Chapter IX (3)

“I have been thinking of the very same thing, Isabel,” replied Josy, laughing now in spite of herself, and at the same moment her husband came, “puffing and blowing” into the hall where we were assembled to enjoy the summer air and take our tea. (I never could imagine how it is, that people _will_ swallow boiling liquid on the hottest of days, but somehow or other we cannot do without it, even when fanning ourselves, and exclaiming at the heat. This much for the consistency of human nature.)

Mr. Bettyman seated himself in a fan-chair, and began rocking to his apparent content.

“I have done a good day’s work, ladies, allow me to tell you,” said he, with much complacency; and turning to his wife, “all for your benefit, Josy.”

“And I am not ungrateful, Edwin. To prove to you how much I am humbled at your discovery of my incompetency to see to my _ménage_, I have resolved to give it up entirely, and beg you to continue in my place. Here are the keys,” and stepping forward, Josephine dropped the basket at his feet. “Martin—Lucy! hereafter you will go to your master for orders, and remember that I am on no account to be disturbed by any one of you.”

It was impossible to laugh, for the quiet dignity of her manner forbade it. Martin bowed—Lucy curtsied and ran off. Edwin remained as if spell-bound. He had never once dreamed of Josy’s rebelling, and had looked upon himself as a model husband from the daily assistance he afforded her. Moreover, he began to perceive his absurd position, and reddening to the temples, arose from his chair.

“You are surely not in earnest, Josephine, in offering me these keys. I am not the proper person to carry them; certainly, I have endeavored to assist, and enable you, knowing your inexperience, to become more careful with your property and mine; but I do not wish to usurp your place at all.”

“You have done so until now, my dear Edwin,” was her mild but firm reply. “When you become convinced of my ability to be my _own_ housekeeper, I may then offer to take back the place; but my mind is made up, I do assure you,” and she placed the basket of keys once more in his hands. He dared not accuse her of spite, she had borne it so long; but he was too much humiliated and vexed to conceal it. Courtesy prevented his refusing to take his seat at the table, or I verily believe he would have left us in high dudgeon. Isabel and I talked as fast as we could, and Josy took her part as gayly as either of us. And after a while so did he, supposing in his inmost mind, that his wife would revoke her decision on the morrow.

But the morrow came, and Martin, as firm as his mistress, went to know what Master Edwin wanted from market. It was of course very early, and to say the truth very unusual, as Josy was in the habit of giving her orders at night.

“D—n it,” said Mr. Bettyman, half asleep, “what do you come to me for?”

“My mistress told me to do so, sir,” was the respectful reply, though poor Martin had to struggle with a laugh, as he again applied himself to rouse his master. “Would you prefer a breast of veal to-day, sir? I think that you were not pleased with the leg of mutton this day week.”

“Confound the leg of mutton!” muttered the master, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “Martin, am I dreaming, or you?”

“You are, sir, I think,” replied Martin, smiling now in good earnest. “My Mistress sent me to you to know what was to be got in market today. We always have mutton on Wednesdays, sir, but you didn’t like—”

“Pshaw! get what you please! Give me my vest there—take the money, and let me be quiet;” and Mr. Bettyman fell back on his pillow, and closed his eyes once more in sleep. A few moments after he was again roused.

“Master Edwin will you have toast this morning—milk toast? And shall Maria broil the chickens, or stew them, sir?”

“What do I know about chickens? Are you all crazy, that you come one after another to disturb my rest to-day? I have just gotten rid of Martin, and now you must come and rouse me from my morning sleep. Why don’t you go to your mistress? Hang the chickens!”

Lucy ran out as Mr. Bettyman turned over grumbling to resume his nap.

“Maria, I can’t get Maus Edwin to answer me a word, excepting that you are to hang the chickens.”

“Hang em!” cried the cook, indignantly. “Did ever any one hear of such a thing! I’m going to my misses and ax _her_.”

“Miss an’t here, she’s out walkin’ with Miss Isabel, and she’s done give up the housekeepin’ to Maus Edwin. Cos why? Cos he pokes his nose every where, and hit an’t his bizness.”

“Here’s Martin from market! My stars! Set down the basket, boy, and let me see. Kidneys! Now how is I to know how to cook these without being informed? I’m gwine to Maus Edwin myself!”

And off she marched without any kind of ceremony into Edwin’s room. An old servant, she was not _quite_ so particular about noise as the younger ones, so she screamed out at the door.

“Maus Edwin! oh, Maus Edwin! How you want the kidneys done? Broiled, or stewed in wine? It’s late, and I want to know.”

“Go to the d——l with your kidneys!” cried Mr. Bettyman, now fairly awake. “If you come to me with any more questions, I’ll throw the boot-jack at your head!”

Maria scampered down stairs, and reached the kitchen in a second. The breakfast that day was cooked and served without direction from master or mistress; and when we sat down to table every thing looked so creditable to cook and house-boy, that Mr. Bettyman, now refreshed by his last nap, quite forgot his late instalment, and did the honors with his usual hospitality. But no sooner had he risen from his chair, after finishing his meal, than Maria appeared with a perfect pyramid of pans, and stood grinning before him.

“Maus Edwin! gwine give out dinner, and all that? Miss Josy always do it just after breakfast—and I guess you want to be off to town soon.”

“By Jupiter! what is all this jargon for? What have I to do with you and your pans, unless I throw them at your head? Have my buggy around instantly!” cried Mr. Bettyman, now fairly out of patience; and as he remembered his wife’s resignation of keys, etc. the evening previous, came back into the Hall and stood before her. Josy was busy with her little mop and cup-pan about to wash her own china and silver.

“Josy,” said he, somewhat humbly, for he _could_ not blame her, “you surely do not intend to carry out this farce any longer, do you? This is making me too ridiculous!”

“And what have you been doing, then, my dearest husband?” replied she, cheerfully. “I cannot content you—you will take my place and find fault with either ‘too much’ or ‘not enough,’ and I begin to feel housekeeping _two_ ways a little fatiguing. Not only must I arrange matters to please myself, but on your return I must begin anew to satisfy your _exigéance_.”

“Well, well, Josy,” said Edwin, “say that you are not serious, in giving me so absurd an office, and I will promise not to interfere again. Will that do?”

“I will try you for one week then; if within that time, beginning from this hour, you trespass again by interfering once only in my housekeeping, I give back the management of all into your hands.”

“Done! done!” cried he, delighted, and sealing the bond with a kiss, “you shall not hear a word of complaint from my lips, Isabel and Ellen to witness. Given under my hand, etc.;” and he ran off, with one bound was in his buggy, and drove rapidly away.

“He is certainly very amiable and good-natured,” said Isabel, looking after him affectionately, for he deserved the eulogium. Feeling the justice of his wife’s complaint, he did not, as many, oh, how many! would have done in his place, fly into a rage, and exert that tyranny of marital power which every day some lord of the creation delights to show. Refuse, in virtue of that very power, to acknowledge my wrong, and turn a “heaven into a hell” of domestic discord. “He is certainly very amiable,” continued Isabel, “and divested of this unpleasant mania, will make the best husband in the world.”

“He will, indeed,” said his wife, looking much gratified. “I have never seen any one with a more lovely disposition than Edwin. He is never cross, even in the midst of his housekeeping,” and she laughed. So did I, and I could not but wish that Edwin’s week of probation were well over. Meddling with pantries, cellars and kitchens, was his second nature, and we took our seats around the well-supplied dinner-table, awaiting with some curiosity the results of the morning compact. Soup being served, Martin proceeded to remove the plates and bring in the second course. Alas! alas!

“How is this Martin? What a waste of vegetables! Josy, my dear—” He stopped, and we all burst into a laugh, in which he had to join.

“The bond is broken,” said Josephine at length. “I did hope and pray for your triumph, my dear Edwin. Take back the keys.”

“Will no one intercede for me?” said he, with a woful look. “May I not have one more trial, ladies—only one more?” He was really mortified and distressed.

“Give him one more, Josy,” cried I, pitying him, for he had really a victory to win. “Let this one little mistake be thrown from the balance.”

“Be it so,” said she, “but let this be the last. I grant no more grace, Mr. Edwin Bettyman; remember the warning in time.”

Once I saved him, while Isabel and his wife were busy in the parlor covering picture frames. The pantry door stood open, he glanced in and could not resist the temptation and entered. I heard him rummaging about in there, among dishes, plates, and finally the tins began to rattle. Suddenly he appeared, with a cake pan in one hand and a cheese mould in the other. Taking me at the moment for Josy, he commenced, “I have rubbed my finger around the inside of these pans, my dear, and—”

I turned and shook my head at him, pointing to the parlor. He started, and thrusting his burdens into my hand ran down the steps, saying “don’t betray me, Ellen, the week is almost out.” I replaced the things silently, and returned to my companions. They were just congratulating themselves upon Edwin’s forbearance until then.

“We shall see, what we shall see,” thought I, taking up some muslin, and busying myself with a beautiful painting on copper, destined to ornament Josephine’s pretty little sewing-room. Her husband took such pains to beautify this chosen “sanctum” of hers that I could almost have prayed for his triumph over this one fault—yet no sin. It seemed hard that for a failing of this peculiar nature, Mr. Bettyman should be looked upon generally as an unkind husband, when in all other respects he was so considerate for the comfort and happiness of his wife. Yet, so it was, and knowing this “general” opinion, his kind cousin determined to cure him of its cause.

Saturday came, and we all breathed freely—if this one day were but over. Edwin jested with his wife upon her being obliged to retain her basket of keys “nolens volens,” for he contended that it was but a ruse to get rid of the trouble of looking and unlocking after all. He felt sure of his triumph now, for “of course I shall not forget myself within these few hours.”

“_Tant mieux_,” said Josephine, and rattling a bunch of keys at his ears she bade him begone, “lest,” added she, “the spell be broken at sight of some old duster lying loose, or a cracked pitcher with no handle.”

“Ay, do begone,” continued Isabel declaimingly, “for as

‘Heat and cold, and wind, and _steam_,
Moisture and _mildew_, mice, worms and swarming flies,
Minute as dust and numberless, oft work
Dire _meddling habits_ that admit no cure
And which no care can obviate’—

we fear to trust you in our presence longer.”

“Abominable parody,” cried Mr. Bettyman, laughing. “I doubt if Cowper were ever before so applied. But good-bye, signorinas, _que beso las manos_.”

He returned home in rare good-humor, even for him; as, though cheerful, he was never in very high spirits. But the foreign and _domestic_ state of affairs was encouraging—cotton was up, and “the day” nearly over. He challenged us to a walk, and through fields and flowers we wandered joyously until the bright lady moon was looking down in all her beauty, and shedding silver light over land and sea. We reached home as pleased as wanderers could be, each remembering some distant dream in days gone by, that came back to us with the scene and hour. All love to see,

The moonbeam sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves,

and we paused a while before entering, to linger over the loveliness of the fair fragrant buds that were just bursting into perfume. The night jasmine, with her tiny star-bells hanging fragilely along its bending stem, and her pale, sweet sister blooming amid its “deep dark green,” and sending forth its incense upon the summer air. Here, too, was the constant heliotrope, which, at decline of sun, exhales in deepest sighs her balmy breath. How much more pure is the odor of flowers at evening, as though a voiceless prayer were ascending in praise of the Hand that fashioned them!

Such were some of the thoughts busy in our hearts as we turned away to mount the steps, and seating ourselves in the light arm-chairs upon the piazza, we recollected that there was such a feeling as the one of fatigue. Mr. Bettyman had preceded us some time into the house, and now came through the hall with his blouse and slippers on. How these lords do love their slippers and their ease! When women express a wish to change their shoes forsooth, they forever get the credit of wearing tight ones. (N. B. Is it not time when so many revolutions are taking place, that we should revolutionize _some_ things in this world? Sisters! to the rescue!)

“Do turn the lamp down, Martin,” said Isabel, as the bright glare of the solar globe burst upon us, “I love a mellow light in summer. Do not you, Ellen?”

“Yes,” replied I, “one can think so pleasantly in the twilight, or the moonlight. If you sit in silence where your face is visible, your nice air-castles are all at once tumbled down by some one exclaiming ‘Why what is the matter? Yon look so grave.’ And then you start and look foolish, answering stupidly, or begin an account of your thoughts, which cannot possibly interest any one but your own self.”

“_Tene_; but I love to trace a chain of thought—threading a mental way through all its intricacies, to find how very, very small the ‘baseless fabric’ from whence we started. It is like watching the circle upon circle that sweeps out from around the troubled water of a small stream. A commotion that a single drop may occasion. No very new comparison, to be sure, but one may be excused a plagiarism when one has no genius. Josy, give us an idea or two to start on, you who think so prettily.”

“A silver penny for Edwin’s thoughts!” said Josy, laying her little hand on his and looking up into his face. “Now tell us where you have been wandering all this while, grave man? Do you too weave romances at this witching hour, and for whom? _Your_ day is gone, Sir Benedict, and I am here to remind you of it.”

“Who can say that I am free?” exclaimed he. “Forced to answer this syren’s questions, I must plead guilty to wondering if the man in the moon had a family, and, if so, what can be the nature of the little moonses.”

“O lame and impotent conclusion,” cried Josy, laughing merrily. “Oh, Edwin! I did expect something poetical at least, after your silent meditation.”

“_Que voulez-vous?_” said he, with a shrug. “I was commanded to open my heart to the present company, and dared not disobey. If my astronomical observations are not acceptable to the learned triumvirate, I throw myself upon their mercy. What is it, Martin?”

“There is a boy here, sir, who wishes to know if you will let Colonel Robinson have your rockaway to-morrow. He has broken down on his way out, and says he knows you have your buggy for your own use. The rockaway will be returned in the evening.”

“The deuce it will!” said Mr. Bettyman, impatiently rising from his chair and following the servant out into the yard. “I do not like to lend my vehicles, I must confess, for they are never returned in order.”

And neither does any one else, I believe, gentlemen particularly. I have known _ladies_, however, whose carriage, driver and horses could wait attendance a whole day on a fashionable acquaintance, when the convenience would be denied “poor relations.” But this means nothing, dear reader; of course you are not one of _my_ acquaintances, I have very few I assure you; I care most for old friends, and hope you will pardon my wandering from the subject.

Mr. Bettyman remained some time absent, and we still sat on the piazza, discussing Col. Robinson and the bad habit of borrowing rockaways. But when he returned, oh, angels and ministers of grace! he had mounted his hobby. Holding in his hand a spoon and tumbler he approached his wife.

“Now, Josy, my dear, where do you think I discovered these? Such unheard of carelessness! You see, my love, how I am forced to take care of every thing.”

Josy arose and laid the keys at his feet. “You have earned the honor at last, Edwin, and now you are _my_ housekeeper, I am no longer responsible for any carelessness of the servants, and you are free from further anxiety, as you will direct and take the government of the whole concern.”

“And as the spoon is mine, and he has obliged me by throwing out the gum arabic which had all day been dissolving, that I might make Josy some mixture for her cough, I must beg him to replace every thing upon my window seat as he found it. I can have you taken up for purloining silver, Cousin Edwin; look at the mark now.”

Poor Mr. Bettyman! I could not but pity him, amusing as his mania was. In the morning early, the servants were again calling upon him for orders, and getting blessed at each new disturbance. In pity, then, I took the keys myself. But, called away shortly after, had to resign them into his unwilling hands. He took them with a woful countenance. “Ah, Ellen! you were my only friend, and now you desert me.”

When I next visited the house, it was to congratulate Joey upon the birth of a dear little girl; and Edwin was busy amid stew-pans and pap-cups, enraging the nurse until she vowed to leave the house unless allowed her own way with mother and child.

“Make slops for yourself and go to bed and swallow them, Mr. Bettyman, but indeed I will not poison the baby with your mixtures. Nor can I allow your lady, sir, to drink that mess you’ve been cooking half the day.”

Nurses are privileged people, and poor Edwin had to surrender. Josy’s grateful smiles, however, were some consolation, and the lovely babe another. I inquired of Isabel how long he kept the keys.

“Until Josephine’s confinement,” was her reply. “I was determined to give him a hard lesson; and never was man more ruffled than he. However, my dear, don’t think he is cured! By no means; he comes to me constantly as he did formerly to Josy; but I pay no attention to him, except by offering him again the housekeeping. He shall never annoy Josy again, depend upon it. The baby is enough occupation for her now, and Cousin Edwin stands enough in awe of me to let me have my way about every thing. He will meddle, and he may, but to no purpose.”

“And when you leave them, Isabel?”

“I shall not leave them though.”

“And should you marry, dear Bella?”

“_Pas si beta!_ I love Josy too well to leave her, now that I find myself necessary to her happiness. I love Edwin, too; he has behaved nobly to me, and generously. The only man I ever could have married is lost to me. So, Ellen, I can lead a single life, and be a nice old maid.”

And she kept her word, reader; never was there so kind, so pleasant a companion as my friend Isabel.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE AXE.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

I WAS born deep down—deep down in the sable depths of the mine,
(Thus commenced the iron,)
Where I lay in dull and sullen sleep,
Till the miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
With his sharp pickaxe,
And by the light of his flaring torch,
Torch of flary and smoky crimson!
That lit up the gloom like a star,
Forced me from my dull and sullen sleep.
And whistling like the keen northwest over a peak of the Ural
mountains, (oh mountains, stern mountains of snow.)
Lifted me, dull and sullen as I was, to the dazzling eye of the
sun-god,
I hated the miner, that miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
With his flaring and crimson torch,
And his sharp pickaxe,
I hated him, and I wished I was a weapon to bite into his heart—
Ho! ho! ho! how I would have laughed, as I bit into his heart,
That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
For lifting me from my dull and sullen sleep
Into the presence of so radiant a being as the golden-tressed,
beautiful sun-god.
For I was black, from my dull and sullen sleep,
And the dross of long years, of long years that I spent in the mine,
clung about me like barnacles to a ship.
So I was glad when I was hurried to the forge;
But, oh, how I writhed and bent in my anguish as the red hot furnace!
Yea, the furnace “heated to a white heat,”
Made my heart melt within me, and my whole body change to a mass of
living flame—
That fierce and merciless forge.
Oh how my heart melted within me, and how my whole body changed to a
mass of living flame,
That softened each agonized pore, and made me turn liquid with sorrow.
I was taken then from the forge,
And beaten into a long, slender wand, like a spear,
And I thought I was changing to a spear,
And laughed, for then I could bite into heart
Of that miner,
That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
That took me from my dull and sullen sleep,
And hurried me, all black, and covered with dross like the barnacles
on a ship,
Into the golden presence of him the bright, beautiful sun-god.
But I was not destined to bite into the heart of that miner:
And I was hurried then to the smithy,
Where stood the stalwort blacksmith leaning on his sledge:
That blacksmith, with his leathern apron and arm that would fell a
buffalo.
And he smiled, that blacksmith,
When he placed me in _his_ forge, and wakened his monstrous bellows.
And I—I knew that my foe the red fire would leap again into my
entrails,
And melt my heart;
And I tried to yell out my wrath, but could not—
And so I lay dark and sullen, yea, dark and sullen as when
I slept deep down in the sable mine,
Until I felt my foe the red fire again melting my heart,
And again softening my strong, well-knit muscles
Into a mass of living flame—
Ah then that sharp anvil!
“Swank! swank! swank!” rang the blows of that stalwort blacksmith, and
a smutty faced lad that he called “son!”
“Son!” oh how I wished I had his throat in my strong and well-knit
muscles—
I would have torn it as the wild wolf tears the throat of the deer—
But as for the stalwort blacksmith, I was afraid of him—
So I lay and let him smite me.
Then I felt myself beaten into a shape—the welcome shape of the axe—
And I laughed,
For the axe was made for slaughter—
Then I was taken from the burly blacksmith’s,
And keen, clear, flashing teeth of steel
Were given me,
And I laughed again,
For I thought that if I had a chance how I would bite in the heart of
that miner,
That miner, gaunt, naked and strong!
And the smutty-faced boy whom the burly blacksmith
Called “son.”
But the burly blacksmith himself, I would not bite him,
No, not even were his veins beneath the gripe of my clear, keen,
flashing teeth,
For I loved the burly blacksmith,
The burly, stalwort blacksmith,
With his apron of leather and arm that could fell a buffalo.
And then I was hung up in a village store;
A paltry village store, amidst onions, and turnips and tape,
To wait my destined doom.

I was born in the pleasant wood;
(Thus commenced the helve,
Not rough and fierce and hateful
Like the iron, but modest and mild)
I was born in the pleasant wood;
I was an arm of the sturdy oak;
And I bore a wealth of green leaves
In the long bright summer days,
Where the sunlight loved to sparkle and the rain-drops loved to hum—
And I bent a green roof o’er the nest of the merry bird.
Oh, I was happy!
I danced in the liquid wind,
And murmured my joy at all times;
In the golden dawn, and sunny noontide;
In the crimson evening and beneath the seraphic moon;
Yea, I was happy!
The oak loved me; for I was his sturdiest arm,
And I bore my leaves like an emerald shield.
Oh, I was happy!
But my time came.
The woodman saw me, and he looked at the handle of his axe—
The woodman saw me, and grasped the handle of his axe—
The woodman saw me, and before I could shrink behind my emerald
shield,
Ay, even before I could call upon my father oak
To bend his green plume and protect his son,
I was crashing on the earth—
Oh! I fell headlong to the moss, and I lay without motion,
As the woodman,
As the whistling woodman,
As the free and careless woodman,
Rent from me my emerald shield, and made me bare
As a bird just emerged from its shell.
And then he shaped me into a thick stick,
A thick white stick, with his wood-knife,
And carried me to the village store,
And bargained me off, me, the strong arm of the oak,
That wore an emerald shield, and made arrows of all the beams,
And flashed and murmured at dawn, in the red eve,
And beneath the seraphic moon;
Yes, me, did that careless woodman
Bargain for a keg of apple-sauce,
The mean, sneaking villain!
That pitiful woodman!
And here the helve sang out keen and shrill like the sap
When it shrieks in its prison for help,
As the red flame enters its chamber.
(But again murmured the helve.)
There in that paltry village store,
Amidst onions, and turnips, and tape,
There did I rest in my dusky nook,
Whilst the smooth-faced shopman smirked and smiled,
With “yes marm!” and “no marm!” “did you say calico!
Calico or tape!
Joe, measure a yard of tape!”
Good heavens! even the blood of my father the oak
Began to boil in me.
But as for the axe,
Oh, how he showed his keen, clear, flashing teeth,
As if he would bite into the heart of that shopman,
That shopman, so smooth-faced and smirk,
So smiling, so smooth-faced and smirk,
With his “yes marm” and “no marm!” “did you say
Calico
or
Tape? Joe, measure a yard of tape!”
At length an honest settler
Came in from his hill-meadows
And spoke for an axe.
I was dragged from my corner,
And the iron was released from his thraldom,
And the sharp knife of the honest settler,
As the sundown turned his hill-meadows into golden velvet,
Shaved me down and shaped me,
Smooth and white, and then married me to my husband the iron,
The iron, with his purple head,
And his keen, clear, flashing teeth.
Since then have we dwelt together,
Me and my husband the iron,
In the hut of the honest settler.
The helve ceased.
And then a blended song
In which rang the clear treble of the helve
And the gruff notes of the iron
Swelled on my ear.
But at length the settler harnessed his oxen,
And bent a canvas tent over his wagon,
His wagon, broad-wheeled and wide,
And filling it with his household wealth,
And casting us, married as we were,
On his brawny shoulder,
Started on his journey.
Oh! long was our way through the forest;
The broad-wheeled wagon crushed the violets in its path,
The purple, fragrant violets looking with their blue eyes
From the knotted feet of the pine-tree—
Oh, how the pine-tree shook!
Oh, how the pine-tree roared!
As the violets, that looked with their blue eyes
From his knotted feet,
Screamed in their purple blood underneath the broad-wheeled wagon,
And the red strawberries, with their pouting lips,
Oh! how they splashed with their sweet blood
The broad wheels
Of the ruthless wagon.
In vain did the laurel hang
Its magnificent bouquet of pink and pearl
Over that broad-wheeled wagon!
In vain did the loftier dog-wood
Arch his blossoms of creamy silver,
Both forming a triumphal arch,
Worthy a Roman general in his most glorious days,
Over that broad-wheeled wagon.
On did the wagon plough,
Staying for nothing, and crushing still,
Oh, that broad-wheeled wagon!
The huddling violets with their blue eyes,
And the red strawberries with their ripe pouting lips,
Letting their sweet blood flow
Till the green velvet of the grass blushed like a sunset cloud.
And so we journeyed on,
Resting upon the brawny shoulder
Of the honest settler.
At sunset he made us work,
And we bit into the trees,
And formed his night-bower in the forest.
And so we journeyed on
Till we came in sight of the home
That the settler had chose in the forest,
The forest that blackened the tide
Of the Delaware, mountain-born;
Here he made his home—here he looked at his sylvan empire,
And led his band to hew and slaughter the forest,
The forest that blackened the tide
Of the Delaware, mountain-born.
Bright was the August morn
That laughed on the vales and the tree-tops,
When he led his stalwort band
To slaughter the virgin forest
That blackened the Delaware’s brow,
And gayly and freely they slaughtered
The trees of the creek-fed river,
The river that leaped from its mountain-goblet
Glittering, clear as dew, and pure as a thought of the Deity,
Far up in its deep scoop of rock.
How they laughed as they swung their blows
On the hemlock and spruce and green maple
That arbored the glen of the eagle,
And bent o’er the cave of the wolf.
How they laughed as they heard the deep groans
Of the hemlock and spruce and green maple
And their proud plumes were bowed to the ground.
The forests thus vanished away
Like the fog that is breathed from the water,
And the eagle screamed keen from the top
Of his dwelling, laid bare from her brood,
Whilst they shivered and shook with the cold,
Icy cold of the gauntlet that Jack Frost
Laid upon the soft down of their breasts.
Thus vanished the forests away,
And the green smiling farm-fields succeeded,
Some like the tawny lion-skin,
Some spotted like the robe of the ounce,
And some striped like the splendid glory of the tiger.
The cabin arose in its clearing,
The kine-bells sent tinklings like sounds of silver amidst the
thickets and bushes,
That grouped in rounded clusters the grassy and quiet glades.
Then the log hut was swept away
With its chimney of sticks,
And its little window, like the eye of the deer
Peering out from its leafy ambush.
The village spread out with its roofs
And its delicate finger-like steeple
That pointed forever toward heaven,
Like the prayer of the pastor ascending.
On an emerald knoll, with the shape
Of the delicate finger-like steeple
Cutting black in the sunshine beside it,
The pioneer’s white modest dwelling
Sparkled out of its bosom of verdure.
There lived the brave old patriarch,
The father of many children—
There lived the gray old patriarch,
Awaiting his summons to go
To the land, the bright land of his hopes—
To the land, the sweet land of the happy.
On the spot where he saw the brindled form of the stealthy panther
Prowling like guilt through the tangles of the wood,
He sees the quiet steed, born in the spacious Merrimac meadows,
The old, faithful, honest steed,
Whose feet seemed shod with wind,
And whose snort was like the deep bass note of the ophicleide
In the fiery days of his youth;
Stamping the flies and whisking his stump of a tail
As he sluggishly moves toward the sparkling spring
Welling up to the rim of the mossy hogshead.
Ah, the old father in Zion was blest!
Blest in his household, his home and his goods!
Ah, he was perfectly happy!
As the full golden moon of his purified soul
Wheeled down to the rim of the west,
Where the angel of God stood with waiting pinions
To waft him high upward to glory.
My song is done.
(And the blended tones of the axe sunk away
Like the last water-like notes of the lute of the winds,
Sunk away—away—swooned deliciously away,
And I treasured it in the inner chamber of my ear,
And sung it to myself in the deepest nook of my heart,
And then gave it to the world.)

* * * * *

THE DARKENED CASEMENT.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.