Standard Selections Part 23

'I love you, Nan!' Joe said, at last, in his grave, simple way-- I'd felt the words a-coming, child, for many a long, glad day.

I hung my head, he kissed me--oh, sweetest hour of life!

A stammering word, a sigh, and I was Joe's own promised wife.

"But fis.h.i.+ng-folks have much to do; my lover could not stay-- The gallant Gloucester fleet was bound to waters far away, Where wild storms swoop, and shattering fogs muster their dim, gray ranks, And spread a winding-sheet for men upon the fatal Banks.

And he, my Joe, must go to reap the harvest of the deep, While I, like other women, stayed behind to mourn and weep, And I would see his face no more till autumn woods were brown.

His schooner _Nan_ was swift and new, the pride of Gloucester town; He called her by my name. ''Tis sure to bring me luck,' said Joe.

She spread her wings, and through my tears I stood and watched her go.

"The days grew hot and long; I sewed the crisp and s.h.i.+ning seams Of this, my wedding-gown, and dreamed a thousand happy dreams Of future years and Joe, while leaf and bud and sweet marsh-flower I fas.h.i.+oned on the muslin fine, for many a patient hour.

In Gloucester wood the wild rose bloomed, and shed its sweets and died, And dry and tawny grew the gra.s.s along the marshes wide.

The last st.i.tch in my gown was set; I looked across the sea-- 'Fly fast, oh, time, fly fast!' I said, 'and bring him home to me; And I will deck my yellow hair and don my bridal gown, The day the gallant fis.h.i.+ng-fleet comes back to Gloucester town!'

"The rough skies darkened o'er the deep, loud blew the autumn gales; With anxious eyes the fishers' wives watched for the home-bound sails From Gloucester sh.o.r.e, and Rockport crags, lashed by the breakers dread, From cottage doors of Beverly, and rocks of Marblehead.

Ah, child, with trembling hand I set my candle at the pane, With fainting heart and choking breath, I heard the dolorous rain-- The sea that beat the groaning beach with wild and thunderous shocks, The black death calling, calling from the savage equinox; The flap of sails, the crash of masts, or so it seemed to me, And cries of strong men drowning in the clutches of the sea.

"I never wore my wedding-gown, so crisp and fine and fair; I never decked with bridal flowers my pretty yellow hair, No bridegroom came to claim me when the autumn leaves were sear, For there was bitter wailing on the rugged coast that year; And vain was further vigil from its rocks and beaches brown For never did the fis.h.i.+ng-fleet sail back to Gloucester town.

"'Twas fifty years ago. There, child, put back the faded dress, My winding-sheet of youth and hope, into the oaken press.

My life hath known no other joy, my heart no other glow, Feeble and worn, it still beats on in faithful love for Joe; And, like some hulk cast on a sh.o.r.e by waters sore distressed, I wait until he calls me from his own good place of rest."

She woke at dawn and lifted up her head so old and gray, And stared across the sandy beach, and o'er the low blue bay.

It was the hour when mists depart and midnight phantoms flee, The rosy sun was blus.h.i.+ng red along the splendid sea.

A rapture lit her face. "The bay is white with sails!" she cried, "They sweep it like the silver foam of waves at rising tide-- Sails from an unknown sea. Oh, haste and bring my wedding-gown-- It is the long-lost fis.h.i.+ng-fleet come back to Gloucester town!

And look! his _Nan_ leads all the rest. Dear Lord, I see my Joe!

He beckons from her s.h.i.+ning deck--haste, friends, for I must go.

The old, old light is in his eyes, the old smile on his lips; All grand and pale he stands among the crowding, white-winged s.h.i.+ps.

This is our wedding-morn. At last the bridegroom claims his bride.

Sweetheart, I have been true; my hand--here--take it!"

Then she died.

WHEN THE SNOW SIFTS THROUGH[19]

S. W. GILLILAN

The icy gale that hurled the snow Against the window pane, And rattled the sash with a merry clash Used not its strength in vain; For now and then a wee flake sifted Through the loose ill-fitting frame, By the warmer breezes each was lifted All melting as they came.

The baby stood with s.h.i.+ning eyes, Her hands upon the sill; She watched each flake and the course 'twould take, And her voice was never still.

'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?"

And, "Where's all the beauty gone?

What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow, When it gets in where it's warm?"

I smiled that day, but seldom now Does the thought of smiling come; A phantom shape, a bow of c.r.a.pe, And my sweet little child went home.

O Father, "Where does the whiteness go?

And whither's the beauty flown?

Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow'

On my cheek as I face the storm?"

Again the wild wind hurls the snow Against the frosted pane And a few flakes dash through the rattling sash, While I hear those words again.

The flakes scurry off to a spot on the hill Where a little mound is seen, And they cover it softly and tenderly As the gra.s.s with its cloak of green.

FOOTNOTE:

[19] By permission of the author.

TO A WILD FLOWER[20]

MAURICE THOMPSON

In the green solitudes Of the deep, shady woods Thy lot is kindly cast, and life to thee Is like a gust of rarest minstrelsy.

The winds of May and June Hum many a tender tune, Blowing above thy leafy hiding-place, Kissing, all thrilled with joy, thy modest face.

About thee float and glow Rare insects, hovering low, And round thee glance thin streams of delicate gra.s.s, Plas.h.i.+ng their odors on thee as they pa.s.s.

The sheen of brilliant wings Songs of shy, flitting things, The low, mysterious melodies that thrill Through every summer wood, thy sweet life fill.

Oh bloom! all joy is thine, All loves around thee s.h.i.+ne, The thousand hearts of nature throb for thee, Her thousand voices praise thee tenderly.

Oh bloom of purest glory, Flower of love's gentlest story, Forever keep thy petals fresh and fair, Forever send thy sweetness down the air!

I'll put thee in my song, With all thy joys along, At which some sunny hearts may sunnier grow, And frozen ones may gently slip their snow.

FOOTNOTE:

[20] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers of this author's works.

THE FATE OF ZOROASTER

F. MARION CRAWFORD

Zoroaster a young Persian and Nehushta a Hebrew maiden were betrothed lovers; an unfortunate misunderstanding separated them and, in a fit of jealousy, Nehushta became a wife of Darius, king of the Persians. Zoroaster entered the priesthood and later became the high priest of the temple in the king's palace. In a subsequent interview with the high priest, Nehushta discovers that her jealousy was groundless, but it was now too late to correct her unhappy mistake. In the meantime Nehushta had incurred the jealousy and hatred of another wife of Darius, who, in the absence of the king, planned the ma.s.sacre of the priests of the temple and Nehushta and her servants.