The life of the prospector—lonely 'tis!
No venture free from daily hazard his,
But one of steady, hard, and daring toil
He must meet danger, nor from care recoil;
To unforeseen and sudden risks exposed,
No cease from vigil keen his labors knows.
And sudden wealth of all his thoughts the theme,
He works, too, in a sort of waking dream.
Thus the impressions he from nature drew
Results in good and manly impulse true.
Ah! one thing seemed to me exceeding plain—
The sequel showed my fear was not in vain—
That Fate had set for this young pair a trap!
Why, any townish, high-bred, polished chap
Had thought himself in fortune all the while
Could he have shared that day and Plet's sweet smile;
And weighing this—depend upon't 'twas so,—
Think what it was for lonely, honest Jo!
His blue eyes sparkled, one could easy trace
The happy thoughts upon his sunburnt face.
Did it mean joy, or would it bring regret—
Might Jo rue sometimes that he e'er saw Plet?
That he had nobly served them, that is true,
They kept the thought nor gratitude outgrew;
He'd striven hard their lives to save, and still—
No matter how full strong his hope or will,
How rich his manly love might prove or pure—
This fact remained, my Jo was very poor.
What right had he to think of such a mate,
One far above him in this world's estate?
But he was worthy of her, free from blame,
Though Fortune played the lad a niggard game!
In spite of every drawback, this I knew,
And hoped the jade would sometime play him true;
For poor or no poor, I could only feel
The chance was good if she but turned her wheel.
Now there's a picture I can ne'er forget;
After these years I seem to see it yet:
The figures you can guess were Plet and Jo,
With background made of rocks, and lake, and snow;
The girl half leaned upon a granite block,
Her roguish smile my poor Jo seemed to mock,
Part pity, part enjoyment, I believe—
What silly stuff I did in my head weave—
And Jo, in timid and in bashful way—
'Twas like a scene I once saw in a play,
Offered a bunch of flowers. And his face,
As he bent forward, not without grace,
Glowed with confusion and with passion new
As his strong heart and his strong brain were true.
I'd better stop; I grow nonsensical.—
A monster ledge served both for pedestal,
Jo in his earth-stained garments, heavy boot,
Plet in her jaunty hat and riding suit.
Did I admire them so? Why so it seems,
And even an old man has his need of dreams.
A charming picture—so I think, at least,
That couple standing where the wave released
Fell down the mossy rocks in sparkling foam,
The wild flowers growing from the moist, rich loam,
And from the sun and pines mosaic shed
O'er Plet's fair form and Jo's uncovered head.
A landscape setting, beautiful and grand!
The purple epilobiums in Jo's hand—
Frail, tender blossoms, delicate and sweet,
How strange to see them in that wild retreat!—
Were fitting emblems, in their sudden birth,
To soft enwrap and gladden the cold earth,
Of that sweet office a true love fulfils,
Whose wondrous budding all the being thrills—
Of that enchantment grown between those two,
The fond desire their hearts together drew!
V.
After that day to Jo there came a change,—
Not that I thought the fact so very strange—
For love had come, oh! that was plain to see,
And from the first I felt 'twas a decree.
I knew Jo found a heart that Plet had lost,
And only feared their love might be ill-crossed.
Perhaps the boy was not without his hopes
The eve that Plet returned adown the slopes.
Now he abstracted grew and walked alone,
To fits of silent reverie was prone.
That he had been a talker don't constrain,
Jo never was a glib-tongued rattle-brain.
For hours in silence to his work he'd stick,
Wielding the heavy hammer or the pick;
And I'll confess that I myself kept still.
No time to talk much, holding to the drill.
But at those times that we'd a moment quit,
And pass a word to cheer us up a bit,
I noticed that his speech was but to ask
Concerning work—some detail of our task.
And evenings, too, as moody as a churl
He'd sit and watch his pipe-smoke upward curl.
Sometimes his gaze on vacancy he'd fix,—
And well I knew the young god played his tricks,—
And if I spoke, some thought wished to impart,
'Twas all unheard, or answered with a start.
What all this meant—who could mistake the sign?
'Twas plain to see as three times three are nine.
So at our claim we kept; he worked as though
A wealth must come, whether it would or no.
A new life dwelt within my partner's breast—
If my prayers answered, then 'twas surely blessed—
But in that present 'twas a torture, too.
His question was—what course can I pursue?
Were not his hopes but built upon the sand—
Could one so poor expect to gain Plet's hand?
And constantly this thought his brain did seize—
Had not sweet Plet been used to every ease?
This truth stared out—a common miner he,—
Alas! for him, a rich man's daughter she!
So his dark moods I clearly understood,
Persistent thought that all would end in good.
Pretending not to see, I smoked my pipe,
And thought, I'll live to see the time grow ripe.
In proper time I knew that Jo would speak,
As in the twilight I would watch him seek—
To him I guess 'twas fairest of all bowers—
The spot where he had offered Plet the flowers.
Oft when eve's shadows deepened into nights,
He'll look adown the slopes and watch the lights
That we could see within the distant camp,
Hoping, I knew, to see one special lamp—
Which hope was more than frequent not in vain—
The one that burned behind Plet's window pane.
Yes, he had grown as fond as any dove;
Beyond a doubt, poor Jo was deep in love!
VI.
Hurrah! hurrah! And true beyond a doubt!
Hurrah! hurrah! Had we not cause to shout?
She turned her wheel, the changeful, fickle witch;
Yes, beyond doubt, we too had "struck it rich!"
The blind lead we had followed many a day,
Suddenly widened to the best of "pay."
'Twas purest carbonates. We had enough,
Thousands were ours in the black, gritty "stuff!"