he was so lazy." 
 When grew the storm hard he betook 
 
 To flight ; ran to the nearest wood. 
 Useless pursuit, so swift of foot ; 
 
 Their cry reached not his solitude. 
 
 To him the girls were ever kind ; 
 
 His wistful look and gentle voice 
 In their tender hearts could alway find 
 
 Response. In their presence no choice 
 Was left the brutal, coarse and rude ; 
 
 To them he made his mute appeal, 
 
24 MARK LOAN 
 
 Though ne'er on them did he intrude, 
 But rather from them would he steal. 
 
 His favorites were children small ; 
 
 His presence soothed their grief, alarm, 
 As gently on their forms did fall 
 
 His hands — soft were they and a charm. 
 The mother with her clam'rous fry 
 
 Was glad to have him on her floor ; 
 The youngsters, with a joyous cry, 
 
 Haled him to the cabin door. 
 Though some said ill luck followed him, 
 
 As his own shadow, vague and dark ; 
 They quoted tale of poor Ruth's sin, 
 
 Nor deemed it wise to favor Mark. 
 Nor favor at any hand he sought, 
 
 And seldom he accepted food ; 
 If ere he did he always brought 
 
 Return — something from the wood — 
 
 Herbs, whose charm he understood; 
 Prickly ash, Virginia snakeroot, 
 Something as a return he took. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 25 
 
 V. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 As fruitage of his father's rule, 
 The poor boy never went to school, 
 Though often to the house he hied 
 And lingered on the outer side; 
 Was drawn there, almost every day; 
 Yet as for him no one would pay, 
 He could but stand with wist mute look 
 At what, for him, was sealed up book. 
 
 Sweet girl Ann the school once taught ; 
 
 Saw him there, noted him well ; 
 The boy within the house she brought, 
 
 An4 this the story which they tell. 
 
 She placed a book within his hand 
 
 And bade him on the floor to stand — 
 Strange thing, as all the children thought ; 
 
 Yet stranger that which followed there : 
 
26 MARK LOAN 
 
 Mark read the lesson — read it well — 
 Yet how he learned to read, or where, 
 
 No one knew how it befell. 
 'Twas in his heart to learn to write, 
 
 And the next day did with him bring 
 Some graceful feathers, gray and white, 
 
 Shed from the shy wild goose's wing. 
 
 Quick through the settlements it ran : 
 Mark Loan was going to the school ; 
 
 And word was sent to schoolma'm Ann 
 That this was plain against all- rule. 
 
 Some said 'twas shame to teach a fool ; 
 Some said 'twas shame to drive away 
 
 A harmless, helpless, simple lad. 
 Much talk it made, but every day 
 
 Ann found him pensive, silent , sad, 
 Waiting to follow through the wood 
 Her steps to the log hovel rude, 
 Where she taught girls and smaller boys. 
 
 The larger in the summer time 
 
 Were kept at work, and no annoys 
 
 Met Mark in that girl gentle throng, 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 27 
 
 And quick the summer passed along. 
 
 For her kindness, at later day 
 
 The thoughtful girl Mark lived to pay. 
 
 In that rude time to read and write 
 The end was of all learning quite; 
 That and learn to add, subtract, 
 
 Divide by rule and multiply. 
 To Mark these were an occult act, 
 
 Which he beheld with wond'ring eye. 
 Meaning none for him they had ; 
 
 And when, by oft and serious test, 
 Ann found the strangely fashioned lad 
 
 Took no thought — not the slightest rest 
 Found they in his soft mind and strange ; 
 They were beyond its utmost range ; 
 
 And when she marked his growing years — 
 His tall form, eager, wistful eye — 
 
 She could not refrain her woman's tears. 
 The youth, unknowing, silent shy, 
 Wondered to see his idol cry, 
 And never comprehended why, 
 
28 MARK LOAN 
 
 But wept. For her his tears were shed, 
 Wond'ring what to them had led. 
 
 He worked w r ith such an eager will 
 That in short time he had some skill 
 In use of his good gray-goose pen, 
 Which gave him greatest joy, and then 
 It was known why the penman's art 
 Had been so eager sought by Mark. 
 God placed it in his heart to sing ; 
 
 There lit the true poetic fire ; 
 In every vein he felt its sting, 
 
 And in his soul its flame would pyre. 
 Long time he'd felt it like a pain — 
 
 Felt long ere yet he heard the voice — 
 Yet, when he caught the sweet refrain, 
 
 Its meaning knew, did great rejoice. 
 It was the first, the only joy, 
 On the path of the lonely boy. 
 
 When sure this thing was all his own, 
 In him the thought was quickly grown — 
 He needed aid of ready pen 
 To inscribe his lines, perfect his song. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 2Q 
 
 No thought of fame, no thought of men — 
 
 But carry his high themes along. 
 When first they grew beneath his eye, 
 
 True fashion taking from his hand, 
 Wings they seemed, on which to fly 
 
 In raptures sweet, in soarings grand. 
 
 He wrote his lines upon the trees ; 
 
 He wrote them on the autumn leaves ; 
 
 On the inside of elm tree bark 
 
 He wrote them with a stylus sharp, 
 
 Formed from hard and pointed bit 
 
 Of wood ; with what would mark he writ. 
 
 As poets have of every land, 
 
 He wrote them in the fading sand ; 
 
 Wrote on forms of yielding clay, 
 
 As poets wrote in oldest day. 
 
 What ere from hand would impress take 
 
 His hand inscription sheet would make. 
 
 Paper there could few command, 
 
 Save scraps and bits ; none in the land. 
 
 Mark translated'the songs of birds, 
 Put what to him they sang in words. 
 
30 MARK LOAN 
 
 The wind's low moan was in his strain ; 
 
 The tinkling voices of the rain 
 
 Fell soft and sweet in his refrain. 
 
 The woodland stream that rippled on 
 
 Lent its murmur to his song ; 
 
 The pleasant wash of summer wave, 
 
 Nature's voices, each sweet sound, 
 Its accent pure to him gave, 
 
 And in his simple strains was found. 
 
 No model had he, none had seen 
 
 No poesy, no bit of song ; 
 To dwellers of that forest green 
 
 Did no true poet's work belong. 
 There only were Watt's dreary hymns, 
 
 From which he turned, as all bards do. 
 His flowing lines were not born twins, 
 
 Not thus did brooks and rivers flow. 
 He seldom tagged them out with rhyme, 
 For none he saw in space and time ; 
 None in David, in Isaiah none, 
 Nor smoothly did their numbers run. 
 No feet were there in waft of leaves , 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 31 
 
 Wind blown ; none in the voice of breeze ; 
 Unequal measure had the days, 
 
 None had the glory of the stars ; 
 The sun in couplets sent no rays ; 
 
 The great wind anthems knew no bars ; 
 The thunders rolled, the lightnings flashed, 
 Forests were rent, the great waves dashed; 
 Onward, varied, grand and wild, 
 
 Or murm'rous, sweet and soft and low ; 
 Fitful or plaintive ; so this child 
 
 Heard nature rythmic ; his song's flow 
 Was cadenced, and continuous ran 
 
 Its wild strains, or they fitful broke 
 Musically and without span, 
 
 In pearls, as the oriole's note. 
 
 In Mark men noted a great change 
 From grief to joy, and said 'twas strange ; 
 At his lines were sore amazed ; 
 Declared the youth was surely crazed. 
 To average men the bard is crazy ; 
 Even good men look on him as hazy. 
 Poesy was our latest gift ; 
 
32 MARK LOAN 
 
 The land a dearth, the time was long 
 Ere came a poet in the drift 
 Of our dull years of sordid thrift ; 
 And faint and slender the first song, 
 Which welleth now free, full and strong. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 33 
 
 VI. 
 
 GOD'S WAY. 
 
 God sends a prophet ; none know it, 
 He goeth ; few are half aware ; 
 
 A singer, — men don't know a poet, 
 And for his office have no care. 
 
 Few can for him see any use ; 
 
 Of time his calling is abuse. 
 God sends them in his time and way — 
 
 Time and way both — to men strange seem ; 
 No warning given of their day ; 
 
 Few men hail them when they are seen. 
 They come and sow their precious seed ; 
 
 They come and sing or say their word; 
 Save the wind, no one hath heed ; 
 
 Have no thought, have nothing heard, 
 
 Man's fortune is in his own hand ; 
 For good or ill God shows no care. 
 
34 MARK LOAN 
 
 Save sowing his oft barren land, 
 
 And leaving all with man to fare. 
 Men must this lesson surely learn, 
 
 Grow quick to see, acute to hear ; 
 To such the high One seems to turn, 
 
 His purpose loving, his teaching clear. 
 Of all a poet's, one simple song 
 
 Toucheth men's hearts, assuageth strife ; 
 Of all seed sown, the earth along, 
 
 One germinates a tree of life. 
 
 The Messiahs are never known ; 
 
 To be rejected, their sure fate ; 
 None are received — not any one, 
 
 Came he early or comes he late. 
 Alwav are they out of time, 
 
 Alway are they out of place ; 
 And yet their mission is divine, — 
 
 For those who scoff them, winning grace. 
 The untrue prophets are believed, 
 And the Messiahs false received. 
 
 Mark's simple strains most men derided, 
 No meaning in them ere they saw ; 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 35 
 
 Nothing caring, he abided, 
 
 Steadily working out the law ; 
 Gaining strength and, with years older, 
 More sure his grasp, his utt'rance bolder. 
 Something vaguely some were guesssing — 
 Something had he, something possessing ; 
 Yet what it was, could no one tell ; 
 A spirit that should with them dwell, 
 To inner self appealing solely ; 
 That self larger, higher, holy, 
 Which embraced all other selves 
 Reaching beyond the self that delves. 
 
 In his verse winnowed by the wind, 
 Things strange and high did some men find ; 
 Setting stars in their long night ; 
 Showing new thought in their new light ; 
 To things obscure dimly showing, 
 Idea of all things rythmic flowing ; 
 Not disjointed, cursed and broken, 
 But of purpose giving token. 
 Some glimpses of diviner beauty 
 Making harmonious the whole ; 
 
Mark loan 
 
 Showing love the soul of duty, 
 
 And beauty essence of the soul. 
 Something of this to some he taught, 
 
 Some little light to darkened day ; 
 Some kindling of diviner thought, 
 
 Sending here and there a ray ; 
 
 Showing there was a better way 
 Than the slav'ry of ceaseless toil. 
 The sordid curse of grovelling moil 
 
 Might be lifted, lightened up ; 
 Work might be means and not man's bale ; 
 
 Need not be poison in the cup, 
 
 From which the sons of men must sup 
 And die, and life of no avail. 
 
 Something of this to younger few 
 Mark's riper songs gave slender clew. 
 The music of their murmurous flow, 
 
 Their rhythm caught some attuned ears, 
 Gentle, tender, plaintive low — 
 
 Maidens they beguiled to tears. 
 Sweet, delicious, 'twas to cry, 
 And so they wept, not knowing why. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 37 
 
 So, as his years ran deep'ning on, 
 
 He sang a deeper, stronger song. 
 
 He thought not of their meaning, sense ; 
 
 His lay was its own recompense. 
 
 So idly he seemed to sing, 
 
 Like thrush in thicket with closed wing ; 
 
 Sufficient for the day to him. 
 
38 MARK LOAN 
 
 VII. 
 
 ANN. 
 
 Ann was that young hunter's wife ; 
 
 In time to her was given a babe ; 
 And in the woods she lived the life 
 
 That others lived within its shade. 
 
 Matrons and maids were brave and free ; 
 
 They walked the forest paths alone, 
 Nor feared beneath the greenwood tree 
 
 By day, that danger ere could come. 
 
 Taking her babe one summer day, 
 Along the trail went matron Ann, 
 
 To her mother's house, it led the way ; 
 Through tangled wood and glade it ran. 
 
 When in the middle of the wood, 
 And near the path, upon the ground, 
 
 The funniest thing of torest brood, 
 Sleeping in the s in she found. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 39 
 
 Black and fuzzy, shapeless, small, 
 
 A funny little rolled up ball; 
 
 Nothing like it ere had she seen, 
 
 So cunning, harmless did il seem, 
 
 That, thoughtless, she her child laid down, 
 
 And took the wild thing from the ground. 
 
 It oped its small, black, bead-like eye, 
 
 And piped a feeble baby cry, 
 
 Answered by fearful growl and crash 
 
 Of limbs, as with leap and dash 
 
 A fearful, monstrous, shaggy thing 
 
 Broke on Ann, who back did spring ; 
 
 Dropping the cub in awful fright, 
 
 As the rageful creature met her sight. 
 
 By her own babe she dropped it there, 
 
 And o'er it stood the mother bear ; 
 
 On her hinder legs, strong, upright, 
 
 Angry, growling, fierce for fight, 
 
 In defense of her recovered young ; 
 
 Leaving Ann's untcv. :'.:•:•;'. as unseen. 
 Ann in horror stood, 1 
 
 Saw it there, as in fearful dream. 
 
40 MARK LOAN 
 
 Ere yet to her came back her thought ; 
 And save the fierce bear saw she naught ; 
 There flashed upon her daz-ed sight 
 A vision, as of angel bright. 
 Mark Loan her trembling form leaped past, 
 And snatched her babe in sure grasp 
 From the ground, the raging bear beside, 
 Saying to her some word of chide, 
 And bore it where Ann, drooping, stood. 
 The bear not long cared there to 'bide, 
 With her cub scrambled through the wood. 
 To Ann, each now free-drawn breath 
 Was recov'ry of her babe from death. 
 
 Mark had many a cherished nook — 
 Resorts, for him — well loved places, 
 
 In forest wild, by pond or brook, 
 Where the shy, elusive graces 
 
 Hovered unseen in their wild sport, 
 
 And held with him their greenwood court. 
 
 Parts of old deserted, grass-grown roads, 
 
 Where bright-winged things flashed in the beam, 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 41 
 
 Cathedral woods, silent abodes 
 
 Of shadow, where no ray was seen ; 
 As was his mood, so each he sought, 
 For musing light or deeper thought. 
 
 To-day, while lying prone along 
 
 The mossy bank of rippling brook, 
 List'ning to its liquid song, 
 
 And watching how the sun rays strook 
 The limped current, changed its sheen, 
 
 Lighting white pebble, moss-grown stone, 
 The water-cressets crisp and green ; 
 
 Hearing the wood-flies' drowsy drone ; 
 When tearing through the frightened wood, 
 
 Breaking from the fierce brute throat, 
 With its dread threat of death and blood, 
 
 Came the she bear's rav'ning note. 
 
 The dreamer's long trained ears alert, 
 Knew what the cry did well presage ; 
 
 Skilled in the ways of beasts, expert, 
 He sprang to rescue from its rage. 
 
42 MARK LOAN 
 
 He took Ann to her mother's door 
 And lingered till her stay was o'er, 
 And guarded her to her own home. 
 Twice glad the task to young Mark Loan 
 That this thing came for him to do ; 
 Ann's husband was the hunter true, 
 Who came in time his life to save 
 And bear him from his sister's grave. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 43 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE FLOOD. 
 
 That summer Mark had reached nineteen, 
 
 And later came the awful flood ; 
 Like it no thing had ere been seen 
 
 By white men in the western wood. 
 The Loans one morn were on an island, 
 And fast diminished their small dry land; 
 From the sky a drowning deluge pour'd ; 
 'Round them a swelling torrent roared ; 
 On either side a raging river 
 
 Them from help and hope did sever. 
 No aid unless the awful Giver 
 
 Should stay the flood; that, or never 
 Would they escape. A cowering band 
 
 On their low roofs they helpless stood ; 
 Not stout of heart, nor deft of hand, 
 
 Powerless to battle with the flood ; 
 Men and women, children, babies, 
 
44 MARK LOAN 
 
 Helpless as children where no aid is. 
 And higher as the water rose, 
 
 They crowd the loft, then climb the roof 
 Of their wide cabin. Seemed near the close, 
 
 Still hope and help were far aloof; 
 Naught but cries, incoherent prayer, 
 Ghastly faces and wild despair ; 
 When stepping from a slight, frail bark, 
 Among them bravely stood young Mark. 
 
 He set at once to form an ark, 
 
 That burdened by the helpless brood 
 
 Should bear it safely o'er the flood. 
 
 His form, his acts, revived their hopes ; 
 Some aided in what he would do ; 
 
 The stout roof-poles he lashed with ropes, 
 Boards and shakes were tied thereto ; 
 
 With ready wit and rude, deft craft- 
 Taught him by his hard, wild life — 
 
 There floated soon a buoyant raft, 
 With strength to ride the angry strife 
 
 Of the on-sweeping, boiling tide. 
 On it he placed the children small, 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 45 
 
 In the centre placed, side by sids ; 
 
 Women next, men last of all, 
 Ranged 'round the rest, and each did call 
 
 By name and counted, so that none 
 Might be left. With care the crone 
 
 Was by him placed, when every one 
 Was embarked, on the sweeping tide, 
 Mark saw the float might safely ride 
 The watery space to hard, high land, 
 
 Not far below if drifting right ; 
 He cast it off with his own hand, 
 
 And guided in his shallop light. 
 
 He bent his force, lent all his skill, 
 
 Giving to it his utmost might, 
 To overcome the current's will. 
 
 Small help he had. Some of the band 
 Gave slight aid , but his the skill 
 
 Brought the shapeless craft to land, 
 On the slope of a sweeping hill. 
 
 With fearful tugs, many a strain, 
 
 And often had all seemed in vain, 
 Mark his float stranded, made it sure, 
 
46 MARK LOAN 
 
 And landed of the tribe of Loan, 
 From largest to smallest, all secure, 
 
 The youngest babe, and bell-dame crone — 
 Fifteen in all, I've heard them say ; 
 A pallid throng, at close of day. 
 
 The rain ceased, the clouds broke away, 
 
 The sun sent his last yellow ray 
 
 O'er the swollen on-going flood, 
 
 Which now ran smooth where the huts stood ; 
 
 Of cabin chimney, stick nor stone 
 
 Was left to meet the ray that shone. 
 
 The settlers of the higher land 
 
 Heard of the peril of the Loan, 
 And hurried on from every hand 
 Too late to aid save at the strand. 
 Loudly they cheered heroic Mark, 
 And helped his crew from their rude ark. 
 
 Idle as useless to try and tell 
 The words — the acts — which there befell. 
 When they landed, that strange voyage o'er, 
 On that hillside, the strangest shore ; 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 47 
 
 Rescued by Mark, the outlawed child, 
 
 From peril so great, so strange and wild; 
 
 Young night was in the leafy wood. 
 
 Neighbors gave them rest and food, 
 
 Led them to their log cabins near, 
 
 And shared with them their homes and cheer. 
 
48 MARK LOAN 
 
 IX. 
 
 MARK LOAN'S SPRING. 
 
 Sweetly and fresh the morning broke, 
 
 On field grown large, on lessened wood; 
 Along each marge the song birds woke, 
 
 And all together poured a flood 
 Of melody, a fount each throat ; 
 
 Each strove to make his own song good. 
 On the side of that wooded slope, 
 
 Unseemly in the morning ray, 
 A stranded drift Mark's rude craft lay ; 
 From it the flood had ebbed away, 
 Leaving it there to mark the place, 
 Unsightly thing, that once bore grace. 
 
 A dimple sweet in the hill's side, 
 A simple cup for crystal spring, 
 
 Spilling there its murmurous tide ; 
 Whimp'ring down a silv'ry thing ; 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 49 
 
 In cascades leaping on its way, 
 
 Beneath the umbrage of the trees, 
 In its rill the sunbeams play 
 
 With shadows of the forest leaves. 
 Mark had known it when a child ; 
 It was remote, secure and wild. 
 Often thither his tender feet 
 
 From his sordid kindred stole away ; 
 It was his earliest retreat, 
 
 And held its place to later day. 
 Few knew of the loved, lonely thing ; 
 By them it was called " Mark Loan's spring." 
 
 From his landing to this loved dell, 
 
 In the young night, weary, o'ercome, 
 Mark stole away, and drooping fell 
 
 By the spring's margin dear. No one 
 Saw or missed him. There alone, 
 In the deepning shade, he dropped and slept, 
 While at his head the waters wept ; 
 Their teary sobs were in his brain, 
 Solving, soothing his voiceless pain ; 
 Mature, his mother, in her wild 
 
50 MARK LOAN 
 
 To her bosom clasped her child, 
 If he woke, hushed to sleep again. 
 
 He slept the lonely hours through, 
 What visions came none ever knew, 
 Nor of him none had thought or care ; 
 His great true mother with him there, 
 Cared and lulled, her voice he hears, 
 Her low sobs, and he knew her tears. 
 
 Sleeping through the sweet, holy night, 
 Sleeping through the clean morning's light ; 
 Wakes not to hear the hermit thrush, 
 Which to hear, other singers hush ; 
 Hears not the sweet, low wash of leaves ; 
 In fingers of the fanning breeze 
 
 They wave and clap their green, cool hands ; 
 And the great shadows of the trees 
 
 Come out and move in solemn bands 
 On the hill's side ; still doth he sleep, 
 And still the sobbing waters weep. 
 
 The shy, wild things about him creep, 
 Wondering that he riseth not ; 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 51 
 
 Birds, with their heads turned sidewise, peep 
 
 At the known form in the loved grot, 
 Curious, as still grows the day, 
 He sleeps, while sunbeams o'er him play. 
 
 That morn tripped forth Ann's young sister, 
 Well liked the day, and like it laughed; 
 
 The level sunbeams met and kiss'd her, 
 As the sweet morning's breath she quaffed. 
 
 Round, bare, brown arms, and bare, brown feet, 
 
 Rosy-lipped and fresh and ruddy, 
 Blue-eyed, lithe, tall, seventeen and sweet ; 
 
 She found the bare earth sodden, muddy. 
 
 From a near cabin others came, 
 
 Girls — some younger, and some small boys, 
 By concert, walking down a lane, 
 
 The lads shouting, making much noise, 
 As boys will. Going through the wood 
 To see the course of the great flood. 
 
 Of the Loan adventure they had heard, 
 And of Mark the girls had a word — 
 
52 MARK LOAN 
 
 Many— to say. No one knew where 
 
 He was. Last seen on that strange shore, 
 Landing his helpless kindred there; 
 
 When their perilous voyage was o'er 
 He disappeared. This was the last, 
 Nell said, and that some way he passed 
 From them. He was a pleasant theme 
 
 To these maidens — he was to Nell, 
 And as they pass'd the wild wood green 
 
 She talked of him, had much to tell ; 
 His task performed, he stole away 
 
 To some wild, dearly-loved retreat ; 
 
 She would not wonder should they meet 
 Him somewhere in this very wood. 
 Then at length the young girls stood, 
 The stranded raft of Mark beside ; 
 They wondered that the fearful tide 
 Should reach so high, now sunk so low, 
 And shrunken to its usual flow. 
 
 Nell's eyes searched eagerly around ; 
 
 If aught they sought, they nothing found, 
 
 If hidden wish her heart indulged, 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 53 
 
 To her mates naught her lips divulged. 
 Of Mark Loan's spring the maiden knew, 
 
 And to it once the girl had been ; 
 Now quick and keen her glances threw 
 
 Over the hill side, for its stream. 
 Along the slope she led the way, 
 Nor far did their young feet stray 
 
 When its shining thread was seen. 
 
 Upward they followed eager Nell, 
 
 The tiny, silvery thing along ; 
 The small glen deepened toward the well, 
 
 Whence came its mimic liquid song. 
 There, under the maiden's searching eye, 
 
 The extended form.of him she sought 
 Still on the moss-grown bank did lie. 
 
 Her friend's hand in her's she caught, 
 And pointed to the drooping form 
 Of Mark, there in the green wood lorn ; 
 The fountain still its waters wept, 
 And on its margin still he slept. 
 
 The maidens stole with silent feet, 
 As not to break his dreamless sleep, 
 
34 MARK LOAK 
 
 With hushed breath and not a word, 
 
 Until they wond'ring near him stood ; 
 Naught save the lisping spring they heard, 
 
 And zephyr breathing in the wood. 
 In maiden cheeks the blood grew warm, 
 As 'neath their eyes the sleeping form, 
 Nude to the waist, flashed on their view, 
 Fair and lovely as ever grew 
 The fairest maiden. They silent gazed, 
 And as they looked were sore amazed. 
 The head laid back, 'neath it an arm, 
 
 O'er which lay the long, light-brown curls ; 
 One cheek, on which the sun smiled warm, 
 
 Round, soft ; the shoulders as a girl's ; 
 The lips bare, severed. There the charm 
 Of innocence, as pure and sweet 
 As if they'd found a girl asleep. 
 So wondrous fair, so dazzling white, 
 Giving to day a purer light ; 
 And over him the sun and shade 
 In mystic dance weird gambols played. 
 
 Nell from her slender waist untied 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 55 
 
 Her spotless tire, stole to his side ; 
 'Twas not that she his form would hide 
 From their girl eyes, but from the day — 
 From the sun's kindling, deep'ning ray. 
 As she bent down she gave a start, 
 As something said — " this is not Mark ! 
 The casket this ; Mark is away 
 To other realm of brighter day." 
 
 She marked his breast, she noted well 
 'Twas moveless — neither rose nor fell ; 
 Marked the mouth, that through its cleft 
 No breath passed — it was bereft. 
 Starting, she threw up high her arm, 
 Raised her voice in wild alarm : 
 "He is dead ! He is dead !" she cried, 
 And sank her there down by his side. 
 
 " He is dead !" was caught by the breeze, 
 
 That told it to the list'ning trees ; 
 
 The trees told it to all the birds ; 
 
 The birds bore wide the startling words 
 
 To all the wood things, to each stream, 
 
 In all the realm of wildwood green, 
 
56 MARK LOAN 
 
 Till in each sweet, wild place 'twas said, 
 In accents sad, " Mark Loan is dead." 
 
 Wide-eyed the pallid children stand, 
 
 'Round Nell, a mute and frightened band, 
 
 Sense of uncomprehended harm ; 
 
 Of death, its awful mystic charm. 
 
 A moment — she turning to them said : 
 
 " Go— tell ev'rybody Mark is dead." 
 
 Not long ling'ring did they stay, 
 
 But hastened through the wood away ; 
 
 All save Sue, Nell 's chosen friend, 
 
 Who staid with her the dead to tend. 
 
 Nell, with her 'kerchief, washed the face, 
 Then did her pure white tire place 
 
 O'er him. Washed his hands, wiped all trace 
 From the sleeper's bare, brown feet, 
 Making them pure, clean and sweet. 
 Not far the lower earth they trod, 
 And of it bore no stain to God. 
 
 They set green boughs to hide the sun, 
 Then, when their thought had all been done, 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 57 
 
 They sat them down, as women would, 
 And added tears to th' weeping flood ; 
 That flowing ever would ever weep, 
 While the young sleeper e'er would sleep. 
 
 The young day had not grown to noon, 
 When hast'ning through the woody bloom 
 •Came the settlers— they all came, 
 
 From near and far, the old and young — 
 'Women, children — did none remain. 
 
 A sad-faced, wond'ring, silent throng, 
 They came, and 'round the dead amazed 
 They stood, and on the wonder gazed ; 
 Him, the weakling, the youth half crazed ; 
 Marked the broad, high-swelling dome 
 Of his young head ; there was a throne, 
 A temple, abode of vision, thought ; 
 Great labors there might sure be wrought. 
 This now they saw — not seen before ; 
 So much of the true prince it bore, 
 As one sprung from a royal race ; 
 Plainly marked on his head, his face. 
 An angel's they seemed now, when death 
 
58 MARK LOAN 
 
 From those pure lips had stolen breath 
 Had placed there with his marble seal 
 
 The impress of his mission high, 
 Token that did to all reveal 
 
 That something from the upper sky- 
 Was given him on earth to bear, 
 He'd borne it, and was silent there. 
 Knew a prophet had been sent them, 
 Priest of nature had been lent them, 
 And was gone. Rev'rent they bent them 
 And sadly. He came — was gone ; 
 None knew him — not any one ; 
 Had walked "the virgin earth alone. 
 Whate'er his work, it was all done, 
 His message spoken, yet had none 
 Heard it, save as sighing breeze, 
 Fanning the unknowing leaves, 
 Or dropping rain when nature grieves. 
 Or had he found the earth so drear 
 
 He could walk it but little way? 
 Alien, cold, he would not stay here, 
 
 So turned him to celestial day. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 59 
 
 Then the mould which he left behind, 
 
 Wrought of the divinest earth, 
 On which these rude men now could find 
 
 Signs of his celestial birth, 
 They tenderly prepared for clay. 
 
 Old men wept the common loss, 
 There they laid him at close of day ; 
 
 Maidens strewing flowers and moss, 
 Tear-dewed in his damp, cool bed. 
 In silence there they laid his head 
 In that dear place he loved so well; 
 Where the first ray of morning fell, 
 Day longest lingered in that dell; 
 The sweet, rich southward-going slope, 
 Where the young tide of spring first broke. 
 
 There him they left with fading day ; 
 Silent the folk then stole away. 
 The thoughtful, in the dark'ning green, 
 Pond'ring what this thing might mean ; 
 But most of all, why had he come ? 
 What had he said, what had he done? 
 More perplexing — why had he gone ? 
 
60 MARK LOAN 
 
 And so in maze they pondered on ; 
 And this in their minds o'er and o'er, 
 To them a problem, was full sore; 
 They turned vexingly on each side, 
 Why now — now immature he died? 
 Why smitten in these early hours, 
 Ere his growing buds were flowers ? 
 No word spoken, nor any deed, 
 Save this last, that could ripen seed. 
 Some slender lines, washed by the rain, 
 
 Nor color had, as by the breath 
 Of spring in winter — but these remain, 
 
 And the spoiling hand of death. 
 
 Faintly as in our latest day, 
 At the summit of earth's highest way, 
 Where, with rapid, steady, sure beat 
 Of mighty wings, his stainless feet 
 Stood to rule, the sceptre bearing ; 
 Him all former deeds preparing 
 For greatest trust. Lo, it is written, 
 In that high hour was he smitten ! 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 6 1 
 
 A nation's hope, a people's trust, 
 A name, a mem'ry, ashes, dust ! 
 
 Christ's life was greater than his teaching, 
 His death was more than his whole life, 
 
 Example than life, death, preaching ; 
 Of all things the sum was that rife. 
 
 It is God's work, and his the plan ; 
 
 He useth men and lays them down ; 
 He explains naught to any man — 
 
 His angels bear a cross or crown. 
 
 They left Mark in his best-loved wood, 
 
 Where weirdly the soft summer night 
 Wove mystic shadows, making good 
 
 Her reign. Later the moon's thin light, 
 From leaf to leaf there dripping down, 
 
 Rested on the new placed stone, 
 In form fantastic, a pale crown 
 
 O'er the young head laid there down. 
 And ever the sad waters weep, 
 Drowsily, through the sleeper's sleep. 
 
62 MARK LOAN 
 
 X. 
 
 HIS MISSION. 
 
 Of things men set their hands unto — 
 
 The idlest work they ever do 
 
 Is to set over fallen head 
 
 A monument, carved for the dead. 
 
 A life is its own monument, 
 
 Sole that with man can ever dwell ; 
 
 It showeth forth its own intent ; 
 Its purpose own alone can tell. 
 
 Mark's was a glimmer, a fine ray, 
 
 Of the better, the diviner sight ; 
 
 Gilding that hard, that sordid day, 
 
 Soft'ning, sweet'ning, by its pure light 
 Bringing out the hidden meaning 
 Of many things hard, dark seeming, 
 Showing rhythm in discords sore, 
 And beauty where none was before. 
 
A TALE OF THE WESTERN RESERVE PIONEERS. 63 
 
 The gift of genius is to see 
 
 Things to which other men are blind ; 
 His labor, make translation free 
 
 Of vision to our common mind. 
 Knows the relations of all things, 
 
 Their true inter-dependence seeing; 
 All to the rule of order brings 
 
 By the law of its own being. 
 The poet sees the lines of beauty, 
 
 The true harmony of all things; 
 
 Harmony, rhythm, everywhere, 
 These he sings, as is his duty — 
 
 Rhythm, beauty his songs declare. 
 
 Something of this Mark Loan saw, 
 
 Something he showed to those near him. 
 
 Beginning were a few to draw 
 Within the charm, glad to hear him. 
 
 From his sweeter, fresher life, 
 
 Grace on their hard lives was shed ; 
 Sweetness to the bitter strife 
 
 Of their days for bitter bread. 
 
64 MARK LOAN 
 
 For his life their lives were better, 
 Hope in his young songs was found ; 
 
 Larger, lighter, grew the fetter 
 
 With which their sordid lives were bound. 
 
 He was very much to lovely Nell, 
 
 Much more may be than she knew ; 
 More, surely, than ere did she tell, 
 
 As into womanhood she grew ; 
 Womanhood of finer type, 
 
 Formed by soft air and sweeter dew, 
 And day of broader, purer light, 
 
 To which Mark's songs and life were clue. 
 
 He, one of the unknown singers, 
 
 His song unknown, unheard his name, 
 
 One of many unnamed bringers 
 
 Of good that brings to them no fame. 
 
 So he lived, so passed away, 
 
 Bearing some light of better day. 
 
punderson's pond. 65 
 
 PUNDERSGN'S POND.* 
 
 In the pulsing heart of the deep old wood, 
 Held in the arms embracing of the hills, 
 
 Wild crystal mirror of the solitude, 
 
 Daughter of hidden springs and filtered rills, 
 Of rains and dews, which the clean earth distils, 
 
 Thou didst from morn to dewy falling night 
 
 Give back the trees, whence the wild thrush trills 
 
 Fell on thy breast, where played the sheeny light, 
 And forms of stately swans, who there stayed their flight. 
 
 In thy reeds the wild mallard reared her brood ; 
 
 In thy tide the loon bathed his mottled breast ; 
 The antlered buck and his doe, from the wood 
 
 Came to drink of thee; the wild goose to rest 
 
 Sunk on thy bosom. When adown the west 
 Fell the late sun, the red-winged blackbird came 
 
 With his rich notes. Night brought many a guest. 
 
 The fire-flies around thee soft lit their flame, 
 
 Through the night the whip-por-will did to thee complain. 
 
 * Read at the reunion of the pioneers of Newbury, on the eastern 
 shore of the lake, August 22, 1882.. 
 
66 punderson's pond. 
 
 Thou hast seen on thy shore the Indian camp, 
 His birch canoe thy crystal tide upbore, 
 
 At night streamed over thee his torches' lamp ; 
 The dusky maiden when the day was o'er 
 Met her brown lover on thy dark'ning shore ; 
 
 On thy bosom they saw the stars' soft sheen. 
 All these have passed away., and never more 
 
 Shall the Indian boat on thy tide be seen, 
 Yet its memory shall ever haunt thee, like a dream. 
 
 From thy southern rim thou dost still outpour 
 
 Thv spilling waters, in a lovely stream, 
 Though grandly on thy hilly banks no more 
 
 Stand the great crowning ranks of trees in green ; 
 
 Dower' d with beauty as a fadeless queen, 
 Whose loveliness survives the loss of crown, 
 
 The light still plays on thee in changing shec n 
 Now as ever. Not older hast thou grown 
 But in a fresh glory shinest ever thine own. 
 
 There came a youth* from out the older East, 
 
 King born, large-brained, broad, strong — the self same 
 hour 
 
 ^Lemuel Punderson in 1808. 
 
punderson's pond. 67 
 
 He saw he loved thee, Not thy beauty, least 
 That attracted. He saw not thy dower 
 Of rare loveliness ; it was thy power 
 
 To serve his man's needs, drive his wheels, his mills — 
 Thy out-running stream was thy sole flower ; 
 
 He marked where that ran wild among the hills, 
 He measured, estimated, all thy feeding rills, 
 
 And grasped them — all thy wooded hills and thee — 
 
 Made dominion of all the land around ; 
 The axmen came: the forest, tree by tree, 
 
 Fell beneath their blows with great resound, 
 
 The shy spirits of the ancient profound 
 Startling from all their hiding places, 
 
 Breaking the wooded wall that once thee bound, 
 Thy flood turned into new earthy races, 
 Raw, till Nature came to clothe them with her graces. 
 
 Came a hunter,* man of gigantic mould, 
 With great swart brow, who slew on thy shore 
 
 Elk, bears, and deer. Others, young and old, 
 Came with their rifles, pushed their rude boats o'er 
 Thy bright wave ; shot thy wild fowl till no more 
 * Welcome Bullock. 
 
68 punderson's pond. 
 
 The swan sought thee, and the wild goose grew shy — 
 
 And fishermen, not fishermen before, 
 Learned in thy depths the easy rod to ply, 
 Drawing from thee of thy innumerable fry. 
 
 Many households of the new race of men 
 
 Came, and built their cabins through all the woods, 
 
 War waging on the long ancient reign 
 Of Nature ; broke up all her solitudes ; 
 Dissolved forever the wild charm she broods. 
 
 They beheld thee — they and their children came 
 
 To look on thy lone beauty; chief of goods 
 The forest held ; as the wild world grew tame 
 Thy changeless loveliness for them did still remain. 
 
 Along the banks of thy outflowing stream 
 
 Walked lovely women — they stood on thy sands 
 
 And smiled to look out over thy bright sheen, 
 Held thy lilies in their once lily hands, 
 Browned with the toils of their new life, with bands 
 
 Of eager children standing there with them, 
 
 Whose shouts thou heardst — heard through all the lands ; 
 
 You took them to your arms, became their gem, 
 Wooing the wanderers to thy embrace again. 
 
punderson's pond. 69 
 
 Thou sawest again the youthful lover 
 
 On thy bright margin woo the maiden shy ; 
 Standing coy beneath the forest cover, 
 
 Turning trom him to thee her conscious eye ; 
 
 Held in reluctance sweet that would not fly, 
 And shame-faced listens as she would not hear 
 
 Words, sweetest that on woman's heart can lie, 
 Tremulous lest there should be ling'ring near 
 Companions, who might catch accents to her so dear. 
 
 As the memory of a child's bright dream 
 
 Do I recall my vision first of thee ; 
 Through opening trees did thy waters gleam, 
 
 Sparkling blue under June's sun. Around me 
 
 Were mothers, children ; before us I see 
 Lithe men and boys pushing a new-made boat, 
 
 A canoe, fashioned from a tulip tree, 
 Wrought by my father's hand, which deftly smote 
 Our first shapely craft, that did on thy bosom float. 
 
 Strong doth the scene in living colors lay 
 
 In mem'ry, a picture perfect. Thy blue, 
 A flash of dimples, green leaves, the bright day, 
 
70 PUNDERSON S POND. 
 
 The eager-watching group — in shading true, 
 In changeless, fadeless form as ever grew 
 
 On canvas, 'neath painter's eye and hand ; 
 Light and shadow perfect — still do I view ; 
 
 And more than picture — I see the bright band 
 Launch — spring into the boat, and push her from the land. 
 
 Men and boys in the boat, rowing from shore, 
 
 Is the last, living ever in my mind ; 
 Going from me, I see them. Never more 
 
 Turns that prow back ; and never can I find 
 
 Anything in mem'ry with it combined, 
 Before or after. It stands there alone ; 
 
 No joinder has to things of earthy kind. 
 Many such things of life have I known, 
 Which my child mind siezed- -and forever holds its own. 
 
 From that day the lake a part of my life 
 Became — grew on me, as with years I grew. 
 
 She was my pastime ; her dear shores were rife 
 With things which stir boyish hearts ; a view 
 Of her sent a thrill my young bosom through. 
 I loved her long, as lovers sometimes do, 
 
PUNDENSON S POND. 71 
 
 Not knowing why. Often 'mid falling dew 
 I stole to her ; marked as did upper blue 
 Change, she changed ; gave back to it, star for star, in answer true. 
 
 At that hour a deep joy it was to stand 
 
 Alone, under the trees, on her weird shore 
 As the still night its charm wrought in the land, 
 
 And spread its veil of mist her bosom o'er ; 
 
 And feel a spirit rise not there before, 
 Solemn and sweet, that wrapt my being round, 
 
 Making me one with Nature ; which did pour 
 Into my heart her essence. Silence, sound, 
 Life and death, were science of the Great Profound. 
 
 O, oft and oft have I stolen away 
 
 Through the wood, gliding 'mid the darksome trees ; 
 To stand on her still shore, at close of day ; 
 
 To feel the weird spirit, that round her weaves 
 
 At eve its spell. That thing which to her cleaves, 
 In which voices of water-haunting things 
 
 Are harmonies — drop as from Summer eves 
 
 Dews drop, and notes that the whip-por-will sings 
 
 Are the plainings, which the sad soul of night there brings. 
 
72 PUNDERSON S POND. 
 
 Once again the links of that broken band, 
 
 That so brightly in the long buried years 
 Stood in strength and beauty on thy white sand, 
 
 Silently gather on thy shore, in tears ; 
 
 Marking how in each other's forms appears 
 The change wrought by the graying hand of time. 
 
 We mark no change in thee, time thee endears. 
 Eternal loveliness thy gift divine ; 
 Thy first smile 'neath the Creator's hand still is thine. 
 
 A poem thou, written by God's finger, 
 
 Spread in the hills to win the souls of men ; 
 We turn — cling to thee, and still we linger, 
 
 And going — turn back to thee once again ; 
 Thy loveliness as fresh as that time when 
 
 Our eyes thee first beheld, loth to sever 
 Them from thy dimpling blue, Eternal gem, 
 
 Whose light and hue shall fade from thee never, 
 That thing of beauty which is a joy forever. 
 
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