In the fields men work busily; every year they cut the grass and grain. The forest trees grow many years, but at last the axe fells or the storm uproots them. Only the earth, in which men are buried, remains.
Down in the rapids, not far from the Devil's-kettle, lies an uprooted pine. No one can pull it out. In the summer-time the ground caves in; in winter the ice is too slippery. So this tree had stood many, many years by the whirlpool, and had forced its roots into the rocky bed. The water sprinkled upon it from the falls had nourished it so richly; and now it is done with decaying----. "What a pity for the fine, valuable tree!" was really Landolin's last thought.
The black horse neighed loudly, then looked back at his master, who held the reins so loose. Landolin straightened himself in the saddle and tightened his hold on the bridle. See, there comes Cushion-Kate, with a bundle of dry twigs. Landolin nodded approvingly at his own resolution.
"Wait; I'm coming," he cried to Cushion-Kate. She stopped and threw down the bundle of wood. Landolin sprang from his horse, and holding it by the bridle, he said:
"Kate, my wife is dead."
"I suppose so; they buried her."
"I want to talk kindly to you. Who knows how long either you or I shall live?" And in deep contrition he went on, in a low tone: "You have lost your son, and I am almost persecuted to death by my son. I suffer----"
A devilish laugh interrupted him. The dog snuffed around the old woman. Landolin called him away, and continued:
"I would like to do something for you."
"Then hang yourself!" cried Cushion-Kate. Hastening to her bundle of twigs, she unfastened the string.