But now, if hardship meant so little, Why had he remained behind, when she Was forced to go upon the long and weary journey?

Ah! Could it be he cared no longer for her love?

His arm was strong. Then was his heart Not brave enough to conquer this new world, Where savage lurked and wild beast made The darkness dreaded by the most courageous soul?

For days the fleet had drifted down the river, But now her boat was anch.o.r.ed to a tree That grew upon an island in the c.u.mberland, And every man and woman but the convalescent Had gone ash.o.r.e to stalk a deer or gather berries That everywhere were found along the river bank.

But Martha Waters lay upon her bed and pondered-- Dreaming day dreams, as she watched A golden oriole who fed her young In boughs that overhung the water, And a vague unhappiness arose Within her heart, until she tossed Again in fever on her couch.

She could hear the roaring falls A mile below, but she thought the sounding Cataract the sickness booming in her ears again.

When she looked to eastward where the mountain Rose a thousand feet, she saw a crown of wealth Upon its crest of which no pioneer yet had dreamed.

Long she lay and marveled at its beauty, Wondering how many ages would elapse before The G.o.d of Mammon would transport its treasures To his marts beside the sea.

Feverish she mused and pondered until at last she slept.

And then upon the little island, A city rose as from the ocean wave-- A city of a thousand streets, and every house Was made from trees that grew upon the mountain.

Many were the palaces of wealth and beauty, But those who dwelt therein she did not recognize.

Strange were their faces and their manners haughty, And while they lived in luxury and ease, Others toiled at mill and furnace. Oh! The awful din Of sledge and hammer, beating in her ears.

She woke. A storm seemed just about to burst in fury, So loud and terrible was the roaring!

But the sky was clear. It is the booming Of the falls, for her boat has broke its moorings, And now is rapidly drifting toward the cataract, But four hundred yards away!

She leaped upon her feet and screamed for help.

It was impossible for her to swim ash.o.r.e, And her fever-wasted frame could find no strength With which to steer the boat.

Again she saw the crown of wealth Upon the mountain top, untouched by human hands.

But the island city now had faded from her vision, The mountain lowered and the world grew dark.

Onward the boat shot faster toward the roaring falls.

But look! A race is on! A birch canoe, Driven by as swift a hand as ever gripped An oar, is leaping o'er the waves in mad pursuit.

With every stroke the Indian bark is gaining twenty feet.

Will it reach the flatboat soon enough to save the girl?

But who is he that rides the fleet canoe?

No red man ever had an arm like that, For already he has reached the speeding raft, And with gigantic strength he steers it toward the sh.o.r.e.

But no! The current is too swift!

A moment more and all will be engulfed within The swirling flood. It is too late! Too late?

But love is swifter than the angry tide, For like a mighty porpoise, wallowing in the wave, The valiant hero leaps into the stream, And holding Martha Waters in his strong right arm High above the water, reaches sh.o.r.e A hundred feet above the deadly precipice.

The air was growing chilly even on this summer night, And the emigrants had gathered round a crackling fire, Discoursing of the past, and listening to a modest tale of love.

Simply and unfaltering James Hunt related How his heart had hungered back beside the old Potomac, Till he found he could no longer brook the pa.s.sion That grew stronger as the days of summer lengthened.

At last he started, and following every night The blazing dogstar, and resting through the day till evening, In just three weeks he reached the river Where he found the birch canoe that rode The seething waters like a greyhound of the ocean.

Then the maiden told her vision of the island city, How its palaces and mansions, rich as gold and beautiful as crystal, Were constructed by her people, toiling hundreds, Sore and weary, of times cold and hungry.

She had seen them fell the forests, Hew and mill and dress the lumber, Till the soil and reap the harvests, gathering into others' garners.

Stalwart were these men and women, pure of heart And strong of muscle, fitted for the tasks before them.

She had seen her brothers laboring at the forge and sounding anvil; Sisters toiling at the wheel and distaff, heard them at the loom While flying shuttle threaded warp with web of beauty; Watched them till they fell asleep with weariness, While the sons of leisure feasted.

Thus the maiden told her story, saying: "Shall we undertake the journey? Plows are waiting In the furrows back in Maryland, my people, Back beyond the rugged mountain. There are harvests Yet ungarnered, waiting for scythe and sickle.

Calculate the cost, and weigh it, for my vision is prophetic.

For my part, I choose this lover, for my guide and valiant leader.

He shall point the way forever, Though he take the road that's darkest."

Then James Hunt, the hero lover, Who had never quailed at danger, Trembling for his happy pa.s.sion, Rose and pointed toward the westward, Toward the Pleiades descending, Deep behind the gloomy forest.

"Let us face toward dark Kentucky, fell its forests, Build its roads and bridge its rivers, Give our children to the nation.

What though others reap our harvests, h.o.a.rd the wealth we have created?

Ours shall be the n.o.bler portion.

Blessed is the one that suffers, If he spends himself for others.

Should the toiling millions falter, Though they work for others' comfort, Building homes they can not enter?

Christ was born within a manger, May we not produce a leader, Who shall save our nation's honor?

At to-morrow morning's dawning, Ere the sunrise gild the treetops, Let us take the darkling pathway."

Still the Pleiades are circling, Still the dogstar glows in heaven, But the oak and pine and poplar All have gone from off the mountain-- Pa.s.sed into the marts of Mammon, By the hands of toil and labor.

Silent are the loom and distaff, In the cabin and the cottage, And the songs of scythe and sickle Gathering in the golden harvests.

But the pain of drudgery lingers, And the heart still longs and hungers For the fruitage it shall gather, Yet beyond the wooded westward.

MORNING GLORIES.

A roguish laugh, a rustling vine, I turn my eager eye; Big drops of dew in bells of blue And red convolvuli.

But nothing more; I hold my breath And strain my eager eye; A yellow crown, two eyes of brown, And pink convolvuli!

The golden curls, the elfish laugh, Rose cheeks and glittering eye Are glories, too, like bells of blue And red convolvuli.

CHRISTMASTIDE

Evergreen and tinsel'd toys, Drums and dolls, and bursting joys-- Blessed little girls and boys!

Holly, bells, and mistletoe, Tinkling sledges, here we go-- Youth and maiden o'er the snow.

Chilling winds and leaden days, Vesper songs and hymns of praise Silver hair and dying blaze!

Christmas morn and yuletide eve, Dear Lord, help us to believe-- Naught but blessings we receive.

KINSHIP

Oh, little children, ye who watch the trains go by, With yearning faces pressed against the window panes, You do not know the reason why Your lingering image dims my eye Though I have pa.s.sed beyond the hills into the rolling plains.

Dear little children, I once watched the trains go by, And hungered, much as when I feel the silent stars; And then I saw the cold gray skies, And felt the warm tears in my eyes, When far beyond the distant hills I heard the rumbling cars.

PRECOCITY

"Oh, grandfather, what are the stars?

Stones on the hand of G.o.d?

I heard you call that red one Mars And those three Aaron's rod; And these are great Orion's band!"

"My child, you are too young to understand!"

"Oh, grandfather, what are the winds That sough and moan and sigh?

Does G.o.d grow angry for men's sins He lifts the waves so high?

And blows his breath o'er sea and land?"

"My boy, you are too young to understand!"

"Oh, grandfather, what are the clouds In yonder sunset sky?

They look to me like winding shrouds For men about to die!

Dear grandfather, your trembling hand!"

"My son, you are too young to understand!"