"I was a stout young man
As you would find in ten;
And when on this I think,
I take in hand my pen
And write it plainly out,
That all the world may see
How I was cut down like
A blossom from a tree.
The Lord rest my soul."
The young man's name was Faithful Parker. Melody liked him well enough, though she never felt intimate with him, as she did with Susan Dyer and the dear child Love Good, who slept beneath this low white stone. This was Melody's favorite grave. It was such a dear quaint little name,—Love Good. "Good" had been a common name in the village seventy years ago, when this little Love lived and died; many graves bore the name, though no living person now claimed it.
LOVE GOOD,
FOUR YEARS OLD.
Our white rose withered in the bud.
This was all; and somehow Melody felt that she knew and cared for these parents much more than for those who put their sorrow into rhyme, and mourned in despairing doggerel.
Melody laid her soft warm cheek against the little white stone, and murmured loving words to it. The squirrel sat still in her lap, content to nestle under her hand, and bask in the light and warmth of the summer day: the sunlight streamed with tempered glow through the branches of an old cedar that grew beside the little grave; peace and silence brooded like a dove over the holy place.
A flutter of wings, a rustle of leaves,—was it a fairy alighting on the old cedar-tree? No, only an oriole; though some have said that this bird is a fairy prince in disguise, and that if he can win the love of a pure maiden the spell will be loosed, and he will regain his own form. This cannot be true, however; for Melody knows Golden Robin well, and loves him well, and he loves her in his own way, yet has never changed a feather at sight of her. He will sing for her, though; and sing he does, shaking and trilling and quivering, pouring his little soul out in melody for joy of the summer day, and of the sweet, quiet place, and of the child who never scares or startles him, only smiles, and sings to him in return. They are singing together now, the child and the bird. It is a very wonderful thing, if there were any one by to hear. The gray squirrel crouches motionless in the child's lap, with half-shut eyes; the quiet dead sleep on unmoved: who else should be near to listen to such music as this?
Nay, but who is this, leaning over the old stone-wall, listening with keenest interest,—this man with the dark, eager face and bold black eyes? His eyes are fixed on the child; his face is aglow with wonder and delight, but with something else too,—some passion which strikes a jarring note through the harmony of the summer idyl. What is this man doing here? Why does he eye the blind child so strangely, with looks of power, almost of possession?
Cease, cease your song, Melody! Fly, bird and tiny beast, to your shelter in the dark tree-tops; and fly you also, gentlest child, to the home where is love and protection and tender care! For the charm is broken, and your paradise is invaded.