What either of us thought about the whole matter he

did not say

But the very day after, while the frozen mound of consecrated earth was raw in the sunshine, Andrew walked in at my door.

“We come back,” he announced. “All good here now! Lame wolf dead. Shoot him after dark, silver bullet. Wēgălădimooch. Bochtŭsŭín.” 1

He said never a word about the new grave. And neither did I.

· Evil spirit, wolf. Wēgülădimooch is a word no Indian cares to say:



THE windows toward the east and north

Rattle and drip against the storm. Though spring, without, has ventured forth,

Only the fireside here is warm.

Through wind-swept sheets of driven rain

The ancient orchard shows forlorn, Like brave old soldiery half slain,

With gaps to tell the losses borne.

And fragments of the fallen trees

Burn on the hearth before me bright; The fire their captive spirit frees:

Musing, I watch it take its flight.

In embers flushed and embers pale

Sparkle the blooms of some far spring; Of bees and sunshine what a tale

Told in a moment's flowering!

How swift the flames of gold and blue

Up from the glowing logs aspire! There yellowbird and bluebird flew,

And oriole, each with wings of fire.

Now in the hearth-light or the trees

Stirs something they and I have heard: Ah, is it not the summer breeze,

Come back to us with sun and bird?

Poor summers, born again — to die!

Quickly as they have come, they go. See, where the ashes smouldering lie,

The orchard floor is white with snow.

[blocks in formation]



A SONG welled up in the singer's heart

(Like a song in the throat of a bird,) And loud he sang, and far it rang

For his heart was strangely stirred; And he sang for the very joy of song,

With no thoughts of one who heard.

Within the listener's wayward soul

A heavenly patience grew.
He fared on his way with a benison

On the singer, who never knew
How the careless song of an idle hour

Had shaped a life anew.

« ElőzőTovább »