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that something great had happened, and that he had a share in it.

14. It was glory enough for one day, and the next duty on hand was to repair the damages of their long fasting. Two Arrows and his dog walked proudly at the side of Long Bear as he led the way back to camp. No longer a nameless boy he was still only in his apprenticeship; he was not yet a warrior, although almost to be counted a "brave." It would yet be a long time. before he could be permitted to go upon any war-path; he might, however, be assured of a good pony when there should be hunting to be done.

There were fires burning before several lodges when the news came in, and it was not long before there was a grand feast. Starvation had been defeated and all ́that happiness had been earned by Two Arrows.

W. O. STODDARD.

XVIII. COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION.

I.

The beaver cut his timber with patient teeth that day, The minks were fish-wards, and the crows surveyors of highway.

When Keezar sat on the hillside upon his cobbler's

form,

With a pan of coals on either hand to keep his waxedends warm.

And there, in the golden weather, he stitched and hammered and sung;

In the brook he moistened his leather, in the pewter mug his tongue.

Well knew the tough old Teuton who brewed the stoutest ale,

And he paid the good wife's reckoning in the coin of song and tale.

The songs they still are singing who dress the hills of vine

The tales that haunt the Brocken and whisper down the Rhine.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome, the swift stream wound

away,

Through birches and scarlet maples flashing in foam and spray

Down on the sharp-horned ledges plunging in steep cascade,

Tossing its white-maned waters against the hemlock's shade.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome, east and west and north and south;

Only the village of fishers down at the river's mouth; Only here and there a clearing, with its farmhouse rude

and new,

And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, where the scanty

harvest grew.

No shout of home-bound reapers, no vintage song he heard,

And on the green no dancing feet the merry violin

stirred.

“Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, "when Nature herself is glad,

And the painted woods are laughing at the faces so sour and sad?"

Small heed had the careless cobbler what sorrow of heart was theirs

Who travailed in pain with the births of God, and planted a state with prayers

Hunting of witches and warlocks, smiting the heathen

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One hand on the mason's trowel, and one on the soldier's sword!

But give him his ale and cider, give him his pipe and

song,

Little he cared for church or state, or the balance of right and wrong.

"'Tis work, work, WORK," he muttered "and for rest a snuffle of psalms!"

He smote on his leathern apron with his brown and waxen palms.

"Oh for the purple harvests of the days when I was

young!

For the merry grape-stained maidens and the pleasant songs they sung!

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"Oh for the breath of vineyards, of apples and and wine!

For an oar to row, and a breeze to blow, dow grand old river Rhine!"

A tear in his blue eye glistened, and dropped o beard so gray.

"Old, old am I," said Keezar, "and the Rhine flow away!"

But a cunning man was the cobbler; he could call birds from the trees,

Charm the black snake out of the ledges, and b back the swarming bees.

All the virtues of herbs and metals, all the lore of woods, he knew,

And the arts of the Old World mingled with the vels of the New.

Well he knew the tricks of magic-and the lapst on his knee

Had the gift of the Mormon's Urim or the stone Doctor Dee.

For the mighty master Agrippa wrought it with sp and rhyme

From a fragment of mystic moonstone in the tower Nettesheim.

To a cobbler Minnesinger the marvelous stone ga

he

And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, who brought it ov the sea.

II.

He held up that mystic lapstone, he held it up like a lens,

And he counted the long years coming by twenties and by tens.

"One hundred years," quoth Keezar; "and fifty have I told:

Now open the new before me, and shut me out the old!"

Like a cloud of mist the blackness rolled from the magic stone,

And a marvelous picture mingled the unknown and the known.

Still ran the stream to the river, and the river and ocean joined;

And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, and cold north hills behind.

But the mighty forest was broken by many a steepled town,

By many a white-walled farmhouse, and many a garner

brown.

Turning a score of mill-wheels, the stream no more ran

free;

White sails on the winding river, white sails on the far-off sea.

Below in the noisy village the flags were floating gay, And shone on a thousand faces the light of a holiday.

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