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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:
FIRE OF APPLE-WOOD
BY M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE
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.
BY ALICE WILLIAMS BROTHERTON
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.
On the singer, who never knew
Had shaped a life anew.