“Earth,” said Rolfe, “talk to her; try, and persuade her to quit, she can do no good by remaining here.”
“I wish she would,” answered Earth, “for I am tired of it;” and again approaching her, he said, “Mother, thou hadst better give over thy search, and return to thy wigwam.”
“And wherefore shall I do that?” she replied; “Is it that my lodge shall tell of past joys no more to be enjoyed. Is it that I may listen to the voice of the lost, in every whispering breeze that passes? or is it to watch and see pass away the last tint from a drooping flower?”
“Thou hast spoken of a drooping flower, lives she still in thy wigwam, mother?”
“The sun gilds the morning and we are here,” said the mother, “evening comes, and we are gone.” And forgetting the question of Earth, she cried, “Oloompa!—Oloompa!—why wilt thou not answer me, my son?”
“Is the drooping flower thou spokest of a plant of the prairie,” said Earth, “or grew it far off on the lands of the white men?”
“It may have come from the clouds;” said the mother:—“I sat in my wigwam, and cried for Oloompa, a vision appeared, and a maiden remained.”
“And is she a pale face? mother, tell, we too seek the lost.”
“Yes; as pale as the moon-beams which sleep on the snow.”
“And lives she still?”