The watch-dog walked in his ribs between
The hinder wheels, with sleepy mien;
A dangling pail to the axle slung;
Astern of the wain a manger hung,—
A schooner's boat by the davits swung.
The white-faced boys sat three in a row,
With eyes of wonder and heads of tow;
Father looked sadly over his brood;
Mother just lifted a flap of the hood;
All saw the hearse,—and two understood.
They thought of the one-eyed cabin small,
Hid like a nest in the grasses tall,
Where plains swept boldly off in the air,
Grooved into heaven everywhere,—
So near the stars' invisible stair
That planets and prairie almost met,—
Just cleared its edges as they set!
They thought of the level world's "divide,"
And their hearts flowed down its other side
To the grave of the little girl that died.
They thought of childhood's neighborly hills,
With sunshine aprons and ribbons of rills,
That drew so near when the day went down,
Put on a crimson and golden crown,
And sat together in mantles brown;
The Dawn's red plume in their winter caps,
And Night asleep in their drowsy laps,
Lightening the load of the shouldered wood
By shedding the shadows as they could,
That gathered round where the homestead stood.
They thought,—that pair in the rugged wain,
Thinking with bosom rather than brain;
They'll never know till their dying day
That what they thought and never could say,
Their hearts throbbed out in an Alpine lay,
The old Waldensian song again;
Thank God for the mountains, and amen!
The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on,—
A moment or two, and both were gone;
The wain bound east, the hearse bound west,
Both going home, both looking for rest.
The Lord save all, and his name be blest!
Benjamin F. Taylor.