"I am free! I am free, come and drink." Then the maiden passed her hands above the old man's head and he grew small. A murmuring stream of water ran out of his mouth and his clothing turned to green leaves. Kneeling by his side she took from his bosom long sprays of odorous pink flowers and hid them among the leaves, she breathed upon them, saying as she did so: "I give thee all my virtues and my sweetest breath, and all who would pluck thee must do so on bended knee." She then moved away, leaving behind her an odorous pink trail, and wherever her moccasined feet left a print in the moist sod the trailing arbutus grows, and nowhere else. OLD AUNT MARY'S. James Whitcomb Riley. Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine, In those old days of the lost sunshine Of youth-when the Saturday's chores were through, And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen, too, And we went visiting, "me and you," Out to Old Aunt Mary's? It all comes back so clear today! Though I am as bald as you are gray- We patter along in the dust again, As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, We cross the pasture, and through the wood Out to Old Aunt Mary's. And then in the dust of the road again; As thick as butter on country bread, Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead Out to Old Aunt Mary's. Why, I see her now in the open door, Where the little gourds grew up the sides, and o'er The clapboard roof. And her face-ah, me! Wasn't it good for a boy to see And wasn't it good for a boy to be Out to Old Aunt Mary's? And O my brother, so far away, And all is well Out to Old Aunt Mary's. THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY. Will Carleton. Well, when I first infested this retreat, I hadn't a round-trip ticket to go back, My girl-wife was as brave as she was good, Well, neighborhood meant counties in those days; One night, when I came home unusual late, That speech,-it hadn't been gone half a minute And I'd have given all I had, and more, I'm now what most folks "well-to-do" would call: I feel today as if I'd give it all, She handed back no words, as I could hear; Half proud, half crushed, she stood and look'd me o'er, Like someone she had never seen before! But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise I never viewed before in human eyes. (I've seen it oft enough since in a dream; It sometimes wakes me like a midnight scream.) Next morning, when, stone-faced but heavy-hearted, With dinner-pail and sharpen'd axe I started Away for my day's work, she watch'd the door, And followed me half way to it or more; And I was just a-turning round at this, But on her lip I saw a proudish curve, And in her eye a shadow of reserve; And she had shown-perhaps half unawares- Didn't advertise to furnish kisses free: Full market price, and go more'n half the way. But, when at noon my lunch I came to eat, Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday's had been, It seem'd as if her kiss with me she'd sent; Then I became once more her humble lover, And said, "Tonight I'll ask forgiveness of her." I went home overearly on that eve, A dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung, And these are something like the words it said: "The cows are strayed again, I fear, I watch'd them pretty close; don't scold me, dear. And where they are I think I nearly know; I heard the bell not very long ago. I've hunted for them all the afternoon; I'll try once more,-I think I'll find them soon. Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue,- I'd think I saw her,-knowing 'twas not true. Through my small clearing dash'd wide sheets of spray, As if the ocean waves had lost their way; Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made, In the bold clamour of its cannonade. And she, while I was shelter'd, dry, and warm, Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm! She who, when storm-frights found her at her best, Had always hid her white face on my breast! My dog, who'd skirmish'd round me all the day, I press'd his quivering muzzle to a shawl,- No pleasure trip was that, through flood and flame; All night we dragg'd the woods without avail; The ground got drench'd,-we could not keep the trail Half hoping she might be there, safe and sound; My house had lost its soul; she was not there! When, climbing the wet trees, next morning-sun It gleam'd upon my glad eyes like a star. "Brave heart," I said, "for such a fragile form! She made them guide her homeward through the storm!" Such pangs of joy I never felt before. "You've come!" I shouted, and rush'd through the door. Yes, she had come, and gone again. She lay With all her young life crush'd and wrench'd away,- Not far from where I kill'd her with my tongue. The rain-drops glitter'd 'mid her hair's long strands, And 'midst the tears-brave tears-that one could trace I once again the mournful words could read, "I've tried to do my best,-I have, indeed." And now I'm mostly done; my story's o'er; Boys flying kites haul in their white-wing'd birds: You can't do that way when you're flying words. "Careful with fire," is good advice we know: "Careful with words," is ten times doubly so. Thoughts unexpress'd may sometimes fall back dead, But God himself can't kill them when they're said! You have my life-grief; do not think a minute "Twas told to take up time. There's business in it. It sheds advice: whoe'er will take and live it, Is welcome to the pain it takes to give it. |