AN INDIAN STORY. I KNOW where the timid fawn abides In the depths of the shaded dell, Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, With its many stems and its tangled sides, From the eye of the hunter well. "I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook, On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws Its broad dark bough, in solemn repose, Far over the silent brook. "And that timid fawn starts not with fear And that young May violet to me is dear, To look on the lovely flower." Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks 'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills. He goes to the chase-but evil eyes Are at watch in the thicker shades; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, Ere eve shall redden the sky, A good red deer from the forest shade, That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, At her cabin-door shall lie. The hollow woods, in the setting sun, Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay; And Maquon's sylvan labors are done, And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won He bears on his homeward way. He stops near his bower-his eye perceives At once to the earth his burden he heaves; He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves; And gains its door with a bound. But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, But where is she who, at this calm hour, She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower; It is not a time for idle grief, The horror that freezes his limbs is brief- And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet And he darts on the fatal path more fleet 'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold, Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, And the Indian girls, that pass that way, Point out the ravisher's grave; "And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, - Returned the maid that was borne away From Maquon, the fond and the brave." Great Barrington, 1924 "United States Literary Garette," July 1, 18.2. T is a sultry day; the sun has drunk IT The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade. Scarce cools me. All is silent, saye the faint And interrupted murmu of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. L 10 But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With a reflected radiance, and make turn 20 |