Moons waxed to fulness and to sickles waned.
The gossips still conversed with bated breath.
The appalling mystery of Gray Cloud’s death,
Wrapped in impenetrable gloom, remained
A blighting shadow o’er the village spread.
But youthful spirits are invincible,
Nor fear nor superstition long can quell
The bubbling flow of that perennial well;
And so the youths and maidens soon regained
The wonted gayety that late had fled.