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 COFi'RIGHT DEPOSm 
 
FLORIDINA 
 
FLORIDINA 
 
 POEMS 
 
 By 
 
 SAMUEL D. LEE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 
 
 1920 
 

 SEP 27 l£2l 
 
 JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 
 COPYRIGHT, 1920. 
 
 ©aA576578 
 

 ij CONTENTS 
 
 ■ FLORIDINA 7 
 
 J SONG OF THE BIRD 9 
 
 SUNSET 10 
 
 NIGHT 12 
 
 A maiden's "no" 15 
 
 THE ST. JOHNS, FLORIDA Ij 
 
 WERE YOU BUT HERE 18 
 
 BEAUTY CANNOT DIE 27 
 
 A VALENTINE 27 
 
 A VALENTINE 28 
 
 A VALENTINE 29 
 
 TO VALENTINE 3I 
 
 IN CAMP IN FLORIDA 32 
 
 MAID OF AVON 4I 
 
 A VICTIM 43 
 
 THE ISLE OF THE BLESSED 47 
 
FLORIDINA 
 
 On violet bank, 
 
 'Mid grasses rank, 
 The sunshine is stealing over; 
 
 Does love, awajE, 
 
 This wintry day. 
 Think of her careless rover. 
 
 Thro' dreamy hours 
 I pluck fair flowers, 
 
 By forest trail and ramble; 
 Or woo sweet sleep, 
 Where soft winds sweep 
 
 Some jasmine covered bramble. 
 
 But she, tonight, 
 
 Where anthracite 
 Throws out a radiant glowing. 
 
 Draws close her chair; 
 
 Without, the air 
 Is murky thick — 'tis snowing. 
 
 'Mid bays I hear 
 Low, mournful, clear. 
 The wild notes of the whippoorwill 
 7 
 
And watch the clouds — 
 
 Like drifting shrouds — 
 
 That all the sky with phantoms fill. 
 
 She hears the roar 
 
 Of hails that pour 
 Along the roof and frozen ground; 
 
 It is all gloom 
 
 No sun, no moon, 
 But sleet, but snow, but ice is found. 
 
 II 
 
 My bird may sing in sunny climes ; 
 Her bells may ring in chilling rhymes. 
 
 My flowers may bloom the twelve month round 
 Her pure snows deck the frosty ground. 
 
 She wanders forth on summer days ; 
 With me the summer ever stays. 
 
 My thousand trees perfume the air; 
 
 With her they raise their cold limbs bare. 
 
 I breathe with joy the warm south breath; 
 Her northland lies 'neath robes of death. 
 
Ill 
 
 My Love-bird would sing 
 
 Forever and aye, 
 Could his warbling bring 
 
 You away — away. 
 
 Song of the Bird 
 
 O come from the frost land, 
 
 O come from the lost land, 
 O come to the dear sunny south — sunny south, 
 
 O come from the ice land 
 
 O come to this nice land, 
 O come to our own bonny south — bonny south 
 O come to my own bonny south. 
 
 O escape the cold blast, 
 O flee from the bold blast. 
 O come where the orange blooms for thee — blooms for 
 thee. 
 Bid good-bye the light snows. 
 Bid farewell the white snows, 
 For myrtle and rose blooms for thee — blooms for 
 thee, 
 O myrtle and rose blooms for thee. 
 O come from the dull skies. 
 And where storm-clouds arise. 
 And live where the air ever cheers— ever cheers. 
 9 
 
O come where the beams shine, 
 For such beauty as thine, 
 And love is but born of the years — of the years, 
 Where love is but born of the years. 
 
 My bird may not sing 
 Forever and aye, 
 
 For bright hopes a-wing 
 Are flying this way. 
 
 Where hearts united 
 
 In ever fdir day, 
 
 Can live as they're plighted 
 'Neath laurel and bay. 
 
 SUNSET 
 
 A Florida Forest Camp 
 
 The sun flames on the brink of pine > 
 It spreads its crimson wings afar, 
 And poises there, as fain to stay 
 Where beauty sleeps the hours away, 
 As though 'twere tired of constantly 
 
 10 
 
Journeying toward eternity ; 
 As if 'twould pause where no toils mar 
 And rest beneath the odorous spray 
 Of virgin's bower and eglantine 
 
 It never spreads its wings so wide 
 Nor shows its colored plumage o'er 
 Another spot on earth as here ; 
 Not o'er the Mediterranean tide, 
 Nor at the Dardanelles' door, 
 Nor on the other Mexic shore, 
 On higher or on lower sphere. 
 
 The lake lies in tranquility. 
 
 As ordered Christ on Galilee, 
 
 So calmly blue and freshly fair; 
 
 Save where a few faint ripples show 
 
 That some old saurian swims below. 
 
 Its rim is fringed around unbroke 
 
 With feather'd grass and moss-hung oak. 
 
 A gnarled magnolia bends above, 
 
 Its leaves of glossy green scarce move; 
 
 Its gorgeous buds are bursting wide, 
 
 So purely white, of incense rare, — 
 
 Angels, perhaps, I've thought would prize 
 
 These lovely flowers to strew inside 
 
 The chancel rail in Paradise. 
 
 II 
 
The brown squirrel seeks its basket-home 
 
 Of cross-laced twigs, where rough bough leaps 
 
 The rattler sounds his castinets, 
 
 And draws his mottled form away. 
 
 The winco-pipe its petals fold, 
 
 As fearful that some bold night-gnome 
 
 Would touch its heart with fingers cold. 
 
 The stammel-crested picus sleeps, 
 
 And sings in lower, softer frets 
 
 The Cardinal in swift volee. 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 A Florida Forest Camp 
 
 Pile on the knots ; these hearts of pine 
 That reek with flame of Pluto's mine. 
 Whose stronger half fell to decay 
 And sprang to gaseous realms away. 
 If these are souls then left behind 
 And long, as does the chaste suttee, 
 To join in some starward abode — 
 Oh, bid them better speed than wind, 
 And let their leaping chariot be 
 Like that in which Elijah rode. 
 
 12 
 
An amphitheater of light, 
 
 With velvet blackness hung around, 
 
 Thro' which pine columns, grand in height, 
 
 Corinthian capital'd in green 
 
 Rise up, to hold the dome profound, 
 
 The wonder of the countless crowds 
 
 Who are on earth and who have been. 
 
 Thou glorious sky! O man, would breast 
 
 The ether in a rapid flight 
 
 To reach the realm of silence, where 
 
 The billowy softness of thy clouds 
 
 Invite to never ending rest ; 
 
 Where myriad flaming stars keep ward, 
 
 And dreamy fancies ever guard, 
 
 For all who come to slumber there. 
 
 From off the distant black-jack ridge 
 Comes loud and sharp the sand crane's howl 
 And in the jungle down the stream 
 Echoes the wildcat's wildest scream. 
 And the grufif call of the moon-eyed owl; 
 The salamander tunnels run 
 Skillful as any engineer 
 With compass and theodolite, 
 And every rod or so appear 
 Glistening in the bright fire's light 
 His pyramids of fresh, damp sand. 
 Great yellow spiders, striped with black. 
 From twig to stump, forward and back, 
 13 
 
Throw filaments that soon expand 
 
 By dexterous curve and marvelous lap 
 
 Into a curious, glittering trap, 
 
 For flies that stir with rise of sun. 
 
 These things and scenes for them alone, — 
 
 For miles there is no human sign, — 
 
 Two stalwarts from another clime, 
 
 In flannel shirts, and black with grime, 
 
 Who sit on ancient log of pine 
 
 As very princes on a throne; 
 
 Who smoke perique in meerschaum pipe, 
 
 And drink of bourbon, mellow, ripe ; 
 
 Rehearse old tales of travel lore, 
 
 Old tales they've told oft times before — 
 
 Old tales by which they set great store. 
 
 The fire burns low. The sinewy men 
 Stretch their tired limbs, and sleepy yawn 
 They look with care to rifle charge. 
 To pistol cartridge and cap — 
 Ready for foe, tho' small or large. 
 Grasping the ropes, with graceful spring 
 They reach the hammock's easy swing 
 And closely 'round their blankets wrap. 
 Morpheus waves his wand, and then. 
 Thro' dreamy vistas of far home. 
 Folds them in magic of sleep, from 
 Which they are freed only at dawn. 
 14 
 
A MAIDEN'S "NO" 
 
 "Know ye a fairer land than this 
 Beneath the heaven's shining sun, 
 
 Where all there is of earthly bliss 
 
 May surely be by manhood won?" 
 
 "Ah, no," the traveler said; "Fair Miss, 
 I've journeyed far and looked on none." 
 
 "Know ye a climate that for health 
 
 Is better than South Florida, 
 Where virgin soil gives greater wealth 
 
 And asks less labor for the pay?" 
 The traveler glanced, perchance with stealth, 
 
 At her, but boldly answered, "Nay." 
 
 "Know ye a land with bluer skies? 
 
 Ol" one where clearer waters flow? 
 Where brighter colors drape sunrise. 
 
 Or aught to match this sunset glow?" 
 The traveler closed his steel-gray eyes, 
 
 And, turning, simply answered, "No." 
 
 "Know ye a land where tree and vine 
 Will make for man a better lot? 
 15 
 
Know ye an air that's so like wine — 
 In short, another favored spot?" 
 
 The traveler made impatient sign. 
 And said, "My angel. I do not." 
 
 "You've questioned me, and I've told truth. 
 
 And I will even further go. 
 I've seen no maid so fair, forsooth, 
 
 Will ye repay the debt ye owe?" 
 ■"Ah. me. thou wandering, gray-eyed youth. 
 
 My answer, like all yours, is Xo !" 
 
 "And I have come from fartherest earth, 
 From Russia white and warm Cathay, 
 
 To kneel to thee, sole one of worth. 
 And at thy shrine due homage pay." 
 
 "Oh, turn, brave traveler, from this dearth 
 Of love, for I must say thee Nay!" 
 
 And am I buried here in woe, 
 
 Where Nature in her beauty lies, 
 
 And ye'll not with me forward go 
 To make it perfect Paradise?" 
 
 "Ah, silly man, dost ye not know 
 
 Two negatives mean — Yes? Arise!" 
 
 i6 
 
THE ST. JOHNS. FLORIDA 
 
 There is sweeping, wild joy in this Hfe of mine 
 On thy banks, O broad-flowing river! 
 
 Where the wind woos to sleep, and the soft sunshine 
 Through the tupelo branches shiver. 
 
 i dream of the time in the far-away past, 
 When red-men followed thy courses; 
 
 And sigh o'er the legends that tell what trees hast 
 Sheltered the Cherokee forces. 
 
 And the warriors and maids who wooed in thy bowers 
 Left love marks for later day story. 
 
 In the jasmine showers and the white orange flowers 
 Which ever unfold to thy glory. 
 
 I think of the prince who from Spain's martial line 
 Sought where thy music waves darkle 
 
 The wonderful font, wreath'd in wild rose and vine. 
 Where waters of life ever sparkle. 
 
 Thy sunshine and shades were the forest child's hopes, 
 And they valiantly fought for thee when 
 
 There came the pale face to thy green sunny slopes, 
 Now none the less lovely than then. 
 17 
 
'Tis the clime where magnolias perfume the soft air, 
 Where cypress and myrtle entwining; 
 
 Where cardinals wing, and the turtle dove fair 
 Toward love is ever inclining. 
 
 Where the cape-rose whitens the thickets' deep gloom. 
 
 And mosses are daintily clinging; 
 Where cactus flowers and lemon trees bloom, 
 
 And mocking birds sweetly are singing. 
 
 Where cypress and palm gently sway in the sun 
 'Neath the breath from warm, placid seas, 
 
 And one summer ends when another's begun, 
 In this land of the vines and trees. 
 
 The clime of all climes, where each moment of life 
 Takes an arrow from sorrow's quiver. 
 
 May you always be loved — with never more strife — 
 For thy beauties, O glorious river! 
 
 WERE YOU BUT HERE 
 
 I 
 
 Were you but here to pick wild flowers with me, 
 Blue lupin, calopogon, red wild-pea, 
 Rich yellow orchis in a golden sea. 
 Pure, waxy blossoms of the sweet bay tree; 
 i8 
 
II 
 
 Were you but here to see the flaunting flower 
 Of pawpaw, creamy cacti's wealthy dower, 
 Palmetto's racemes, sweet-briar petals shower, 
 Low, lovely violets where pine trees tower; 
 
 III 
 
 Were you but here, I'd gather mistletoe, 
 With holly leaves down where wild roses blow, 
 Where jasmine, smilax and fire lilies grow, 
 Weaving a chaplet for your brow of snow. 
 
 IV 
 
 Were you but here in April to behold 
 Magnolia grand, white velvet flower unfold, 
 Scattering perfume as spendthrifts scatter gold, 
 Cloying us here with sweetnesses untold ; 
 
 Tall yuccas plumes of milky bells I choose 
 To mingle with lantana's varied hues, 
 Crab's eye (Abrus) vine, bringing weather news, 
 While it its last year's scarlet harvest strews. 
 19 
 
VI 
 
 Were you but here beside this round quiet lake. 
 That Hke a film the quick impressions take 
 Of stately trees around, the stars to make 
 Of this a heaven, their own heaven forsake. 
 
 VII 
 
 Were you but here among great columned pines 
 With wild flowers all around displaying signs 
 Of welcome, coral red with green combines, 
 Among white petaled phlox, blue day-star shines : 
 
 VIII 
 
 Were you but here where green loblollys shade 
 The stream that ripples on toward yonder glade ; 
 By fragrant cedars flanked ; a retreat made 
 For sentiment, were you here unafraid. 
 
 IX 
 
 Were you but here to see blue herons spread 
 Wide wings to wing from marshy sedges dead 
 To farthest cypress draped deep and dread, 
 Where they, in nests of awkwardness, were bred. 
 
 20 
 
We have in silence waited — no word said, 
 And all the woods to silence, too, were wed; 
 Then life takes courage; first that's heard and read 
 That of limp sawyers that logs saw and shred. 
 
 XI 
 
 Up high, the cypress, plume of ardent red, 
 Above an ivory bill and night-black head 
 Peeps shyly from a hole. His matted bed 
 The fox-squirrel leaves to race the limbs instead. 
 
 XII 
 
 There comes, with stride of royalty inbred, 
 Lord of dank hammockhaunts — suspicion fled — 
 The Turkey cock in glittering bronze, full fed 
 On berries from the saw palmetto shed. 
 
 XIII 
 
 A saurian searching for his weekly bread 
 Climbs up the mud where pigs have come and bled. 
 Aix sponsa whence from where alarmed they sped 
 Float out in iridescent beauty yede. 
 
 21 
 
XIV 
 
 Hoarse calls the frog; so always he has pled; 
 Silent the gopher's and the wildcat's tread. 
 Appeals by scores appear, left, right, ahead — 
 Were you here thru umbraceous pathways led. 
 
 XV 
 
 Were you but here beneath this spreading oak 
 Draped in its flowing gray-green mossy cloak. 
 Those gay-flowered lindens, where bees' humming broke 
 Into a gentle roar near midday's stroke, 
 
 XVI 
 
 Were you but here by canopy of palm, 
 Whose rustling leaves a melancholy psalm 
 Perpetually sings, a saving balm 
 When overjoyousness endangers calm; 
 
 XVII 
 
 Were you but here when orange flowers appear, 
 Their deep, intoxicating sweetness near 
 And far thrown on the evening atmosphere — 
 A love-borne breath from far Edenic sphere. 
 
 22 
 
XVIII 
 
 Were you but here the mocking bird to hear 
 In divers songs, silvery, liquid, clear. 
 Answered by the cardinal's music dear 
 As cousinly he shows his plumes so near; 
 
 XIX 
 
 Were you but here to see chamelions change, 
 Brilliant butterflies from flower to flower range, 
 Frail web spiders arrange and rearrange, 
 Decked with bright diamond dews of morning strange, 
 
 XX 
 
 Were you but here when first faint streaks of dawn 
 Bid farewell to the stars of night withdrawn, 
 Which, lighting yet themselves are paltry pawn 
 To Sol's effulgence flooding lake and lawn. 
 
 XXI 
 
 That swiftly touching harpstrings of the spheres 
 Wakens our world with music human ears 
 Cannot be deaf to. Every bird, too, hears 
 And answers with a morning song that cheers. 
 23 
 
XXII 
 
 Were you but here when falls the noon-tide hush 
 And warmer currents animation crush, 
 Until one's thoughts, past all restrainings brush 
 On zephyrs off to unmapped dreamland rush. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Were you but here when up from the southwest 
 A wee cloud grows until the arch is dress'd 
 In swirling black; hot lightning rips the breast 
 Of mourning heavens — a fiery devil-jest. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Deep thunders crash to break the wonted rest 
 Of nature; wild winds sweep in merry quest 
 Of branch to strip and forest-lord to wrest 
 From out the soil their power to manifest. 
 
 XXV 
 
 Rain falls as if a river o'er the crest 
 Of a great dam in angry volume press'd; 
 It drives and drifts from every point to test 
 Each crack, and, oft, inside unwelcome guest. 
 24 
 
XXVI 
 
 It slacks! Unfolded in the east, possessed 
 Of hope and love, to all mankind address'd, 
 A double bow by angel lips caress'd. 
 Brilliant and beautiful and by God bless'd. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 An hour ! Where seen a cloud ? the earth impress'd 
 By sunny flood ; but, leaf and flower now tress'd 
 In dewey pearls ; and air, refined, bequest 
 To man to find in life's fresh hour new zest. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Were you but here to see the sunset skies 
 Tinged with a hundred shades of brilliant dyes- 
 Great Banners which the God of heaven fliei 
 Glimpsing the beauties of our Paradise ; 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Were you but here when on the evening air 
 Spirits of Beauty from every sylvan lair 
 Come to enmesh the senses into fair 
 Elysian dreams wholly unknown elsewhere; 
 25 
 
XXX 
 
 Were you but here when gentle night winds blow 
 Across from waves of Gulf of Mexico, 
 Till from the seolian pine needles flow 
 Melody so soft, plaintive, soothing, low ;— 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Were you but here when the full moon looks down, 
 Of night at once the lovely queen and crown, 
 Whose floods of dreamy light o'erwhelm and drown 
 All irritations that the day brought 'round; 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Were you but here beneath the stars tonight 
 We would, at least in fancy, take a flight 
 Across the realms of space to that great light 
 Canopus, than six hundred suns more bright. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Were you but here, we'd dream new dreams, and build 
 Our castles near, by waters Peace hath still'd 
 Whose battlements the rays of sunrise gild, 
 Whose chambers are by Love's effluence fill'd. 
 26 
 
BEAUTY CANNOT DIE 
 
 Across the parallels bright tho'ts come troopin' 
 Whence frosty figures glow upon the pane 
 
 To where in sunny splendor azure lupin 
 
 Proclaims the coming of the spring again — 
 Heralds forth the vernal equinox again. 
 
 'Tis one bloom only in the vast procession — 
 New pageantry as weeks and months go by, 
 
 That on a wanderer leaves the deep impression, 
 While flowers may fade, their beauty cannot die- 
 Tho* substance withers, spirit cannot die. 
 
 And so with kindred, to other realms departing, 
 Behiiid leave all the loveliness of life 
 
 To lift the shadows and to ease the smarting, 
 'Til found in verity beyond the strife — 
 'Til they're regained in truth beyond the strife. 
 
 A VALENTINE 
 
 I send you some greenery — some greenery to wear, 
 Entwined, as were roses entwined in your hair, 
 And if, when I come, I should chance to find it there, 
 I would know, so I think, what to do. 
 27 
 
The story is told, — a mere legend, of course, 
 That the mistletoe has the magical force 
 To draw a knight-errant from afar to the source 
 Of a joy scintillatingly true. 
 
 Some say that alone to his eye, 'tis revealed, 
 For eyes that are lighted by love unconcealed, 
 Quicken, as flashes on the magnetic field, 
 And the fire of the stroke never miss. 
 
 And, since elder day, when he reaches the shrine, 
 Where mistletoe branches invitingly shine. 
 His heart leapeth forth to the pleasure divine 
 Of the blush to the answering kiss. 
 
 A VALENTINE 
 
 I gather violets on the slopes 
 
 And orchis on the lea. 
 And read in them anew the hopes 
 Tho' miles and miles are now between 
 
 One lovely maid and me. 
 My heart goes back to that sweet scene 
 
 Beside the sea — and thee. 
 
 That grew beside the sea; 
 28 
 
1 wander down thro' Lovers' Lane 
 
 And wish you here today 
 To walk with me this bowering fane 
 
 And cheer the lonely way ; 
 I bind for you a wreath of bays 
 
 Embraided with jasamine, 
 That shall keep green our love always, 
 
 Mj'' charming Valentine. 
 
 A VALENTINE 
 
 The east is full of splendor — 
 
 With brilliancy aglow, 
 As Morning's fairies lend her 
 
 Bright colors from the bow ; 
 The rose throws wide its petals. 
 
 The pine's long needles shine, 
 As mem'ry backward settles 
 
 To far-off Valentine. 
 
 The mocking bird is singing 
 
 flis many tuneful lays, 
 The cardinals are winging 
 
 In flashing, crimson ways; 
 The golden thrushes flutter 
 
 With scarce a vocal sign, 
 But all together utter 
 
 A prayer for Valentine. 
 29 
 
The midday sun is glowing 
 
 In a cerulean sky, 
 The river, calmly flowing. 
 
 Breathes a soft lullaby. 
 The dogwood's pure white blooming 
 
 My forest path\vays line 
 And melts the lonely glooming 
 
 With thoughts of Valentine. 
 
 Here spreads a beauteous carpet 
 
 Of violets pearl and blue, 
 Which have, thro' passion's war, kept 
 
 Love's beacons burning true. 
 There, lovely orchids dainty 
 
 Their blushing heads incline: 
 With those and these, I paint a 
 
 Picture of Valentine. 
 
 Behold ! the sun is sinking — 
 
 A gorgeous color scheme. 
 Whereat the soul is drinking 
 
 In ecstacy and dream — 
 Is eloquently speaking 
 
 A language scarcely mine, 
 And yet, the heart's deep seeking 
 
 Spells out a Valentine. 
 
 In long festoons, the mosses 
 Wave gently to and fro 
 30 
 
Where the gaunt cypress tosses 
 Its arms in the moon's glow. 
 
 Odors of orange and lemon 
 Intoxicate as wine ; 
 
 Night puts another gem on 
 The brow of Valentine. 
 
 The day's winds are in slumber; 
 
 Up through the soft, warm night 
 I gaze, where without number 
 
 The stars are shining bright. 
 More beautiful and clearer 
 
 Than stars, those eyes of thine 
 Which, as they are, seem nearer, 
 
 My far off Valentine. 
 
 TO VALENTINE 
 
 What distance lies between the snow 
 
 And semi-tropic land 
 Where streamlets musically flow 
 
 With flowers on either hand? 
 Shall my mind not go far afield 
 
 To where a love had birth, 
 And to that love a homage yield 
 
 As great as all on earth? 
 There's not an hour in all the day 
 
 But what I think of thee; 
 31 
 
There's not a flower by all the way 
 
 But what I'd pluck for thee — 
 The pretty violets blue and white— 
 
 The yellow sweet jasmine — 
 Come whispering if they may not light 
 
 The path of Valentine. 
 And why should I not acquiesce 
 
 In prayer of flower and vine 
 That twine and blossom but to bless 
 
 Mv distant Valentine? 
 
 IN CAMP IN FLORIDA 
 
 Far from the noise and confusion, 
 The traffic and toil of the street,— 
 
 Far from the heartless allusion 
 To notes I'm expected to meet, — 
 
 I'm here, where flowers in profusion 
 Are spread as prayer-rugs at my feet. 
 
 The flowers, and wonderful mosses 
 Woven in patterns that shame 
 
 The skill of adepts in flosses 
 
 And wools, for beauty, and claim 
 
 The homage I give without loss as 
 Each musci I'd study and name. 
 32 
 
Far from the strivers for money — 
 Sordid blood-treasure of earth 
 
 That's stored, as bees store their honey, 
 For robbers next in their mirth, 
 
 I'm h. re where the sky is all sunny 
 And gentle Pegasus hath birth. 
 
 Briefly I've joined in the striving. — 
 Taken my place in the mart, 
 
 To find I'm but fitted for hiving 
 The harm, ihe hurt and the smart. 
 
 From which I shrink for the shriving 
 Which m.isical birds grant the heart. 
 
 I criticize never the master, 
 Floarding as shepherds herd sheep, 
 
 Xor sorrow, when Fortune has cast her 
 Favors on others piled deep- 
 
 I merely v.nsh rest where these vaster 
 Pine forests invite me to sleep ; 
 
 Plere, where the mocking bird's singing 
 His cheerful, pertinent lays. 
 
 Where cardinals brightly are winging — 
 Flashes of crimson in bays. 
 
 With thrushes up yonder clinging, 
 To make their gold-coated displays. 
 33 
 
On atmosphere sensuous, flowering 
 Jasmine comes over the sense, 
 
 While down from the Styrax tree towering, 
 Blossoms, full ripened, fall dense. 
 
 Whitening the ground with their showering 
 O'er Peace River lowlands immense. 
 
 Days pass as dreams pass with dreamers : — 
 'Tis morn, when the awakened east 
 
 Throws up its flamboyant streamers 
 Of wondrous favors, the least 
 
 With Beauty's compared, would outbeam hers 
 And she find her own praise decreas'd. 
 
 'Tis then that the woodlands awaken — 
 
 Are filled with echoing song : 
 The birds, which their keynotes have taken 
 
 From heaven, and down here prolong; 
 A pleasure ne'er to be shaken 
 
 Or even interpreted wrong; 
 
 With hearts that seem overflowing 
 With life and perfect good cheer. 
 
 Praising the Lord, and not knowing 
 Existence should be in fear 
 
 Of reaping from their Adam's sowing 
 In the bird world's earliest year. 
 34 
 
How glitter jewels of the morning, 
 Diamonds in rays of the sun 
 
 Are petty besides those adorning 
 The webs the spiders have spun 
 
 O'er bush and o'er grass, as scorning 
 Darkness and toil, until done. 
 
 Look on the gems and the weaving. 
 Mostly admire which you please, 
 
 Either's beyond the believing — 
 Changes that never shall cease : 
 
 Those to the spider's work cleaving. 
 To the beautiful jewelry these. 
 
 Gray squirrels incessantly chatter, 
 Making emphatic protest 
 
 'Gainst the invasion, — a matter 
 Important enough to be prest- 
 
 To the intruder; the latter 
 But envies the happy distrest: 
 
 Pretty chaps, they grow confidential 
 Should one exhibit some tact, — 
 
 Advancing in course providential 
 To make harmonious pact 
 
 Instead of killing. My pen shall 
 No moral put down from this fact. 
 35 
 
They come down a tree on a spying 
 
 Trip, sharpened, active, alert. 
 Their bushy tails high-arched, and eyeing 
 
 You with trained vision expert, 
 And suddenly scamper then, crying, 
 
 Returning when they've found no hurt. 
 
 Likewise with birds, quickly discerning 
 Danger approaching their door. 
 
 They're easily taught, and soon learning 
 For them you're friendly, and more. 
 
 Till, their bridges backward arc burning. 
 Thev linger, and eat of your store. 
 
 And the days ! with their perfect o'erarching 
 Stretch of immaculate blue, 
 
 The sun not too trivia), nor scorching, 
 Bringeth in answer most true 
 
 The flowers and the fruit to its marching- 
 Each day giving forth something new. 
 
 The orchis that bow in the grasses- 
 Delicate yellow and pink. 
 
 Blue lupins in wide-spreading masses 
 Day stars just over the brink 
 
 Of the hill; then what surpasses 
 Passion flower as Edenic link? 
 36 
 
As sun rays are gathered by lenses 
 
 Humid air gathers in night 
 Perfume of the citrus on senses 
 
 That falter, and magnolias quite 
 Overpower ; and here my pen says 
 
 These all, with cape-jasmine, are white. 
 
 In patience, at eve, and half lying 
 Far from the crack of the lash. 
 
 My thoughts to my own thoughts replying, 
 Whether sound, silly or rash ; 
 
 Watching the fire in its dying — 
 Falling from flame into ash. 
 
 Facing the sun in his setting — 
 Marvelous light in the west; 
 
 The evils of earth all forgetting, 
 The soul in tremulous quest 
 
 Goes forth at Fancy's wide letting 
 And I remain here at rest. 
 
 Always a change in its beauty 
 Ever a shifting of scene. 
 
 As varied as richness of booty 
 A baron brings to his queen — 
 
 A palette of color to suit a 
 Painter who dreams aniline. 
 37 
 
Reds that are coming and going 
 Mark the whole gamut of shades 
 
 The lights into darker are flowing, 
 The darkest constantly fades, 
 
 The gold in brilliancy showing 
 On edges of blue it embraids. 
 
 Wide on the horizon spreading, 
 Touching the crown of the arch, 
 
 Color on color fast treading, 
 From purple to silver of larch — 
 
 Hues of a Tyrolese wedding 
 Or fanciful mardi-gras march. 
 
 Color to color is blended, 
 
 Exquisite coin from God's mint; 
 Fainter and fainter, yet splendid 
 
 In gleam, in glamor, in glint ; 
 Fading and fading, is ended 
 
 With never of red a hint. 
 
 And stars come out in their brightness, 
 
 O'erspreading the firmament 
 Conveying the mind with lightness 
 
 Thru realms whence their glow is sent. 
 Wandering in wonder no mite less 
 
 Than in roaming daylight's extent.. 
 
'Tis easy to talk of billions 
 Of miles yon Algol's away, 
 
 But well might it be in octillions 
 Under the limited sway 
 
 Of the mind that vastness still stuns 
 Until put completely at bay. 
 
 Problems perplexing make weary 
 The brain that's taken in quest 
 
 By speculation that's mere a 
 Bale-light that leads 'til opprest 
 
 Are all senses beneath dreary — 
 The dreary deep maze of unrest. 
 
 As forces of tempest are lost in 
 Efforts o'erstrained, so at last 
 
 The mind is no longer engrossed in 
 Crossness of strenuous blast, — 
 
 But finds itself happily gloss'd in 
 The waters on which it is cast. 
 
 Smooth river of sleep that Slowest 
 Down to the eternal sea. 
 
 Never yet lives he who knowest 
 How he goes, bondman or free; 
 
 Whether the soul go to soweth 
 Seed on the bank beyond Lethe, 
 39 
 
Or, if, as Brahman is preaching, 
 It falls like a drop of rain 
 
 Into the ocean far-reaching 
 And like that same drop again 
 
 Comes back to earth for new teaching. 
 Experience, knowledge and pain. 
 
 With an "if" we are obliged to leave it 
 As from the beginning it's grown ; 
 
 Mere "if," and if you believe it 
 Sprung from a postulate sown 
 
 On barrens, and naught to relieve it 
 From doubts on the chance wind blown 
 
 Here, with the towering pines keeping 
 Watch o'er the camp thru the night. 
 
 The camper, child-like, is sleeping, 
 Bothers of life put to flight,— 
 
 Thru leaves the zephyrs are creeping 
 Intoning a musical rite. 
 
 Rest! Dreaming not that you follow 
 Hound-haunted deer in the chase; 
 
 Rest! Without dreams that o'er fallow 
 Broad turkey tracks you would trace 
 
 Rest! As on hill and in hollow 
 Darkness all land marks efface. 
 40 
 
Soothing the night and its voices! 
 
 Soothing the odor of pine ! 
 Soothing the wind that rejoices 
 
 Entangled in branch and in vine ! 
 Soothing the stream's music choice as 
 
 An anthem subdued and divine. 
 
 Sleep ! Elfs of night are bestrewing 
 
 Your couch with blossoms of thorn! 
 
 Sleep ! 'Neath the hand that's bedewing 
 
 Your bed where you liest lorn ! 
 
 Sleep 1 Sleep on in rest that's renewing ! 
 
 Sleep on, O sleeper, 'til morn. 
 
 MAID OF AVON 
 
 The sunlight falls in splendor 
 Among the pines of Avon, 
 And soft the waters lave on 
 
 Verona's shores, and lend her 
 The subtle charms that movi 
 The heart to thoughts of love. 
 
 The south wind comes as spirits 
 
 From far Elysian realms. 
 
 And blushing cheek o'erwhelms 
 With greeting that inherits 
 
 The passion born of time, 
 
 Devotedly sublime. 
 
 41 
 
The oars splash in the water, 
 Her words ring on the air, 
 And heaven itself is there 
 
 With that fair northern daughter, 
 While this heart far away 
 Knows rest nor night nor day. 
 
 The stars in hosts are glowing 
 From their unmeasured way; 
 Their lights in glory play 
 
 Around this maiden's going — 
 Orion, the Pleiades 
 Bless such a one as she is. 
 
 The sunbeams light the lowlanc^ 
 Where violets spring up thickly. 
 And I would pluck them quickly 
 
 And enweave them in a band 
 With lilies white as snow 
 To deck the maiden's brow. 
 
 The aster and the jasmine, 
 The sweet-briar and the rose, 
 And every flower that grows, 
 
 Secrets for this maid divine 
 Are ready to unfold — 
 Sweet secrets, new but old. 
 42 
 
Would I were there to gather 
 
 The flowers that bloom for her, 
 
 Happy if she'd prefer 
 That I would do it, rather — 
 
 Rather than any other 
 
 Wiser, better brother. 
 
 A VICTIM 
 
 I came down to this little house today, 
 
 Sixteen by twelve, the merest rough-board box 
 Built by a man as if in careless play, 
 
 But yet he was most serious. To my knocks 
 No answer came, for, with the common clay 
 
 His flesh has mingled since I last was here 
 Ten months ago. I sat upon the step 
 
 And looked down on the pretty lake so clear 
 From which the sunset's ruddy tints have crept 
 
 And left a steel-blue color far and near. 
 Save by the further shore where a black band 
 
 Is backed by the thick ranks of towering pines. 
 But, coming nearer, here upon this hand, 
 
 I see, half washed away by rains, the lines 
 Where he had struggled in the barren sand 
 
 To make a garden, 'round which few frail lath 
 Protected what he vainly sought to grow. 
 43 
 
And down the slope, upon that hand, the path 
 He went with steps that weakly grew and slow 
 
 For the pure water of the lake, which hath 
 Deliciousness that strangers cannot know. 
 
 II 
 
 I look upon the sunset's fainter shad 
 
 And my mind wanders far across the seas 
 To Fatherland, whose memory never fades. 
 
 Where a young man has taken his degrees 
 From Heidelberg, the highest of his grades. 
 
 And with his parchments, and his name as heir 
 To large estates and an ancestral hall, 
 
 And the v/hole world appearing doubly fair, 
 Goes back, ambitiously to conquer all, 
 
 To find that spendthrifts had stripped all things bare. 
 But what was that? Had he not wealth of lore 
 
 Of that great school, which marks the road to fame? 
 And with his love — ah, I would not say more 
 
 Than that she turned with eyes of scornful flame 
 From him who wooed when he the titles bore, 
 
 And now would wed — 'twas a preposterous claim. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Perhaps the earth in time will grow enough 
 In love and goodness so that God will send 
 44 
 
Alillenial justice to smooth out the rough 
 
 And thorny paths his children now must wend. 
 My old world friend fell at his last rebuff 
 
 Which left his life but as the empty shell 
 From which was taken all there was of worth, 
 
 And he turned westward where he felt that hell 
 Was not so fierce as in his land of birth, — 
 
 And one in peace and hope might calmly dwell, — 
 To the republic, where the people's rights 
 
 Are bedded in the fundamental law, 
 Where honesty burns universal lights, 
 
 Where men their fellow men from danger draw 
 Where all is heaven, and where nothing blights. 
 
 Such was the innocence and profound sv/eep 
 Of unsophistication v/hich this man 
 
 Who, spite his learning, let the dream-gods leap 
 And frisk before him, a morganic clan ; 
 
 And while indeed o'er sorrows he would weep, 
 His eves a restful haven here would scan. 
 
 IV 
 
 Thus he precisely was the one to fall 
 In the first hole across his pathway dug. 
 
 And it was ready, as for strangers all 
 
 From foreign lands the sanctimonious thug 
 
 Stood on the wharf with oily tongue to call 
 Heaven to witness that for rectitude 
 
 He had few equals, in the church's name, 
 45 
 
And by the book of prayer which did protrude 
 From underneath his arm, a holy flame 
 
 Blinding to all; disreputable — crude, 
 The cheat, the bunco man, the common thief 
 
 And easy liar, who could sneak a purse 
 With deafened ear to plaintive calls of grief, 
 
 Would leave the victim penniless, and, worse, 
 A stranded immigrant without relief 
 
 In stranger land under a stranger curse. 
 
 He's freed from suffering, my pure German friend, 
 
 And no one knows just when or how he died, 
 For in this solitude he reached the end 
 
 Of human things with no one by his side 
 To say a kindly word or to aid lend. 
 
 I dare say that he deemed it just as well 
 For those professions were not as a sieve. 
 
 His soul could safely with the Father dwell, 
 But he whose torment it is still to live 
 
 Will yet, like Dives, raise up his voice from hell 
 For a cool drink which none will ever give. 
 
 46 
 
THE ISLE OF THE BLESSED 
 
 A Romanct 
 
 Prelude 
 
 A hermit sat in his cabin door, 
 
 The evening wind moved his locks of gray, 
 And he looked straight out, and far away 
 
 Where the fretful waters washed the shore. 
 
 He looked straight out, but he neither saw 
 The stately pine nor the rolling wave ; 
 Beyond all these, from the past's deep grave 
 
 He saw a spirit the dark slab draw. 
 
 He reached for his pipe and blew a note. 
 Another, and more, and filled the air 
 With an uncouth strain he would not dare 
 
 That a stranger ear by it were smote. 
 
 It gave surcease to the dawdling day, 
 And pleasantly bridged the hollow hours, 
 And what, indeed, were its passing powers 
 
 To other than he who tuned the play? 
 47 
 
1/ out of the past it charmed the sprites 
 Who brought dear joys of a younger time, 
 Renewed the pleasures of youthful mime, 
 
 These all were only his and the night's. 
 
 lie softly played for enjoyment rare 
 Of liimself alone, and echoes came 
 From the pines that towered against the flam 
 
 Of the southland's sunset ardent fiare. 
 
 Away from the \\'orld, the world was naught 
 To him v,ho rest for himself had found 
 In forests foreign to every sound 
 
 Save those of nature this lone one sought. 
 
 And if he but touch the pipes to please 
 Himself for an hour, why, who shall say 
 Tlie song is such that he shall not play' 
 
 The glimmer'ng stars, or the night's faint breeze? 
 
 Not they, indeed, to the child Vv^ho makes 
 
 Of them close friends, which they in turn show 
 A kindness for him who sits below 
 
 'Till their sweet voices a new chord wakes. 
 
 And so he will play, and if one ear 
 Afar or near shall list for the notes 
 Of his crude song which carelessly floats 
 
 From bis retreat in the deep woods here, 
 48 
 
Shall he wish more, this hermit in gray, 
 Who passes hours in midst of the pines 
 Where through the day the sun ever shines 
 
 And soft blow the winds of night? Ah, nay! 
 
 I 
 
 Thou hast been in the land where forever the flowers 
 Bloom in their beauty through the year's sunshining 
 
 hours, 
 Where the sky in its softness looks down on a scene 
 That existence uplifts till it meets the serene; 
 Where the orange and the lemon are fruited with gold 
 And the zephrys come far from the sea and enfold 
 In iheir chastening freshness the spirit that seems 
 To delightedly rest in the region of dreams ; 
 Where the vine with its clusters is rich in display, 
 And the birds their glad carols are singing for aye : 
 *Tis the land of the South, it is Florida fair 
 That allures with a breath of its pine scented air 
 Which welcomes the sojourner with promise to give 
 The full span allotted man below here to live; 
 And the hope that it holds for the hearts that v/ould 
 
 love 
 Partakes of the measures in existence above. 
 'Tis the beautiful land o-f adventure, romance, 
 Where DeLeon, the prince, early sought to enhance 
 The value of being and discover the spring 
 49 
 
That perpetual youth to its bathers shall bring. 
 But he did not find that ; like humanity all, 
 He dallied not here when came clearly the last call ; 
 But he left us who linger with legends, his name, 
 And that — do you know it? — is the element fame. 
 Yet whatever there is in the waters that flow 
 From the sulphurous depths, from the regions below 
 To develop the joys of a man's earthly days; 
 We acknowledge the air, like a balm, ever plays 
 The most magical arts of upbuilding and strength 
 And existence prolongs to the patriarch's length. 
 Many thousands have kneeled at its health-giving shrine 
 And prononunccd all its attributes glorious, divine. 
 
 II 
 
 In this land of the South, off the southwestern coast, 
 On an island superb, but yet one of a host — 
 But one of a thousand, which lies calmly at rest 
 Like a child in its sleep on the Gulf's sunny breast, 
 Lived a hermit of years just turned thirty, I think 
 Who'd been here a decade, ever hoping to sink 
 In oblivion's depths disappointment of youth; 
 But the more he had thought, the more certain its 
 
 truth 
 That the passion but scotched will its troubles ne'er 
 
 cease. 
 And for things least desired, we perchance have life 
 
 lease. 
 
 50 
 
Ill 
 
 In a far northern clime, in a city of note, 
 Where the ships of all nations triumphantly float 
 In a commerce the old world looks at with amaze 
 From out its envelop of conservative haze; — 
 It v/as there Seagrave Winthrop was born into a fold 
 That was said to be builded with blood-gotten gold. 
 What the dear public meant by this speech to convey 
 Was this, that Old Winthrop had imperious way 
 Of gathering his wealth from the need and distress 
 Of those whom misfortune gave him power to assess, 
 If a shadow of truth should be found in that — well! 
 In his home on a street where the money kings dwell 
 He was all a fond husband and father could be ; 
 At least, his wife bless'd him when the final decree 
 Bade lier go from this world ; and he mournfully bent 
 And was never himself after that sad event. 
 And, in subsequent time, as years ran their round 
 He faltered and lingered on the prec'pice profound 
 'Til a message had sped to the precincts of Yale 
 And his son had come back, with a countenance pale 
 With a sorrow at heart, but no moment to spare 
 For a last grateful look as he brushed back the hair 
 From the dark wrinkled brow ere the spirit had fled 
 And his tears freely fell on the face of the dead. 
 
 51 
 
IV 
 
 Several things had combined to make Seagrave disposed 
 To keep clear of the palings which sharply inclose 
 The favorites of fashion; he was inclined to shun 
 All men, and regretted such a course he'd begun. 
 He had heard the reports of his father's vast wealth 
 And how 'twas obtained, vile inuendoes by stealth 
 Aimed over his head, until his sensitive soul 
 Shrank from meanness he felt was humanity's dole. 
 Still, ambition he had. His desire was to know 
 All things that a person might be taught here below. 
 He had plodded through books in a haphazard haste 
 Which to most men would mean so much time gone 
 
 to waste ; 
 But his was a brain built on a plan of its own. 
 That would strip away knowledge, as meat from a 
 
 bone ; 
 While the dull verbiage was forgotten with speed. 
 Every fact essential seemed on file for the need 
 Which should call for its use, and what thing can elude 
 A brain of this make-up when in earnest pursued? 
 Religion and science, philosophic inquest, 
 The mechanical arts, each was briefly his guest. 
 He had reason for this, to himself so he said; 
 For, probing the doctrine of the state of the dead 
 Or the future existence of spirit, he caught 
 At the Brahmic idea as a sensible thought. 
 To at least the extent that the soul must prepare 
 52 
 
By experience full for its sojourn up there 
 
 Among the perfected, and if one life fell short 
 
 Of rounding out knowledge, it seemed sense of sound 
 
 sort 
 That another would come, and still afterwards more 
 'Til the gamut was run and the soul had the store 
 Of instruction and light to enable its rest 
 To be calm, with its equals in realms of the blest. 
 And he deemed what he learned would pass never away, 
 But available prove on the dawn of that day 
 When necessity called for it to be given 
 As qualification for place in the heaven. 
 
 Outside of this theory his heart made an appeal 
 For the one who since childhood had been his ideal; 
 Her he would hold perfect, all a woman should be, 
 Whom he'd claim for his wife when from college toils 
 
 free. 
 And a palace of love rear for her that would swell 
 Beyond any yet builded by those, who here dwell. 
 To her he now went, with heart throbbing as true 
 As any that pulsates underneath the sky's blue, 
 And he laid at her feet all — all that a man can, — 
 What he was, was to be through existence's span, 
 To meet with refusal — worse than that, to be spurned 
 With hot words that for years in his fervid breast 
 
 burned. 
 
 53 
 
Did he think that his weahh, gotten she needn't ask 
 
 how, 
 Was enough to induce a fair woman to bow 
 To the yoke that he held with so tempting a hand? 
 Ah, his books? She forgot, what was this to command 
 Of a place in the circles where she moved and enjoyed 
 Every scheme by the dwellers in Fashion employed? 
 A woman who is not a bluestocking herself 
 Cannot go alone, nor remain home on the shelf 
 While her husband's eyes follow the desolate page 
 That embodies dull thinking of one called a sage. 
 She thought she had feeling, was not cruel to a friend 
 Of long years, as Seagrave, but their lives could not 
 
 blend 
 More than water and oil, he must see and admit. 
 Besides, she would say, as the occasion was fit, 
 That she would be married ere the end of the year 
 To that charming gallant, Mr. Vincent De Vere. 
 
 VI 
 
 When young Winthrop sat down in his room late that 
 
 night. 
 For some minutes of thought before striking a light. 
 He damned the world roundly as a viperous thing 
 In coil for whoever came in reach of its sting. 
 And he by the reptile had so often been bit 
 His blood was discolored by the poison of it. 
 And if healing there was — any radical cure, 
 54 
 
It was somewhere afar, where surroundings were pure — 
 That is, where the world's face and its people were 
 
 new; 
 Or, perhaps, 'twould be well all mankind to eschew. 
 The suggestion, once framed, grew in favor; at length 
 It became a command of unavoidable strength. 
 If his reason had come, as it usually did, 
 To a problem in doubt and perplexity hid, 
 He would have found, surely, that the woman was 
 
 right. 
 And that they two were different as day from the 
 
 night ; 
 With minds so at variance they never could line 
 In a union over which love's full light should shine, 
 This perhaps would have brought to his mind not that 
 
 ease 
 Which philosophy warrants to disciples whose knees 
 Are bent at its altar; for if love is not blind 
 Its devotees are apt to be weakened in mind 
 And overlook facts which like mountains expand 
 To the vision of watchers upon either hand. 
 We may know not what's best, but we all can look back 
 And observe where we stumbled on life's rugged track. 
 And the pitfalls escaped as by some happy chance, 
 For they never were seen as we made our advance. 
 And in after days, Seagrave in retrospect saw 
 Himself but a factor in this great natural law 
 That what is so, so is best, and the chast'ning rod 
 Is laid for a purpose by benificent God 
 55 
 
Whose omnipotent power permits naught to go wrong 
 From fall of a nation to the bird's sunny song, 
 And a planet o'erwhelmed is no more in His eyes 
 Than the insect which lives but an hour ere it dies. 
 Alone man protests, while the beasts of the field 
 Obedience implicit unto this statute yield. 
 What tiger or leopard will not fight for its life, 
 But expire in calm quiet at end of the strife? 
 And no four-footed thing lacks the courage to meet 
 In submissive silence pain or final defeat. 
 And again, man objects that the right has been cross'd 
 When some cherished object to his hope has been lost. 
 All his life, Seagrave Winthrop had this girl in mind 
 As a beautiful goddess, the best of her kind, 
 And had climbed to such heights with the ideal he made 
 That he now was appalled, where the wreck of it laid ; 
 And the scene made him ache, and he wished himself off 
 From a place where each tongue seemed unloosed but 
 to scoflf. 
 
 VII 
 
 So he placed his possessions in hands of a firm 
 To hold and account, for indefinite term. 
 And soon after departed, he cared not the way, 
 But the route which he took ended in Florida. 
 One could never deny inconsistency here ; 
 As he hated the crowd, and he went 'twould appear 
 Because of the fact that 'twas the popular trend, 
 56 
 
And the difference was not very great at the end 
 Of the well-traveled lines from what had obtained 
 At his home in the North. He felt naught had been 
 
 gained. 
 The hotels were filled with the fluffings of style, 
 And dreary nothings the charm invoked to beguile 
 The hours that hung heavy on their somnolent minds 
 Which list not to the mill of the gods as it grinds. 
 Seagrave quickly declared he v/ould now have recourse 
 To his own company ; therefore, buying a horse, 
 He rode out in the woods. The roads merely were 
 
 trails 
 Which ran hither and yon, among pines, around swails, 
 Through gloom of the hammocks, and wherever he 
 
 met 
 A river, he forded, getting many times wet. 
 For fair Florida then was true Cracker all through 
 And that meant no progress and no effort to do. 
 The native Floridians, the Crackers of fame. 
 Whatever their virtues, and the number they claim 
 With most any people's will compare fairly well. 
 One is not over-worked, but to satisfied dwell 
 With events as they are, and they hold it a crime 
 Without reason, excuse to pit work against time; 
 For of time they're aware they have all that there is. 
 And where — where is the man who can say more is his? 
 There is one thing a Cracker has never allowed. 
 That is for a neighbor up against him to crowd ; 
 Seven miles is too close, and twenty-five not too far 
 57 
 
For the next settler who'd not the first's friendship 
 
 mar. 
 To the visitors who have since those early days flitted 
 All over the country, has the Cracker submitted 
 With a philosophy in his inertness found, 
 And to immigrant thousands with theories profund 
 Of which blue ruin has been so often the fate; 
 And to the railroads — but they at first awoke hate 
 For killing his cattle : then he moved further back 
 From noise of the engine and from sight of the track. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Of his trials, Mr. Winthrop didn't need a whole week 
 To convince him that he must soon some other plan 
 
 seek. 
 The hardships were many ; the experience brief 
 Was sufficient taste of the joyous relief 
 From the kingdom of men, and a closer contact 
 With wild nature revealed what he heretofore lacked — 
 An expansion of soul, an uplifting to light. 
 Which gave promise of more than was seen on the 
 
 height 
 Proudly rising aloft in the ideal beyond 
 Where the fates of this world with the next, meet and 
 
 blend. 
 And which way he would turn and what course he 
 
 should trace 
 Came by opportune chance to his ready embrace; 
 58 
 
As is often the case as we fumble along 
 The right is unfolded to prevent a step wrong. 
 As he rode back to town, a gaunt horseman astride 
 Of a pony that seemed meanly fed to provide 
 Transportation for six feet of loose jointed bones 
 Which made themselves known as Capt. Kendrickson 
 
 Jones, 
 Said a cordial "Good evening!" — 'twas just after one, 
 And South evening begins soon as dinner is done ; 
 And, lest thereupon you something wrongly imply. 
 In tliis country they dine when the sun's in mid-sky. 
 Captain Jones was one known o'er state's wide extent 
 As a borrower of truth with a freedom which lent 
 Picturesqueness quite rare to the tales which he told 
 Of the sights he had seen and his adventures bold. 
 He was chatty and kind, and at once opened out 
 To the visitor he found on this unusual route. 
 
 IX 
 
 His horse looked like he's tired ; had the stranger been 
 
 far? 
 And had he diskivered what he's looking fur thar? 
 "Rekeration ? I'm beat ! You uns do mighty quar ! 
 Say, stranger, want to buy any land around h'er? 
 Re'kon that the dirt's pore? Let the soil go to hell, 
 The dirt's not in markit; 'tis the climate we sell! 
 Wanter look at the state? Well, now, Kurnel, yer can't 
 By yerself. Git a guide. Wal, thar's old Cypress Lant 
 59 
 
He knows all the places — and the game, about it; 
 Yer obliged ter hav' teams, an' a campin' outfit. 
 But fur somethin' right solid, I set on a boat 
 Then it never seems like yer is broken to tote 
 Fodder fur cattle, fur boats nothin' don't eat 
 An' critters out campin' like yer men eat to beat. 
 Whar might yer go? Stranger, anywhere. Thar are 
 
 streams 
 Many more than yer'd count. Hunts of winter day 
 
 dreams ? 
 What might them be? The coasts? The west — that's 
 
 mighty fine 
 Way down on the Gulf side — that's below the freeze line, 
 'Mong the ten thousand keys — somethin' that more'n 
 
 sand. 
 Fur off? Wal, ten townships down below Boca 
 
 Grande. 
 Settlers thar? I don't know of none livin' 'bout than 
 Injuns? I re'kon not — they don't never raise har." 
 
 As they finished the ride, in the town, on the Bay, 
 Seagrave asked his companion in Lyman's, to say 
 What he'd have. He said whiskey, and took it full, 
 
 straight. 
 Then, excusing himself, — he would no further wait 
 On the Captain's long tale, Winthrop quickly withdrew 
 For his lodgings and rest, for he felt rather blue, 
 60 
 
And he wanted a bath, and a civih'zed meal, 
 And also a lotion several bruises to heal. 
 
 XI 
 
 In that day, you'll recall 'twas sometime in the past, 
 And Florida has grown in late years very fast, 
 And in future is bound to grow very much more 
 As its beauties are known and the unfastened door 
 To its hospitable climate swings open wide 
 To the knowledge of those who find comfort allied 
 With a region away from the snows of the North 
 When ugly-faced Winter in his might cometh forth ; — 
 In that day, the railroad stopoed in Jacksonville tov/n 
 Save a crazy old line which would carry one down 
 On a time-card that could for no two days agree, 
 To a place then and now marked on maps "Cedar Key," 
 In 'this town on the Key, which appeared as if made 
 From remnants and leavings, and the builders afraid 
 It might grow to look decent, but never a sign 
 Of this thing was observed by young Winthrop, whose 
 
 line 
 Crossed this island of sand drifted up by the waves. 
 'Tvv-as dilapidation; and the desolate graves 
 Of the dead gave a cue to the feelings of those 
 Who survive in their way, and no mourning disclose; 
 They are stoics, these people, who never will show 
 Deep affection for friends, nor regret when they go. 
 6i 
 
XII 
 
 lie purchased a vessel, a yacht thirly feet long, 
 Rather broad in the beam, built exceedingly strong, 
 Altogether too big to be sailed by one man, 
 So said all the chorus, each one having a plan 
 Of equipping the boat for a trip down the coast, 
 And each one of himself as a guide first would boast. 
 Without asking advice, or revealing intent, 
 About his own business the man silently went ; 
 Stocked the boat with enough for a year, so they said 
 Who looked and commented, 'til he wished them all 
 
 dead. 
 A new slout extra sail, a wall tent with a fly, 
 Sea biscuit in a tight copper box to keep dry ; 
 There were many tinned goods, and a large water cask, 
 Coffee, sugar and salt; liquors, each in its flask; 
 An assortment of seeds and a second-hand chest 
 Full of carpenter's tools; cordage, bars and a nest 
 Of cooking utensils, matches soldered in tin, 
 Coils of wire, spades and hoes; and at last he brought 
 
 in 
 His personal baggage, among which could be found 
 A shot gun and rifles, ammunition, a round 
 Of tackle for fishing. These embarked, he set sail 
 With a hope to be spared from the storm and the gale, 
 And yet never afraid, for he'd handled the sheets 
 With success many times at Long Island yacht meets. 
 To his curious friends, he bade cordial farewell, 
 62 
 
And they cheered him at last, 'til he reached the Gulf's 
 
 swell, 
 Then they made prophecy, as he turned the Point 
 
 'round, 
 That the boat would be wrecked and its sailor be 
 
 drowned. 
 
 XIII 
 
 The wind was propitious, and he sailed all that day, 
 And kept on through the hours o'er a moonlighted way, 
 Until late the next day, in an inlet he cast 
 In safety his anchor, and slept soundly at last. 
 After that he sailed days, and laid by for the night ; 
 With plenty of leisure to enjoy every sight — 
 He'.d no destination in especial to reach, 
 And most willing to learn all that Nature might teach 
 To a scholar so apt, to whom so much was new 
 In the life he was on and the scenes he passed thro'. 
 Now and then he would see a lone settler's house stand 
 In embrasure of woods on the low-lying land, 
 But he kept well ofif shore — he had left man behind, 
 And wished, for a reason, to see none of the kind; 
 And if fisherman hailed him o'er wave in voice hoarse, 
 He answered the greeting without varying his course. 
 Three weeks of this sailing, from the day of his start, 
 He got 'mong the islands, as he saw by his chart, 
 Which his friend, Captain Jones, had talked highly 
 about. 
 
 63 
 
There he went slowly, visiting scores, but in doubt 
 Which was best, 'til at last one as round as a ring 
 Had the one indispensable fresh water spring ; 
 'Tv/as six furlongs across, and upon the east side 
 Was a cove where his yacht very safely could ride 
 From southwest gales sheltered, and well screened 
 
 from all sight, 
 By the wild mango growth that hung over the bight; — 
 There was timber in plenty, the soil appeared rich, 
 And here he decided was the spot where he'd pitch 
 Tiis camp for the future — and the future he meant 
 Covered not more than three or four months in extent. 
 'Tis a wisdom divine which lets children of earth 
 Look back very clearly on what happened since birth. 
 But prohibits a sight into time yet to be; 
 For were every event of life opened free, 
 Few would want to encounter the pain, drink the gall. 
 In exchange for the joys — joys and pleasures would pall 
 Until quite valueless, and existence naught more 
 Than miser'ble we would pray to be o'er. 
 If the Jews had foreseen the long wilderness tramp, 
 Would they for a moment have proposed to decamp 
 From toils in old Egypt? And could Winthrop have 
 
 viev/ed 
 liis years on this island, he had lacked fortitude 
 To have entered upon a career of such length. 
 But a habit will grow, and gain daily in strength 
 'Til at last it becomes of the subject a part 
 And severance as painful as a disrupted heart. 
 64 
 
What may be expected to be irksome and hard 
 
 \V;11 occasionally turn, like the turn of a card. 
 
 In a way not surmised, as it did in this case, 
 
 When for Winthrop the days ran such riotous race 
 
 Of absolute pleasure, that he almost forgot 
 
 To his calendar mark, so contented his lot. 
 
 XIV 
 
 The first trial of his skill was erecting a shack 
 Thatched with palmetto leaves which he soon learned 
 
 the knack 
 Of laying so deftly as to shed every drop 
 Of water wind-driven 'gainst the sides or the top. 
 Then he cleared a small plot, and proceeded to sow 
 Certain seeds which he watched with deep interest 
 
 grow ; 
 They were quick to respond to the care he bestowed. 
 And he wondered the more, as he spaded and hoed, 
 Why it was that these lands of such gen'rous reward 
 Had never been settled. It seemed not in accord 
 With orderly nature that the choicest of soils 
 And climates seem to act, unexplained, as the foils 
 To a civilized people. 'Twas not so of old. 
 As we see by the facts which the records unfold 
 Of Palestine, Persia, Syria, Egypt and Greece, 
 Where peoples and products had marvelous increase; 
 And the time will yet come, when conditions are right, 
 When this zone will advance to an Edenic height; 
 65 
 
And the smallest exertion of muscle will give 
 
 The greatest of blessings for which man ought to live. 
 
 XV 
 
 Seagrave hunted and fished. Hours and hours he 
 
 spent out 
 When bright rosy morning flushed the sea all about 
 With its opaline hues, or the day dying red 
 Its beautiful color o'er the wide waters spread, 
 And the scheme of the tints in their varyings held 
 Him loyal to the empire where he happily dwelled. 
 And with shot gun or rifle, he wandered away 
 Over islands and mainland for many a day, 
 Until the whole country was well known as the rule 
 Of addition, for instance; for this was a school 
 Where learning was rapid and each point gained 
 
 impress'd 
 On the mind with sternness that would fix it there lest 
 At the instant 'twere wanted. And he grew weather- 
 wise 
 In the currents of air, and the clouds and their size ; 
 Soon was able to track the wild cat or the bear. 
 And knew where the panther made in thicket his lair; 
 Knew where 'twas most likely the dread rattlesnake lay 
 Or the moccasin crawled, the two things in his way 
 He wished never might come, for naught else was there 
 
 here 
 For which the hunter need have in his mind any fear. 
 66 
 
And he knev*^ where the deer could be found at his feed, 
 And his rifle ball stopped it even when at full speed ; 
 He could call the wild turkey, and knew where the quail 
 Or the plover or snipe could be found without fail. 
 P>ut he cared less for game — for he never sought more 
 Than enough to supply what he needed in store — 
 Than for joy that it gave him to be 'mong the trees, 
 To delightedly drink of the inspiring breeze, 
 To grow better acquainted with shrubs, plants and 
 
 vines, 
 Which he gathered and studied on botanical lines, 
 'Til he had an herbarium bulky, correct. 
 That gave him great pleasure afterwards to inspect, 
 And, still further, profit, for he readily found 
 The medicinal herbs which in numbers abound. 
 All these things gave him life, and a strength brightly 
 
 new 
 Of impassioned soul being, v>?hich brought him to view 
 Much nearer the heaven than he ever had deemed 
 That mankind could attain in this world roughly 
 
 seamed. 
 And when the night shadows darkly over him stole, 
 Looking up at the stars and dov/n into his soul. 
 There was always a voice of immeasurable love 
 That convinced him of God in the regions above. 
 And, when weary, he laid on his pallet of moss, 
 Slept the sleep of the just, and, if dreams, they were 
 
 floss 
 From the distaff of fairy-land fancy, and spun 
 67 
 
By the beautiful elves of the flowers and the sun. 
 XVI 
 
 The young man was grateful, when his mind would 
 
 revert 
 To the subject, that he was away from the hurt 
 Of the speech of his kind. It was more in attune 
 With the state of his mind to with Nature commune. 
 Yet he still highly valued the knov/ledge of men, 
 And his severance from this he regretted ; but then 
 It was not insurmountable, knowing he could 
 Stretch his hand to the world for what appeared good. 
 Four months has sped quickly ; as it drew near to May 
 He snugged up his household, got his yacht under way, 
 And with southwest winds brisk, before which he ran 
 
 free, 
 He was speedily brought to that place — Cedar Key. 
 He found there few letters from his agents up North, 
 Not any one having at the moment great worth. 
 To Seagrave who'd retired for the time from affairs, — 
 Statements duly made out about buildings, repairs, 
 Income and investments. It surprised him a bit 
 How the credit side grew, drawing little from it. 
 Then he wrote his booksellers in Twenty-third Street 
 For some two score of volumes selected to meet 
 His immediate needs, and thereafter make sure 
 Of all publishers' catalogues they could secure. 
 The weeklies and monthlies, the list cut and revised 
 68 
 
To what he most wanted, fifty numbers comprised, 
 
 Of science, mechanics, letters, medicine, art. 
 
 And he patiently waited 'til he could depart 
 
 With the packet of books and prints numbering back 
 
 To the first of the year, filling full a mail sack. 
 
 To the great wonderment of the postmaster there, 
 
 Whose experience had naught with this to compare. 
 
 And it "beat him clean out how one person could need 
 
 A heap of such papers — more'n he ever could read." 
 
 XVII 
 
 Seagrave Winthrop with thoughts of feasts mental, 
 
 returned 
 Against breezes adverse, which the skipper concerned 
 When they called him to tack; in prolonging the run 
 And lengthening the journey that was nothing but fun, 
 For he laid on a sail reading a magazine 
 When his yacht on fair course to the wind would 
 
 careen. 
 A devourer of books, he had never before 
 Found them so absorbing as he picked from his store 
 Here and there, and had time to consider and weigh 
 What he read. It is true that his later life way 
 Was conducive to thought and expanding of mind, 
 To paths marked by others no longer confined. 
 Down under this fact explanation full lies 
 Of what traveler's have oft observed with surprise 
 That intelligent men let their days come and pass 
 69 
 
As they happily live, an unique hermit class 
 Apart, but possessing each a haven of rest 
 In a forest sublime of the South or the West. 
 There are few, very few, who can submit to such 
 Hard and stern discipline. Nearly all men must touch, 
 Almost constantly, man, and their brain strength 
 
 recruit 
 From the clashing of views and the fire of dispute. 
 An occasional one in himself is contained 
 To amuse and instruct, growing rather restrained 
 Amid fellows of kind, and at last for some cause 
 He roundly condemns them and completely withdraws 
 To the seclusion deep of a forest profound 
 Where the loves and the lights of sweet Nature abound. 
 When at home from that trip with his first lot of books 
 He sat down by his hut and felt sure of all nooks 
 Of the world he could find, wheresoever the quest 
 None so valued would be as his Isle of the Blest. 
 And yet to his intellect it was perfectly clear 
 That another might hold a far different place dear; 
 Each one has a heaven 'round his daily life bent 
 If he locates the spot where he lives in content. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 After this his rough friends, who took liking for him 
 When they found he possessed courage, courtesy, vim. 
 Once in every three months saw his blue pennant fly 
 In Cedar Key harbor, his sole base of supply; 
 70 
 
At least, until some six or eight years rolled around 
 When many new settlers far to southward were bound 
 Together by railroads which surpassed all belief, 
 Until finding in fact, to his comfort, relief. 
 That the steam-cars came down nearly one half the 
 
 way. 
 And he made a new port in the famed Tampa Bay, 
 And this was still shortened by constructing a line 
 Through the long, weary stretch of Punta Gorda pine, 
 And then, like a Cracker born into the manner, 
 The great world was as near as he cared to scan her. 
 
 XIX 
 
 He concluded to build a house of his liking. 
 And he forthwith began by manfully striking 
 A pine of the forest, and worked on to the end 
 Through the weeks and the months, taking care not 
 
 to spend 
 Too much of his muscle to let not the morrow 
 From this day's allotment of strength any borrow. 
 The trees fell around him, and he hewed with rare skill 
 The great pines on three sides; when he brought them 
 
 to fill, 
 By block and by lever, each its place in the wall, 
 They fitted together and, if ever crack small, 
 It was stopped by the clay which he puddled and spread 
 That each log might be laid in a durable bed 
 With final protection against insects and wind. 
 71 
 
The stout rafters on top were adjusted and pinned, 
 Covered tightly with boards, and these overlaid 
 With shingles which Seagrave from big cedar butts 
 
 raved. 
 Inside he wainscoted with selected curl-pine 
 Smooth and polished like glass, showing every wave 
 
 line 
 In unequalled beauty, and red cedar in long, 
 Narrow panels above, with moulding raised strong 
 Of white bay between each ; and the one entrance door 
 Of oak quartered, in thickness four inches or more. 
 Several windows for light set up high from the ground. 
 And a piazza broad on three sides ran around, 
 Gave a place where he spent full two-thirds of his time, 
 As one really may do in this seraphic clime, 
 Where outdoors is the life that inspires and refits 
 All the worn threads of being in him who submits. 
 Inside he had furniture and closets and cases. 
 And odd cupboards inclosed in out-of-way places; 
 The work skillfully done, not an open joint showed, 
 The whole lightly polished, like a French mirror 
 
 glowed. 
 He had labored so long, with so ardent a heart. 
 That the thing of himself seemed an actual part. 
 'Twas a home and a castle that might easily raise 
 From a builder in search of the new highest praise, 
 And to Winthrop a place where he dreamed he might 
 
 stay 
 'Til — he knew not how long — 'til perhaps he was gray. 
 72 
 
XX 
 
 As the years went along, he summed up in his mind — 
 Made a balance as 'twere of the good he could find 
 In the life that he led, and charged 'gainst it the bad — 
 The drawbacks he suffered — always finding he had 
 A large handsome credit in contentment and peace 
 Which, year added to year, seemed to rather increase 
 Than diminish. He felt from the first the warm blood 
 Luxuriantly course through his veins in a flood 
 That gave meaning to life, enhancing his pleasure 
 Beyond anything which the old way could measure; 
 And he felt rounded out, for both muscle and brain 
 Had proper allotment of travail to sustain 
 Them in excellent health, and yet never pushed out 
 To the limit which they might be strained and meet 
 
 rout. 
 He debated oft times in his mind which was best, 
 The moments he labored, or devoted to rest. 
 And he failed to make choice, each was equally dear, 
 And he believed that in either no man was his peer. 
 He accomplished so much ; he would not have believed 
 That man in the normal is so greatly deceived 
 In the progress he makes — in formation of aims 
 Which leads to achievements founded only in claims 
 Of the sordid, and looks never further and up 
 Toward the Being extending the spiritual cup 
 To the hand that is raised, for the lips that will drink 
 Of joy whose devotees never falter or sink. 
 
 n 
 
By such measurement true he apportioned his time, 
 That the hours flew along with the smoothness of 
 
 rhyme, 
 And his brain never ceased the solution of doubts 
 While his hand was at work in the most menial of 
 
 routes ; 
 And, perchance, when he took pen or pencil to write, 
 His ideas freely flowed, like the beams of sunlight 
 Which streamed all around him, and he covered the 
 
 sheet 
 With rapidity and very even and neat 
 In formation of words, yet expecting no eye 
 Would into his essays have permission to pry. 
 Still, the whirligig brought him again to the fore 
 In affairs of the world, and his manuscript lore 
 Became prey for a bookman, who rushed it to type, 
 And critical readers hailed each volume as ripe 
 Production of genius, most remarkably bright 
 In the statement of facts, for the clearest insight 
 Into problems obscure, for the arguments sure. 
 And the form of his text, go grammatically pure ; 
 The range of his work was no less cause for remark, 
 From theories of spirit where they only embark 
 Who are thinkers profound, through his "Medical 
 
 Pleas," 
 With particular reference to new remedies 
 From South Florida herbs; a thorough inspection 
 Of chemical agents for certain detection 
 Of murderous poisons. But he took greater pride 
 74 
 
In his novels, in which he undertook to decide 
 Metaphysical doubts, the relation of sex. 
 Marriage ties, worth of life, and such questions as vex 
 Advanced people today. In all this was a fame 
 He rather enjoyed seeing attach to his name. 
 'Twas no trouble to write, the ideas fairly seethed 
 Through his brain, and as free as the air that he 
 
 breathed 
 In his favorite time, in the late afternoon 
 When he sat on his porch, heard the sea's constant 
 
 croon 
 On the shore very near, and looked into the west 
 Where the sky was on fire as the sun went to rest 
 With a marvelous flame full of entrancing change 
 Which rioted over the whole spectrum's bright range. 
 What could mortal want more, he would often inquire 
 To the spirit's uplift and the soul to inspire? 
 
 XXI 
 
 On one day — 'twas in March, and his years on the isle 
 Had numbered a dozen, with no thoughts to beguile 
 Back to regions he knew, or to others unknown. 
 From the beauties which were wholly his own. 
 As he sat on the shore, on the southwestern side, 
 'Neath cabbage palmettoes which spread o'er him their 
 
 wide 
 And umbrella-like tops, with his thoughts reaching far 
 Away o'er the water that showed scarcely a scar 
 75 
 
Of a ripple to break the glass's surface which glowed 
 In the light of the sun that at midheaven rode — 
 A magnificent scene of a dreamy-like calm, 
 To which swells on the shore sang an heart-easing 
 
 psalm. 
 It was a favorite seat to which he often came down 
 With a book in his hands, which were tanned a deep 
 
 brown 
 By the wind and the sun and the work they confess'd 
 To employ a quiet hour any way he thought best; 
 A student of Spencer or of Kant, as the mood 
 Might dictate ; or he'd close the typed pages and brood 
 O'er the quivering leaves which the forest and sky 
 In their changes would turn to his inquiring eye, 
 And from which he could read more than letters 
 
 revealed 
 Of the secrets which trees and the earth keep ensealed. 
 And he sought far away beyond what was in sight 
 For the ultimate laws of the wrong and the right — 
 For the qualities called instinct, reason and doubt, 
 And which play, in the problem of life, in and out 
 In such intricate ways that they've not been unlocked 
 To the profoundest mind which for causes has knocked 
 At the spirit-closed door. Or he merely would gloat 
 In the capturing dreams as his fancy would float 
 With the soft cirrus clouds as they feathered the blue 
 In their multiplied forms ever changeful and new, 
 Or the tones of the sea which forever unfold 
 Their translucent blues, green, crimson, russet and gold, 
 76 
 
And revealing a path to where spirit could live 
 
 At the right hand of Him who such beauties doth give. 
 
 XXII 
 
 Winthrop's senses had grown very heedful to change, 
 And he let his eyes now intuitively range 
 To the wcstv/ard, and low on the horizon saw 
 A cloud darkly unfold and, succeeding, a flaw 
 Of a breeze struck his cheek, and he knew, tho' no sage 
 That a vicious subtropical storm would soon rage, 
 And he pitied the men who'd be caught in its path 
 For escape would be chance from its treacherous wrath : 
 E'en so the skilled seamen — how much more for those 
 
 strange 
 To the handling of craft and the storm's mighty range. 
 With this thought in his mind, the sky blackened, 
 
 clouds roll'd 
 In wonderful masses, swept around fold on fold. 
 Which grew denser and blacker, and descending hung 
 Like an inky pall over the Gulf waters flung. 
 And there came on the blast the deep, gutteral notes 
 Of rolling discharges from the demon gun throats, 
 And the waters which lately so splendidly shone 
 Boiled and tumbled and into a white rage were thrown. 
 And the trees bended low in the hurricane's grasp. 
 Seagrave looked on absorbed, with his fingers in clasp. 
 And his eyes photographed every detail of scene 
 So well that its mem'ry always lived with him green. 
 17 
 
XXIII 
 
 He started! What was that? Did he see something, 
 
 or not? 
 Did he dream it or see? Was that white thing which 
 
 shot 
 Like a flash on his sight the outlines of a sail, 
 Or a mass of sea foam wafted on by the gale? 
 He sprang up and looked off ; pulled his hat down for 
 
 shade ; 
 His form fairly trembled, and the briny spray played 
 O'er him in a torrent. The gale held its fierce breath 
 For a moment, as stricken with premature death. 
 And then suddenly swell'd with a redoubled force 
 Sweeping on with new strength and voice startlingly 
 
 hoarse. 
 Which drove him 'gainst his will to turn backward his 
 
 face. 
 Ah ! There it was surely ! A real boat, and a race 
 For life through the tempest, a mere cyclone toy toss'd 
 In the waters' wild rage. Would it live, or be lost? 
 Who was it there fighting? Aye, some inexpert hand, 
 Or he'd reefed up his sail. Could he ever make land? 
 Not one chance in a score — or a thousand — to save 
 That craft swiftly flying with its souls toward the 
 
 grave. 
 For, though rightly upheld for the isle by its head. 
 It would dash a wrecked mass on the shore with its 
 
 dead. 
 
 78 
 
XXIV 
 
 The hot blood of Winthrop surged excitedly through 
 His swell'd veins as the boat approached nearer to view ; 
 He would help, but he felt utter absence of power 
 And each minute seemed stretched to the pain of an 
 
 hour. 
 But the cockel-shell came headed straight for the beach ; 
 His heart stopped as he saw — saw a woman's arm 
 
 reach 
 Uplifted as asking God in mercy to spare 
 From the impending fate. What a picture of prayer! 
 And who'd venture to say no answer was given? 
 She believed it, indeed, believing in heaven. 
 Seagrave shouted : "Let go — let her go — free your 
 
 sheet !" 
 In a thundering voice ; but it fell in defeat 
 In the wild whirling gale, and the sailor no heed 
 Paid the warning thus sent, perchance knew not its 
 
 need. 
 The next moment his boat, almost touching the land, 
 Over went. Were they lost? Should a hero there stand 
 And see two people drown, without making a stroke 
 In an effort to save? Yet 'twould seem to provoke 
 Certain death, too, for him. Though a swimmer expert 
 With a knowledge complete of what powers to exert 
 In combatting currents, he knew only too well 
 The dangers which threatened in that dark seething 
 
 hell. 
 
 79 
 
XXV 
 
 A flash only of thought. He had thrown off his coat 
 And stood ready to phinge. The man chmg to the boat 
 Beating 'mong the wild mangoes where it had been cast, 
 And was probably safe for a time, holding fast. 
 At that instant a head — 'twas the woman's — came out 
 Of a wave, and Seagrave took a header; his doubt — 
 Perhaps fear — had all gone — gone away on the gale, 
 And his only thought now was how best to prevail 
 In his fight for that life, for his own, too, no less. 
 He had seized her. How? Cared he? By part of 
 
 her dress. 
 He knew only too well that he could not prolong 
 The struggle, relying on tough muscles and strong, 
 With such burden in hand, in the awful maelstrom 
 Of the rough waters' sweep — they would quickly 
 
 succum.b 
 Save he soon reached the land. They went down with 
 
 the boom 
 Of a roller that rose like a mountainous tomb 
 O'er their heads, 'til his breath seemed to go, and a 
 
 grave 
 Opened wide 'midst the wrec'ics which the sea's bottom 
 
 pave. 
 With giant-like effort he came once more to light, 
 Shook the spray from his locks, and in pride of his 
 
 might, 
 
 80 
 
With few conquering strokes reached a tree with his 
 
 hand, 
 Pulled himself up, and laid the limp form on the sand. 
 He then, with less effort, dragged to safety the man. 
 "Lie there! Hurt? But alive! I must do what I can 
 To save this young woman. Oh, your daughter. Fear 
 
 not. 
 What to do in such cases I have not forgot. 
 If there's life in her heart, I will bring it to light. 
 Ah, there is, I am sure. I will soon have her right.". 
 He had opened her garments with boldness that grew 
 From the needs of the hour, and with quiclc motion 
 
 threw 
 Her across his own lap, rolled her forward and back. 
 Chafed her arms and her feet in vigorous attack, 
 And soon saw the effect, as the blood 'gan to flow 
 And a sure evidence of new consciousness glow. 
 Then he shouted, "She's saved!" "Thank the Lord," 
 
 the man moaned. 
 As he raised up half way, falling back as he groaned. 
 "She must go to my house," said Winthrop. "I'll return 
 And be doctor to you — give yourself no concern. 
 Bravely bear with your hurt, with a smile, 'f you may, 
 Affairs might have been worse — you're alive, anyway." 
 
 XXVI 
 
 With his burden enwrapped in his strong arms he sped 
 8i 
 
On the dank, winding path, 'mid the dense growth, 
 
 which led 
 To his home, which — the thought would intrude — would 
 
 seem fair 
 With this woman, howe'er briefly, domiciled there. 
 Yet he felt inability plans to devise 
 To ward certain embarrassments which would arise ; 
 But, in cases like this, the one chance of success 
 Is unfearing advance to final victory wrest. 
 In the meantime the tempest passed on to the east, 
 And the rain fell, first slowly, and then it increased 
 To a torrent through which he hurridly strode 
 And, almost exhausted, nearly fell with his load 
 As he came to the haven ; but with pleasure he felt 
 The woman's faint struggles in his arms as he knelt 
 Intending to lay her on his outdoor settee. 
 But she sat boldly up when at last to move free, 
 Gave a glance at her clothes, her bare feet on the floor, 
 And the blood to her cheeks, he saw rapidly pour. 
 "This is no time, madam," and his voice was severe, 
 "To be falsely modest. I am sole master here, 
 And physician beside. You must do as I say ; 
 Get at once into bed. I will show you the way. 
 You'll be unmolested. Take off every wet thing; 
 Use this robe, if you will; in these blankets I bring 
 Wrap yourself warmly up," and his tone had grown 
 
 grim. 
 "Yes, your father's alive, and I go to fetch him." 
 His word of command she knew must be obeyed. 
 
Then Seagrave hurried back 'long the path to where 
 
 laid 
 The man who was injured, thinking how he'd sustain 
 Such a burden in way not to give too much pain ; 
 This was labor, indeed. With a broken leg bone, 
 Ev^ery move brought a pain, which his lips would not 
 
 own. 
 But Winthrop was gentle ; got the man on his back, 
 And with care made each step as again o'er that track 
 He went home, and at last had the man on a bed. 
 *'You're a thousand percent better off than if dead. 
 Keep your courage, my fellow ; I'll soon have you 
 
 fixed." 
 He never knew, after, how he crowded betwixt 
 Noon and sunset so much severe effort, and yet 
 In all things that he did there was not one to regret. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 The rainfall passed away in its chase of the storm, 
 
 And from unclouded sky the sun shone again warm. 
 
 The trees sparkled with jewels, while the air purified 
 
 Exalted the feelings 'til the spot seemed allied 
 
 To the Eden of old, and delightful songs ran 
 
 From the depths of the green where the myriad birds 
 
 sang. 
 He found his first patient calmly making the best 
 Of the circumstances, and taking much needed rest, 
 83 
 
And her clothes hung to dry; stripped the man as he 
 
 lay, 
 Rubbed him well, all the while kept his tongue in full 
 
 play 
 About this thing and that, conversation of sort 
 Which made hours that might drag otherwise appear 
 
 short. 
 And partial sporific the attention to take 
 From the hurt that the handling compelled him to 
 
 make; 
 Rove long splints at his bench, such as time would 
 
 permit, 
 Put the leg into place, deftly bandaging it 
 From the hip to the toes, and pronounced the job good. 
 The victim felt easy, declared that he could 
 Repay never the debt he had that day incurred 
 With his heroic saviour. But this Seagrave heard 
 In displeasure, and frowned ; said, to those in distress 
 'Twould have criminal been had he done any less. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Of a sudden the notion he was hungry came 
 
 To the host, and most surely his guests were the same. 
 
 And he set about cooking, with lurking regret 
 
 For the poverty shown in his larder, which met 
 
 Nowhere near his demands; but when supper was 
 
 brought 
 The new comers united in saying they thought 
 84 
 
It delicious, and then, by the way they partook, 
 Gave support to their words, proper praise to the cook. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 The young lady recovered her spirits and clothes, 
 Very gay were the first, badly disheveled those, 
 And her hair in a tangle and crispy with salt. 
 The disorder she bore, perchance hoping each fault 
 Was unnoticed by host in the fast gathering gloom, 
 For no lamps were at hand to illumine the room. 
 He had refrained on purpose from using all lights 
 Artificial; this first lovely hour of the nights 
 Was for calm meditation; he always retired 
 Ere 'twas late and arose with the eastern sky fired 
 With its many bright tints, when all life was astir 
 In the newness and freshness of nature, from whirr 
 Of the birds 'mong the leaves, to the sleek, watchful 
 
 deer; 
 When man's heart highest beats in the clear atmosphere, 
 And a plunge in the wave opens wide to the soul 
 The illimitable realm o'er the earth's lowly dole. 
 This night, on the contrary, he remained until late, 
 As he heard Alice Sevrance the story relate 
 Of their misadventure; how they happened to be 
 Where they were when the storm awfully tore o'er 
 
 the sea. 
 He knew she was handsome, of a favorite type 
 With him in the old days; dimpled cheeks always ripe 
 85 
 
For the blush that would come — come and go at a 
 
 slight 
 Invitation ; her eyes of bright hazel, enlight 
 With a premonition of what speech would enfold; 
 And her hair of chestnut, with a hint of dull gold 
 Revealed when the sunshine would its coilings assail. 
 But tonight, in the dark, she told simply her tale 
 In a musical voice, which rose gently and fell 
 Until Winthrop was meshed in the w^eave of its spell. 
 
 XXX 
 
 "You see, Papa and I have been stopping at Myers, 
 Where man — and the guests there are men mostly — • 
 
 aspires 
 To catch the big tarpon, but I think it a shame. 
 Such a waste of good fish ; yet it's fun— they are game, 
 From the moment they're hooked, they will run, jump 
 
 and fight 
 For the life dear to them, 'til they're exhausted quite; 
 As they flash to the sun they're a sight to be seen, 
 Their dripping scales shining in their silvery sheen. 
 And Papa, over there, did enjoy it so much — 
 Don't you think, dear Papa, that you've got just a touch 
 Of what's called retribution? You had no excuse, 
 For you didn't need one of all those fish for use. 
 At last, Papa fell out with an insolent guide — 
 86 
 
As if one couldn't fish without henchman at side — 
 But up there at Fort Myers they think none should 
 
 cast hook 
 Without paying some crank to accompany and look. 
 Then we got us a boat, very one that you saw, 
 For excursion outside, where we'd make our own law 
 For a couple of days. It was pleasant. We staid 
 Till the third — yesterday — when at noon Papa laid 
 The boat's course for Fort Myers. We had missed 
 
 having luck. 
 When all of a sudden a big fish my hook struck. 
 'Twas a monster, indeed, and the line outward spun, 
 'Til Papa took a-hold, by degrees stopped the run — 
 He stopped running of line, but not so with the fish, 
 And the boat went along with a regular swish. 
 Believe me, 'twas exciting; our heads we both lost 
 In the heat of the race, at extravagant cost. 
 What direction we went, or what distance away. 
 When we came to our senses we neither could say. 
 When we got down to reasoning, began to bestow 
 Some thought on returning, but which way should we 
 
 go? 
 It was almost sunset, no land was revealed 
 To the most careful search, though I think each 
 
 concealed 
 The anxiety felt. Papa steered, he thought, right, 
 But the wind died away, so we drifted all night. 
 And this morning again by the sun took a course 
 Which we kept fairly well 'til the cyclone came hoarse 
 87 
 
On our track with grim death at its side. You well 
 
 know 
 What came after. To you, Mr. Winthrop, we owe 
 More than words can repay. It was God sent you there 
 With your knowledge and strength, with your courage 
 
 to dare 
 In that terrible storm, and for those whom to you 
 Were no more than the wind which around you there 
 
 blew." 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Winthrop strong and courageous? He there sat to 
 
 weep. 
 He was thankful the darkness would that secret keep. 
 It provoked him somewhat. 'Twas a weakness he'd 
 
 hide, 
 And he cross'd the floor softly to Sevrance's side. 
 This move gave him time needed now to implore 
 A quietness of nerves and his thoughts to restore. 
 Returned to the woman, said in voice that, tho clear, 
 Was of such moderate pitch it rang long in her ear, 
 "It will be a great favor if you will refrain 
 From referring to that slight assistance again. 
 It is late now ; perhaps you would like to retire ; 
 In that room where you were ; a few things you require 
 And I have, I have put at your service. You'll not 
 Find there all that you wish; but remember the spot 
 Was for woman ne'er made. I will be within call 
 Of your father's wants; let no anxieties fp^' 
 88 
 
To your lot on that score. I will bid you good night." 
 Seagrave soon was asleep ; he was thoroughly tired 
 From the labors which came to the day just expired; 
 And not even a dream of an angel form cross'd 
 The region where he was in his weariness lost. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 When Miss Sevrance awoke, her first thought was 
 
 'twas late, 
 For the sunbeams were playing at check and checkmate 
 On the panels of cedar ; the next what to wear, 
 And the third was the snarl of her beautiful hair. 
 The first did not matter; sorry fate fixed the next, 
 But this scarcely prevented her becoming vex'd ; 
 The third, with much patience, she disposed in a coil 
 "Which she realized went in degree as a foil 
 For the faults of her dress in which there was no 
 
 choice. 
 As she turned from the mirror, she heard a loud voice — 
 'Twas Winthrop's to Sevrance, cheery call of "Good 
 
 morn." 
 The response, to her fancy, seemed rather forlorn, 
 And compelled her to hasten; 'twas needless alarm. 
 For her father's eyes glowed in a way to disarm 
 The most credulous, as Winthrop showed his big 
 
 catch — 
 A fish with life lusty, great as one man could fetch, 
 Whose scales dripping with brine glowed in sunlighted 
 
 hints 
 
 89 
 
Of all the revealings of the prismatic tints. 
 
 When the breakfast was served it was a model repast; 
 
 The coffee was perfect, and its aroma cast 
 
 On the air of the room let no appetite fail; 
 
 The fish done to a turn, three nicely broiled quail, 
 
 A yam baked in hot sand, puffy rolls, and, not least, 
 
 Fine fruit from his own trees fully rounded the feast. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Then thy talked. Seagrave found it was pleasant once 
 
 more 
 To hear voices ; a woman's within his own door 
 Was an event unexpected, but none the less glad 
 Did he hear it and thank the misfortune which had 
 Cast her lot to his keeping — a woman of sense 
 With whom conversation had full recompense. 
 He had duties to do — he must leave them awhile. 
 He would show her some books, and she time might 
 
 beguile 
 If a volume to suit could be found; opened all 
 Of the panels which seemed but as part of the wall 
 And revealed such a wealth of book lore to excite 
 A more stolid observer; she said she'd delight 
 To pick over his store; 'twas a wonder, indeed; 
 If she had them, she thought she'd do nothing but read, 
 More especially down here, where a person could find 
 Little else, to her thinking, to occupy mind. 
 90 
 
"Select whatever gives pleasure — do not refrain — 
 Everything's at your service — I say it again." 
 And Seagrave, with rifle in the bend of his arm, 
 Was soon lost 'mong the trees. It was not without 
 
 charm 
 To Miss Sevrance to be in this exotic air, 
 An experience with which she had naught to compare. 
 And yet all seemed so strange that it lacked of the real, 
 But an image of fancy which fairies unseal 
 For favorites who trust them; was this castle a fact 
 Or a vision that rose on a mind overracked 
 By the fever that came from the troubles and strain 
 Of the day that had passed, and a disordered brain? 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 Alice read not a book, at least, not that forenoon^ 
 She sat down with her hand in her father's and soon 
 Was conversing of him who had gathered them out 
 Of the shuddering sea at his peril, and about 
 His remarkable house, in this far away zone 
 Where he lived in the depths of its silence, alone. 
 Was he happier here? Whence he came? When he 
 
 came? 
 Did her father suppose Seagrave Winthrop his name? 
 Had he met with reverse, and come here to be free? 
 Or advisable found it to hitherward flee? 
 Could it be that his record was tainted with guilt? 
 Had no other been here? Could alone he have built 
 91 
 
Such a structure as this? And why built it, and how? 
 
 Did genius versatile ever one man endow 
 
 With abilities seen in himself and around? 
 
 Would an answer to these many questions be found? 
 
 XXXV 
 
 "Well, my daughter, you might go ahead with surmise, 
 And echo but answers — information denies. 
 'Tis not proper, however, that we should forget 
 We are here as his guests and, moreover, in debt 
 Very deep to his bravery. Dost know what he did 
 For us? Shall our mem'ry be treacherous? God 
 
 forbid ! 
 When that boat overturned and I crushed 'gainst its 
 
 side, 
 I saw you buried deep in the furious tide; 
 I unable to move. O, the horrible pain 
 That wrenched at my heart; when that man plunged 
 
 in the main 
 It seemed worse than useless, but I think that I prayed, 
 I am sure that I hoped that the courage displayed 
 Would have recompense. Did it? For when he, arose 
 And so easily surmounted the waves* angry throes, 
 He brought both to the land. Then just think what 
 
 he did, 
 And he wishes our gratitude stifled and hid. 
 There he worked on you, Alice, with such earnest 
 
 will— 
 
 92 
 
Handled you as a child, with a mother's own skill; 
 While I feared for the worst, I was almost amused. 
 At the outset my brain was a good deal confused, 
 But the rain perhaps cleared it, at any rate I 
 Found myself ciphering up what I gathered by eye. 
 Winthrop's a man you can bank on, worthy of trust. 
 He's both blunt and reserved ; do not question ; you 
 
 must 
 Let him tell his own tale, if he will, otherwise 
 We will ignorant remain, and evince no surprise. 
 It is certain he was into higher sphere born. 
 And from it by his act for some reason torn." 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Miss Sevrance with papa did not always agree, 
 
 But his estimate now was near her own decree 
 
 Arrived at by instinct, and instinct is above. 
 
 To a woman, mere logic, in business or love 
 
 And she'll make up her mind on the instant, and true, 
 
 Where man, very often, will go floundering through 
 
 With his learning and wit, a stern reasoning maze. 
 
 And never get clear of the encompassing haze. 
 
 But Alice went further, and gave Seagrave a part 
 
 In some former unhappy affair of the heart. 
 
 What but that, was her thought, would drive man to 
 
 deny 
 To himself all the world? And, without knowing why, 
 And somewhat to her anger, her sympathies flew 
 93 
 
To this man whom her sex so sorrowfully knew. 
 
 His house without woman — it must be in a state! 
 
 And why idle her time when she might regulate 
 
 This household, and aid him? But astonishment rose 
 
 Upon finding the rooms would so little disclose 
 
 Of want of attention. From the place where she slept 
 
 To the kitchen outside, it was perfectly kept 
 
 As to cleanliness. But there, of course, were those 
 
 things 
 Which to dwellings a woman's attentiveness brings ; 
 But these not in her province, she to herself said, 
 As her dimpled checks daintily lighted with red. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 Yet when Winthrop returned, he could easily trace 
 
 Such evidence of that indescribable grace 
 
 As belongs to the feminine — a trifling change, 
 
 As more aptly the whole she could deftly arrange. 
 
 This was second; he first saw the table was spread, 
 
 And, in apron, Miss Sevrance was cutting the bread, 
 
 And there poised, knife in hand, half expecting his 
 
 frown. 
 And perhaps a strong word might her happiness drown. 
 He no syllable said, but his eyegleam conveyed 
 A message that more than her disquiet allayed. 
 It was one of approval, and of gladness, if she 
 Read it right. She addressed him "I thought you 
 
 might be 
 
 94 
 
Late, and dinner is ready; have I made a mistake? 
 For, perhaps, sir, you think woman can't broil or bake !" 
 "That irony's unfounded. On the contrary, I praise 
 Miss Sevrance here and now. But a remiss host lays 
 Any burden on guest. Let me show you the fruit 
 Of ihe morning's hot chase — a buck deer — noble brute — 
 There he lies on the bench ; and the antlers, I trow, 
 Shall as a memento to my fair lady go. 
 But what's of more value, if no error I'm in. 
 To you, that is — in short — coming back — I have been 
 To the mainland — I went to the scene of the wreck; 
 The boat's pretty well smashed, but from under the 
 
 deck, 
 When I brought what was left to the dry land, I drew 
 What is doubtless your property — this portmanteau. 
 Very v/et, I presume, but the sun's rays cure such 
 Damage soon." "I thank you, Mr. Winthrop, so much." 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 With the dinner disposed of — a dinner that had 
 Deserved praise and full justice, and Winthrop, reclad 
 In dress more befitting an afternoon's leisure. 
 Sat down to receive, and perhaps to give pleasure. 
 Very soon he grew chatty, and to Sevrance told 
 Many exploits of hunting and fishing, to hold 
 The patient's attention, make the hours seem less long. 
 There were mats on the floor ; "that one used to belong 
 To a tiger, a mammoth indeed for these parts. 
 95 
 
Any danger? Oh, no. With their cowardly hearts 
 They'll sneak into the brush if allowed half a chance; 
 We have no beasts down here that on man will advance ; 
 The rattlesnake, even, only strikes in defense, 
 And more often than not waits for serious offense. 
 And they're few : why, I've tramped o'er the land now 
 
 ten years. 
 And but five times that rattle has rung in my ears — 
 It's a sound one remembers with something of dread. 
 The metallic, sharp ring — of those five snakes, four 
 
 shed 
 Their gray skins to my knife; one hangs there on 
 
 that nail. 
 Measures nine feet in length, buttons twelve on its tail. 
 That bear skin in your room, Miss Sevrance, let me 
 
 show 
 It out here. On that morning, my courage fell low — ■ 
 Seemed to drop to my boots, for a moment. I sat 
 In a palmetto shade for a rest, with my hat 
 Pulled well down. I had cut a bee tree, and had 
 
 brovight 
 Of bright honey two pails, which this big fellow sought 
 For plunder. I heard first the leaves rustle, and then 
 A dark shadow, the substance close followed, and when 
 Aly eye measured the brute, I was wholly bereft 
 Of my senses. My rifle at home I had left 
 And now wanted. But there was my axe, and to think 
 Was to act, and I struck at his head. Quick as a wink, 
 His paw sent that axe flying; he took me within 
 96 
 
His huge arms, and I laughed, spite of fear, at his grin, 
 'Tvvas so funny ; the hug was more serious. I vow 
 I can feel his hot breath on my cheek even now. 
 But I had my good knife — this steel blade — and by luck 
 It drank his heart's current, with such vigor I struck. 
 You can see here the knife thrust, and these scars 
 
 remain yet 
 On my necl: v/hcre the fellow his sharpened teeth set." 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 "Don't you think," Sevrance said, "you great danger 
 
 invite 
 Being wholly alone? Why, an accident might 
 At any time happen, and with no person by 
 You would by yourself in this wilderness die." 
 "I realize perfectly the risk that I run. 
 But if it differs from what befalls any one 
 Of the kingdom 'tis only in way of degree 
 Every man born of woman is an agency free 
 To act his own pleasure within limits, of course, 
 Immutably fixed by the Omnipotent force. 
 And the desire for life is impregnated deep 
 In all creatures of God that walk, swim, fly or creep ; 
 The more danger threatens, the more strength they 
 
 unfold 
 To guard 'gainst it, and they when attacked grow more 
 
 bold 
 In fight for the one thing that is all things to them. 
 97 
 
And I, located here on the world's outer hem, 
 Have employed proper care, and regard it with pride, 
 For my body, and you for yourself can decide 
 The result. No philosophy's needed to show 
 That sickness is useless, and physicians more so ; 
 The one is an outgrowth of man's folly and sin, 
 And gives birth to the other, who gladly turns in 
 And helps its promoter along, and at present 
 Half the world ails; truly, a percentage are bent 
 To the yoke of congenital malady, and 
 The folly goes back to some progenitor's hand. 
 I have kept sound in health, and existence enjoyed 
 More than ever before; and my spirit is buoyed 
 By the freedom I feel in my untrammeled acts 
 With no crowd to dictate — or to follow — my tracks. 
 But suppose a disaster should, after all, thrust 
 At my vitals — to all living creatures it must 
 Soon or late — I believe I possess fortitude 
 To endure to the end. I should rise o'er the rude 
 Foresit beast, which lies down and in silence awaits 
 Whatever may come from the all-ruling Fates. 
 And I fondly imagine that the Paradise 
 W^here mankind's hopes gather as near to me lies 
 In my loneliness here on this Isle of the Bless'd 
 As if in some city among thousands I press'd, 
 With this further advantage, that I'll trouble no one 
 For their tears, praise, or curse, when my journey 
 is done." 
 
 98 
 
"But your parents, or brothers, or friends?'* said the 
 
 man 
 On the bed. "No remark of that sort ever can 
 Move my breast. They are dead." "That seems 
 
 strange, and so sad," 
 Said Miss Sevrance. " 'Tis not, after all, very bad. 
 They went out of the world one by one — I dare say — 
 Yes, I'm sure, I missed some— 'twas for only a day." 
 "But," said Sevrance, "mankind is gregarious ; his place 
 By side of his kind, to be helped in the race, 
 And so help on his brothers. Such a life as you live, 
 Asking nothing from others, with nothing to give 
 To the world, seems too selfish for one of your mein 
 And knowledge excelling. You should be on the scene 
 Of the world's great activities, having a part 
 In its building and lifting, its science and art, 
 In its laughter and love, in the sun of its hope, 
 In its light and its learning — in short, its whole scope." 
 "Suppose that I grant it; I then, under the rule 
 Of exceptions claim right to establish the school 
 Where I study. Those shelves show the world under 
 
 bond 
 To my every request for ils learning respond. 
 Am I doing my share? I don't know. Who can sit 
 On the work of another and give judgment fit? 
 Perhaps no one but God ; yet the world never sinks 
 To a modest reserve in the thoughts which it thinks." 
 This vv^as rebuke severe — perhaps justly incurred 
 And the man in reply at command had no word. 
 99 
 
XL 
 
 A few moments of silence, and Miss Sevrance said : 
 "Far away from the subject of mats you've been led, 
 And just now I have taken more interest in these; 
 Won't you tell me what that is, behind your chair, 
 
 please?" 
 "Oh, those are the pelts of the fish eating otter, 
 The best fur in the south, and the softest by far ; 
 There are six skins in that. Nearly two hundred hides 
 Of the little gray cat-squirrel in this one, besides 
 The border of wood rat. In that the fox squirrel — 
 The Sciurus Niger — with the tails that they curl — 
 The shadow tails proper — o'er their backs to their 
 
 nose." 
 The young lady examined in most graceful pose, 
 "Shall I find," said Miss Sevrance, "a limit to your 
 Many accomplishments?" "Oh, yes, Madam; be sure 
 That on every one's path 'can't' has marked out a line." 
 Then, the subject to change: "Have you e'er seen 
 
 those fine 
 Soft drawings of wood-life by Gibson, a later 
 Thorean of the pencil, whose fond Alma Mater 
 Is Nature's exhibits of the forest and field? 
 I have them in books here, and perhaps they will yield 
 Entertainment a while." As he turned o'er the leaves 
 He sat close by her side. His breast swelled as the sea's 
 When the tempest is on. Why was he, the recluse 
 And the stoic who'd sworn to forever refuse 
 
 100 
 
Influence of woman, to in weakness submit 
 
 To the first handsome one close by whom he might sit 
 
 In the langorous air of this beautiful South, 
 
 Feel her breath on his cheek, see the pearls of her 
 
 mouth? 
 To be charmed by her words falling soft on his ear? 
 To be chained to her side as a slave to appear? 
 When it fell on his mind, he grew angry and swore 
 By the sorrow that came from experience before 
 It should not occur twice. It were better by far 
 That between he should place the effectual bar. 
 So nicely accomplished, of an absence from home. 
 The woods his resort were, and why should not he roam 
 From morning 'til sunset through their entrancing 
 
 aisles? 
 'Twere a more noble scheme than be lured by the smiles 
 And the wiles of a woman — to that which he gave 
 Erstwhile and in anguish to the dead, and the grave. 
 
 XLI 
 
 This was what reason said, and he reasoned it out, 
 As he walked in the gloom, and he never would flout 
 The result of his logic. Her father soon well, 
 She would go with him hence. Again Seagrave would 
 
 dwell 
 In the quiet of his home, in its safety and peace, 
 And this sporadic case of emotion would cease. 
 Man's reasoning he sometimes believes without faults, 
 
 lOI 
 
When in each of its members the conclusion halts. 
 
 To in other phrase put it, man will not be bound 
 
 By that which his reason declares perfectly sound. 
 
 But, mind you, I say not reason's finale is right — 
 
 It is sometimes as far off as day from the night. 
 
 But, if reason allowed, reflex action would oft 
 
 Find the better result — instinct, intuitive, soft 
 
 And identified scarcely. 'Twas knowing this fact 
 
 Led the witty French statesman to advise : Never act 
 
 On first impulse, because 'tis invariably right. 
 
 But still, I'm not saying, even now, in the fight 
 
 For worldly possessions that reason does not beam 
 
 O'er mere intuition with a glory supreme; 
 
 But only at some points the impressions speak true 
 
 Before reason assembles the case to review. 
 
 And when finally it does, it is often debased 
 
 By the mazes perplexing with which 'tis inlaced. 
 
 But be this as you will, I know Winthrop's resolve 
 
 Went as mists of the morning the sun's rays dissolve. 
 
 To his patient he talked the same night, but waited 
 
 With a longing as if 'twas a time to her fated 
 
 For Miss Sevrance to come, when, in light that was 
 
 thrown 
 From the mid-eastern sky where Astarte full shone, 
 They lived with the poets, from Spencer to Byron, 
 Quoted from Tennyson, until the environ 
 Effervesced with the warmth of the heart's ecstacy; 
 And concluded with Poe's lines of Annabel Lee, 
 Which Winthrop recited in his musical voice 
 
 102 
 
And gave it a meaning which left Alice no choice 
 But to think that beyond the mere words that he spoke 
 Was a memory which had from its slumber awoke. 
 
 XLII 
 
 And 'twas so the next day ; and the day after that, 
 
 Until, humiliated, he gave up combat 
 
 That his intellect waged against emotions of heart; 
 
 While his absence from her gave more of the smart 
 
 To his breast than he cared to confess. He was weak 
 
 Where precisely he thought he was strong. Did he seek 
 
 To revolt? So he said. But then there was the fact. 
 
 So embodied beyond denial, of his act — 
 
 Like the smoker who says he could quit, but still 
 
 smokes, 
 Like the bibber, who's pos'tive that when he invokes 
 Resolution, he'll stop, but who ever adheres 
 To the liquor that gives transient joy while it sears 
 The feelings and conscience — and still under the thumb 
 Of the slavers the victims grow faint, and succumb. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 She took up the labors, as by right, which befit 
 One — a woman — at head of a house, and she lit 
 Every room by the grace of her presence. The two 
 Worked toegther in kitchen oft times, and when 
 through 
 
 103 
 
With the cares of the house, she with needle and thread 
 Would intently be mending — his clothes. And he read 
 At those times from a book for her father — and her. 
 For her father, perhaps, but to her who could stir 
 To the bottom his passion; he deemed it enough 
 To be there by her side, and to feel no rebuff 
 As he looked into her hazel, deep dreamy eyes, 
 And observed the faint blush that would spring in 
 
 surprise 
 When she saw his devotion. When Sevrance improved 
 A week after the accident — so that he moved 
 By the help of a crutch to the porch, then beyond. 
 The two followed and made a pretention to lend 
 An assistance not needed; and if by mistake 
 They got off by themselves, it was all for the sake 
 Of the schooling thus had — of the knowledge it gave 
 The young lady who found fiowers and trees by 
 
 Seagrave 
 Were deciphered as books ; he could utter the name 
 Of each one in the Latin, and could place the same 
 By its family and genus. Anon he'd entwine 
 For the maiden a wreath of the scented jasmine 
 Or would gather and bind in a sunny boquet 
 The bright calopogons and blue stars of the day. 
 These hours held heart's laughter and gave sunshine 
 
 of soul. 
 And the joy they had from it was more than the whole 
 Of existence. The past so entirely forgot 
 And the future uncared for, or, if so, as not 
 104 
 
Unlike the warm present with its delicious balm 
 And they bidden to rest in its heavenly calm. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 To the patient, Seagrave gave attention and aid, 
 So helpless he kept him on the bed where he laid 
 For a week. Half that time he cut open the wrap 
 And disclosed that the hurt was fast closing the gap 
 Which lay between uselessness and soundness regained. 
 With continued prudence he might, Winthrop explained, 
 In four days move a little; in ten he would tell, 
 As his surgeon, he could go forth perfectly well. 
 With proviso, of course, he must use every care 
 And do naught to frustrate the gain each day could 
 
 bear. 
 "And then I would ask you, noble knight, how I may 
 Get back to the mainland? Have you means to convey 
 To the port whence I started on that foolish trip? 
 But I've met with a service repaid by the lip 
 Very feebly indeed. May the future give chance 
 To requite the great debt, aye make even advance." 
 "If debt there was any, 'tis already repaid 
 By the glow to my house, which your presence has 
 
 made; 
 For, in truth, you are first who has entered and 
 
 blest 
 This home of my building, and a most welcome guest 
 Though you came to it sadly enough on that day 
 105 
 
Of the storm." "It was awful." "The Furies will play- 
 Such occasional pranks in this warm latitude ; 
 But they always give warning ; I saw that storm brewed 
 In the Southwest afar, full an hour ere it showed 
 To your unpracticed eye; otherwise, when it strode 
 To a gale you'd have been safely out of its track." 
 "It is possibly so ; but I ever did lack 
 In deciphering the signs of the weather, and here 
 It's a treacherous thing." "Well, yes ; somewhat, I 
 
 fear." 
 "But a boat — have you one?" "Yes, most surely; I 
 
 could 
 Not have lived in this place without that. It is good 
 For all uses and safe. When recovered you go 
 In my charge, to be landed securely, and so 
 There a pleasure will end." "Do you make that remark 
 As a mere compliment?" "Not at all." "Then embark 
 For the world. It would seem you're away from your 
 
 place 
 In so utterly being cut off from the race. 
 Go with us. I am sure naught would give more delight 
 Than to entertain you at my home; give you sight 
 Of the American Athens. I'll guarantee 
 That you'll have a good time." "I thank you. It suits 
 
 me 
 Perfectly here. A decade and more on this isle 
 Where the one Master teaches, has taught me to smile 
 At the follies and crimes upon which the world thrives, 
 And for which in its weakness it barters its lives. 
 1 06 
 
I have here been content." "Will you tell me what 
 
 freak 
 First induced you to such isolated place seek? 
 
 XLV 
 
 "For any — for all acts, a man can exhibit 
 
 His reasons, but often the case will prohibit 
 
 His relating the truth. There are causes complex 
 
 And attempt to depict them is only to vex 
 
 The mind with insolvable problems. All I say 
 
 To you is that 'twas predetermined. This way 
 
 I set sail, as did you, and by chance found this spot. 
 
 I liked it, and lingered, and finally would not 
 
 Give it up, and I builded with purposes leal 
 
 And have brought actuality out of ideal." 
 
 "But tell me, do you hold a purpose to spend 
 
 All the rest of your days here; to here wait the end?" 
 
 "That I scarcely have weighed. The event is far off, 
 
 Or I hope so, at least. When or where we shall doff 
 
 Our earthly rough casing never troubled my brain. 
 
 To live right and do right is a creed to sustain 
 
 Man throughout the brief day which he's destined to 
 
 find 
 On earth, and he need not o'er the end rack his mind. 
 Life is decay of the atoms; each moment dies 
 Some part of the system. When no longer Strength 
 
 vies 
 
 107 
 
With Destruction, the heart becomes still, and the 
 
 breast. 
 Sans its burden and cares, sinks forever to rest. 
 That is all. Death is life, and delightful, unbroken, 
 Disturbed never more by the word that is spoken 
 By the savage of earth. I am free to avouch 
 That with joy when the time comes I'll welcome the 
 
 couch 
 Spread for slumber so long ; and where naught 
 
 interferes 
 'Mid a glory profound, and the music of spheres 
 For ever inviting; and there'll come to my side 
 All the spirits of those who on earth did abide 
 In my friendship and love and the seons bedew 
 With a memory old in an existence that's new." 
 
 XLVI 
 
 Sped quickly a fortnight ; and another week rolled 
 Into Time's fateful chasm. And at ease in the fold 
 Of their friend they remained; the whole island 
 
 explored, 
 From the deep mango groves to the waters that poured 
 From mysterious depths that refreshed beyond wine, 
 So cool, sparkling and soft, in the midst of the brine. 
 Their talks took a wide range, in the shadowy lairs, 
 And if either one thought that another sowed tares 
 In the field controversial, it passed unobserved, 
 But the ripe fruits of utterance all were preserved, 
 io8 
 
'Til each one to the other grew high in esteem. 
 If the lord of the isle measured out the full dream 
 Of the maiden as what proper hero should be 
 'Twas no matter for wonder, as you will agree. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 But at last, Sevrance said in a tone positive 
 
 In the charm of the place he no longer would live; 
 
 Its entrancements had held, and he'd long overstaid 
 
 Decent limits, and now duty must be obeyed. 
 
 Or his business would go to the bow-wows, or, worse, 
 
 His executor might undertake to disperse 
 
 It, believing the principal dead. Would their host 
 
 Take them off on the morrow, to Myers on the coast? 
 
 Thus enlarging the debt which already had grown 
 
 To size so colossal they scarcely dare own. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 With reluctance, Seagrave gave assent. He felt 
 Culmination drew near, when his visions would melt 
 Into vapor and go, or grow real. It meant much 
 To his heart and his soul. Did such deep feelings touch 
 The loved Alice Sevrance? Was he fool, not to know? 
 V/as he deaf to a sigh? Was he blind to the glow 
 Of her deeply lashed eyes, which so oft met his own 
 That she censured herself for the boldness thus shov/n? 
 He went slowly at work making ready his boat 
 109 
 
With confusion of mind, and a dryness of throat 
 From musings entangling o'er what manner of phrase 
 He the subject should broach. Should he utter the 
 
 praise 
 Which arose to his lips every moment he thought 
 Of this woman whose charms to his heart hanger 
 
 brought 
 A macarian rest? He determined, forsooth, 
 Just nothing save this, that he would tell her the truth 
 Before parting; and so he returned to his hall 
 Whose ceilings would echo never more the soft fall 
 Of her foot, or her songs. Would the silences be 
 The same and as restful as they were before she 
 His retreat invaded? He knew well they would not, 
 And he dreaded already the gloom of the spot 
 When this girl should have gone. He with will force 
 
 assayed 
 More of cheer than he felt. The last night that she 
 
 staid 
 Should, if he had the power, be so happily spent 
 That around it their thoughts should forever be blent. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 He succeeded, at least with the maiden, beyond 
 Any hopes which he had. Still unable to bend 
 His mind to a programme, the events moved along 
 By chance of occasion, from reciting to song. 
 And with stories of life, 'til the evening expired 
 no 
 
Leaving much to be said which they would have 
 
 desired. 
 Sevrance told them a tale of a journey he made 
 When a boy to the west, with the first to invade 
 California where finding of gold had set wild 
 A whole continent wide, 'til the eastern born child 
 Even wanted to go to shear part of the fleece 
 That the pockets would fill, and show still an increase. 
 There were hardships enough over mountains and 
 
 plains. 
 Where he broiled in the sun and was soaked by the 
 
 rains, 
 And at last he hurrahed with his feet on the shore 
 Of the swift flowing stream where he dipped for the ore 
 That eluded his grasp — it was always ahead 
 Or to one side, but never where he chanced to tread. 
 There were mud, wet and hunger for this Argonaut. 
 But the pennyweights few of the metal he sought. 
 And he no exception ; for to one who found gold 
 And could keep it, a thousand grew haggard and old 
 In the mad, reckless strife, or succumbed to the break 
 Of their glorious dream. Sevrance pulled up his stake 
 And came back to the East, where the law would 
 
 provide 
 An influx of nuggets which the West had denied. 
 
 Then the young people sang several vivacious songs, 
 III 
 
Her soprano ringing as a voice that belongs 
 To a i.roud cantratrice, and its echoes returned 
 From the dark forest walls, 'til the soul of him burned 
 With the fire of its thrill; and she felt that his ej^es 
 Through the gloom looked at her with a warmth that 
 
 gave rise 
 To a bhish, and she trembled. Then a silence fell 
 On the two, and it held them env/ound in the spell 
 Of the wholly indefinite. Sevrance asleep 
 In his chair left the vigils the others to keep. 
 Alice whispered: " 'Tis late." "Aye, said Winthrop, 
 
 "You see 
 Those stars — it is Hydra — o'er the top of that tree? 
 When they're there in this month, 'tis past midnight. 
 
 I'll sing 
 You a song, if you please." "Do. A farewell to bring 
 This last night which we spend on your isle to a close. 
 We long since should have been, I am sure, in repose." 
 With brief hesitation, as if he would make choice, 
 He began in low key, but with sonorous voice : 
 
 LI 
 J\fy Heart Goes Where Thou Mayest Go 
 
 O with the hour of parting near 
 I would one whispered word bestow 
 
 To say when thou'rt no longer here 
 My heart is where thou mayest go — 
 My heart goes where thou mayest go. 
 
 112 
 
And III remember all these days 
 
 Which thou hast made so quickly flow, 
 
 And where thy life and what thy ways 
 My heart is where thou mayest go — 
 My heart goes where thou mayest go. 
 
 And silent will my castle be, 
 
 When it thy accents does not know, 
 
 But thou shalt live in memory — 
 My heart is where thou mayest go — 
 My heart goes where thou mayest go. 
 
 And darkness here shall henceforth reign 
 In halls illumined by thy glow 
 
 But symbols of these shall remain 
 My heart is where thou mayest go — 
 My heart goes where thou mayest go. 
 
 The forest paths will lose their light, 
 The flowers less beautiful will blow. 
 
 And hope alone will live as bright — 
 My heart is where thou mayest go — 
 My heart goes where thou mayest go. 
 
 with the hour of parting nigh 
 
 My words fall falteringly and low, 
 
 1 for the future breathe a sigh — 
 
 My heart is where thou mayest go — 
 My heart goes where thou mayest go. 
 113 
 
LII 
 
 The last note died away ; and the maiden was gone — 
 Fled in silence and swiftly, as some startled fawn 
 At the sound of the huntsman. She felt her heart beat 
 With excitement and fright, as she made her retreat 
 Without saying good night. And the song's refrain 
 
 kept 
 So repeating itself that 'twas long ere she slept. 
 
 LIII 
 
 Sweetly slumbered the town 'neath the low April sun 
 
 In reserve that befalls when the season is done 
 
 And the anglers are gone. And the fishing boats 
 
 moored 
 Near shore or at anchor, and the yachts were immured 
 In close canvas covers. At this hour the broad breast 
 Of the river was crimsoned with fire from the west; 
 While in border of black, 'long the low shining bank 
 Showed the palms and the cocoanuts in inverted rank. 
 The wind which had been strong all the day and gave 
 
 speed, 
 Fell away with the sun to a zephyr, indeed, 
 With occasional flaw, and Seagrave's whitened sail 
 Idly flapped, and then drew. They heard never a hail 
 From a seaman abroad — there were now none afloat 
 Save thsese three from the isle, in their long, lazy boat, 
 Which scarce held its dull way in advance of the tide. 
 114 
 
Sevrance made effort slight his vexation to hide, ' 
 Yet Winthrop put forward a true seafarer's skill 
 In endeavor to draw his sheet so it would fill. 
 Since the first light of morn and the earliest bird's 
 
 song 
 They had been on the way and all day rushed along 
 'Til the water rolled up and came over the side ; 
 And for them hours flew quickly, for either one vied 
 In utterance of thoughts each deemed might be the 
 
 last— 
 Or they feared it, perhaps, and the future would cast 
 Far asunder their paths, and in each throbbing breast 
 Were deep longings evolved which were not yet 
 
 express'd 
 Through softened tone and electric glances intense, 
 Conveying swiftly ardent love's intelligence. 
 The sun, red and swollen by refraction of light, 
 On the planet's brim poised and then dropped out of 
 
 sight ; 
 And above, as the stars appeared one by one clear, 
 Seagrave turned in his boat and made fast to the pier. 
 
 LIV 
 
 At the town's sole hotel, they had dinner late set, 
 Which they relished, and seasoned with their jokes, 
 
 and yet 
 There was dread undercurrent of low somberness 
 Which each one strove in turn, but in vain, to suppress. 
 "5 
 
Can the heart say farewell with the ease that the tongue 
 Will issue the mandate, and be by it not wrung? 
 Somewhat later, in brief as they sat on the stoop, 
 Sevrance told of his wreck to an inquiring group. 
 Was informed by mine host that his effects were safe, 
 And retained for the day of return of the waif; 
 Then few questions revealed that a boat would depart 
 On the morrow for Trabue and Sevrance would start, 
 Not dismayed when all said it was weezy and frail, 
 A concern good enough for the government mail. 
 Up and down thrice a week the irregular line 
 Of the coast. Said Sevrance : "Though it may not 
 
 be fine, 
 We will take it because 'tis the best at command, 
 And we cannot at slight inconvenience now stand." 
 
 LV 
 
 Seagrave turned to Miss Sevrance : "Would you like 
 
 to go 
 For a stroll on the street? The attractions I'll show." 
 The attractions of Myers! But Seagrave did not draw 
 Her attention to them. She remembered she saw 
 The stars shining above, and the blue hemisphere. 
 And the wavy outlines of the trees 'gainst it clear. 
 And, v/hen far up the street, from the city away, 
 They, arm in arm, halted underneath a sweet bay 
 And listened a moment to the lamenting call 
 Of a lone whippoorwill that came up from the pall 
 ii6 
 
Of dank timber which fringed the low bank of the 
 
 stream. 
 Oh ! These tropical scenes, they live long as a dream 
 In a mind which partakes of their balmy delights — 
 The velvety softness of the star-lighted nights 
 Oft oppress'd with perfume of the lemon and lime 
 The magnolia and orange, and the white cape jasmine. 
 
 LVI 
 
 Half in shadow they stood, as entranced with the scene. 
 Then to his companion Winthrop said most serene: 
 "With Miss Sevrance compelled on my island to dwell 
 I refrained, from that fact, from advancing to tell 
 What has burned in my mind and welled up in my 
 
 heart. 
 Yet determined to utter it ere you depart. 
 Here in Myers, where you are, as it were, on your 
 
 heath, 
 I can speak, and I say from the first that beneath 
 The sang froid which I tried to maintain there has 
 
 been 
 A hot passion of love, vexed with doubts could I win 
 One so sweet. You must take me, I fear, as I show, 
 As I could, I have been as I am. Only so 
 Would I have you to know me ; and add, I have not 
 Always lived in the wilderness, nor have forgot, 
 Or I trust not, the ways of the world which I left 
 And unto which I, if of this hope not bereft 
 117 
 
Shall return, for I would never have you to think 
 That I any woman I would marry would sink 
 In seclusion so deep. May I hope and believe 
 That the love which I offer you'll harbor and weave, 
 Alice sweet, in your life? Ah, thank God for the way 
 You uplift your dear eyes. Oh, they do not say nay. 
 While the future again holds the charm of the past 
 And life has a mission and a splendid contrast 
 With the selfish pursuit of a hermit to keep 
 In a pretense of virtue and o'er the world weep. 
 Ah, this night is to me a new heaven, I feel 
 And I'll put on thy brow of my purpose this seal." 
 
 LVII 
 
 "Mr. Winthrop, I know that a woman should save 
 All her words in reserve, though her warm heart may 
 
 crave 
 In its passion as ne'er a man's dares to, I ween, 
 But I could not say aught in this hour that would mean 
 More to you than you've guessed; and to say we'll be 
 
 pleased 
 To see you in Boston whenever you've ceased 
 Playing recluse down here." "That were easy, I'm 
 
 sure ; 
 The events of this night have for that proved a cure." 
 "For my papa has said very often of late 
 That no other one thing would his feelings elate 
 ii8 
 
As to have you for guest." "And did Miss Sevrance 
 
 say 
 A word on the subject?" "She will now, if she may, 
 Tell you 'twould delight her." "Then indeed I decline 
 Not, and come — let me see when — I'll drop you a line." 
 "A line, Mr. Winthrop?" "That is figurative, quite; 
 With permission from you, I will hasten to write, 
 And write often the news from the seat of unrest, 
 For such, with you absent, is the Isle of the Blest." 
 
 LVIII 
 
 At the house, Sevrance saw at the first glance he caught 
 Of the love-lighted eyes which his daughter had brought 
 From her walk was convincing — he needed no word 
 To explain the affair, and when later he heard 
 From the maiden's fresh lips the sweet news, saw the 
 
 shine 
 In her beautiful orbs which was almost divine. 
 It affected his heart, and he told her she'd won 
 A man of royal stamp whom he'd take as a son 
 First of all whom he knew, and none less she deserved ; 
 But profoundly his first thought in silence preserved; 
 Though he had due regard for the parental bands. 
 He was glad it was settled, and she off his hands. 
 Was there ever a man of his consort bereft 
 Who did not entertain for a daughter thus left 
 Wholesome fear, and rejoice when in answer to love 
 She accepted a man of whom he could approve? 
 119 
 
By the side of his wife is a man in contrast 
 
 In the method of making a mould for the cast 
 
 Of the lives of their children. There's nothing of size 
 
 In the world like the motherly self sacrifice 
 
 In aid of her offspring. No love of another 
 
 Begins to compare with the love of a mother 
 
 'Tis so pure yet intense, of the seraphic strain, 
 
 And endures to the end without falter or wane. 
 
 And of hardship and toil she will take no account 
 
 If thereby her children are enabled to mount 
 
 In careers that are useful to place in life's field — 
 
 And her recompense is in a heaven unsealed. 
 
 'Tis the boys of their teaching who have become great 
 
 As the leaders of men and the builders of state; 
 
 Tis their creed that's been carved by the sword and 
 
 the pen, 
 And the world is in debt to the mothers of men. 
 
 LIX 
 
 Though the people had gone, as 'twas said, one staid 
 
 yet 
 From the tourist crowd lost, perhaps not with regret. 
 A dark, low-statured man, with hair midnight in hue. 
 And regular features so pronounced that they drew 
 More than one look, and black eyes with sinister tricks 
 Of superbly flashing, but which no gaze could fix. 
 This one stood just outside as Seagrave early came 
 For a walk out of doors contemplating to tame 
 
 120 
 
His high spirits; his thoughts at the time far afield, 
 But this man blocked the way, and with insolence 
 
 steeled, 
 Held place in the passage. " 'Tis Winthrop, I believe ?" 
 "Yea, believe it, and know." "Memory does not deceive 
 Me oft in my acquaintance." "Well, what futher 
 
 would you?" 
 "You this morning are curt. Did late hour in the dew 
 Chill your system ?" he spoke ; ere the last word escaped 
 He sprawled flat on the sand, lying there, for breath 
 
 gaped. 
 " 'Twould doubtless be hopeless undertaking to teach 
 Such a puppet as you to be civil in speech." 
 The other stood upright, said, as he brushed the wet 
 From his clothes : " 'Tis a plain case of assault." 
 
 "A threat?" 
 "Not a threat; just the fact. I intended no wrong. 
 I'm not known, that is plain ; it's not strange 'tis so long 
 Since we were at college ; yet you should recollect 
 The one whose career and graduation was wrecked 
 By your virtue o'erbearing — an unwarranted blow." 
 "Not forgotten, Dave Dyke; but why now should you 
 
 grow 
 On my sight once again?" "Perhaps so as to tell 
 That I'm no longer dunce, but have prospered full 
 
 well." 
 "Why, then, so much the worse. What by your kind 
 
 is gained 
 
 121 
 
Must, of course, be by fraud and by devilishness 
 
 stained." 
 So marched Seagrave away, and the other's clenched 
 
 fist 
 Was shaken in hatred, and he serpent-Hke hissed: 
 "Oh, I'll pay you well out. You know little the power 
 I possess, and by which can be wrecked your high 
 
 tower, 
 Oh, heaven, make it hell. And the woman will help 
 And with complaisance will hear you as punished dog 
 
 yelp. 
 Winthrop of old held his head above fellowmen. 
 And has not since changed. So did Lucifer; but then 
 He fell, and will this one. Thousands have brains as 
 
 big 
 As those under his hat. I the power have to rig 
 Forces of Belzebub to away sweep the earth 
 From under his feet, and to show him 'tis not birth. 
 Books, nor wealth gives strength. Perchance he would 
 
 not succumb. 
 Coarsely fed, coarsely grained, and to fine feelings 
 
 dumb. 
 And do I the brute want? Far less risky for Dyke 
 To make use of the woman, and him through her strike. 
 Much more sensitive she, with nerves not so concealed; 
 And when under influence she quickly will yield 
 And do what she's bid, and thus Winthrop's I'll show 
 How kindness to his love will repay for that blow." 
 
 122 
 
LX 
 
 Mr. bevrance came down, running straight against 
 
 Dyke. 
 "What, the devil, you here?" "I am here, but don't like 
 The abrupt word you use." "Indeed! what brought 
 
 you here?" 
 "Perchance pleasure, or business. It is nothing queer 
 For one who has funds — and — time — to take a brief run 
 From the cold of the north to this land of the sun. 
 And I lengthened my stay on discovering your track, 
 And being informed you would probably be back — 
 I felt sure you would be me delighted to meet." 
 "But I'm not, and I charge you to be most discreet 
 And be absolute stranger, 'til we are away." 
 "Who is the young lady?" "She's my daughter." 
 
 "Don't say! 
 That you were so favored, I was never aware. 
 I should like the acquaintance of woman so fair." 
 "Oh, impossible that!" Such word's not entertained 
 Between friends such as we are. Tell the truth, I'm 
 
 pained 
 That objection you have. Should I make the demand 
 I perchance hold the card whose play would force your 
 
 hand. 
 Let the lady make choice ; I will not ask your aid. 
 Of the outcome I'm sure I will not be afraid. 
 But your fingers keep oflf. We can't fail to agree, 
 And you fairly can urge no objections to me." 
 123 
 
Then he turned on his heel, leaving Sevrance to swear, 
 "What a scoundrelly cuss, doubly damned, and he dare ! 
 My impression somehow with a subtlery trend 
 That the beginning is here of this comedy's end." 
 
 LXI 
 
 When they went the next morning to the steamer which 
 
 lay 
 At her moorings at end of the frail timber quay, 
 Winthrop saw, and he frowned, that his enemy there 
 Had arrived, and was fixed, with a debonnair air, 
 In a chair at the stern, where the awning gave shade 
 From the sun which was out in full splendor and made 
 The air quiver with heat, scarcely modified by 
 The zephyr that threatened every minute to die. 
 He had said ere the start his most tender farewell 
 And express'd the fond hope to hear ringing the bell 
 For their wedding full soon. Now he could only see 
 The poor comforts were hers for the trip on the sea 
 Which the small boat afforded; annoyed and surprised 
 At foreboding distrust at the way Alice eyed 
 The dark man, and her words : "He is handsome. Do 
 
 you 
 Know his name?" "Yes, and no. But his name — 
 
 there are few 
 On the register now— I most certainly saw. 
 And beyond that I wish to know naught, for I draw 
 The conclusion 'tis safe to avoid him because 
 124 
 
He's a rascal; if eyes ever showed up the flav/ 
 
 In man's morals, his do." "You're not jealous, I 
 
 hope?" 
 "Not a bit." "Truly so?" "Truly." "There goes the 
 
 rope." 
 "Call it line on shipboard. Well, good bye, once again." 
 And Seagrave jumped ashore as the boat felt the strain 
 Of the wheel's revolutions, and stood on the pier, 
 Watched the steamer far down, through the clear 
 
 atmosphere ; 
 The flutter of ribbons, then the small starry flag, 
 And these lost 'round the Point, he still watched the 
 
 long drag 
 Of black carbon that came from the pitch pine 
 
 employed. 
 And which far astern floated and thinly deployed. 
 Then he slowly walked back through the lone street, 
 
 his mind 
 Still on Alice, and felt even now the hard grind 
 Of his loneliness; got his boat's prow to the west, 
 And drave down with the tide tovv^ard the Isle of the 
 
 Blest. 
 
 LXII 
 
 On the ship the dark man, near the mouth of the 
 
 stream, 
 Stretched his arms and arose, looked around, threw 
 
 the gleam 
 
 125 
 
Of his eyes on the girl, but her father addressed: 
 "This trip tires the patience." "Oh, somewhat, but 
 
 we're bless'd 
 That we have any boat." "But this really is vile." 
 "Tliere are worse ones, no doubt." "Yet a shame to 
 
 beguile 
 A traveler on this one. Is that Winthrop who came 
 To the boat with you, friend?" "Do you know him?" 
 
 "I claim 
 A long standing friendship, and in college classmates; 
 But he knows me not now — more than that, says he 
 
 hates 
 Me in sight." "Very strange." "Unexplained. I 
 
 forgive 
 Him — well, call it a mannerless act. Does he live 
 In this section?" "He does." The sharp advocate's 
 
 wits 
 Were alert. Here a case must be guarded from its 
 Ex-parte evidence. Yet he wondered his friend 
 Knew this man and owned not. Still, no Sevrance 
 
 must lend 
 Information which Winthrop himself would have told 
 Had he wanted it known, and which now might unfold 
 To his possible hurt, and they owed him so much 
 They must count possibility in what might touch 
 His affairs. This man now had advantage enough 
 And Sevrance must meet him without offering rebuff; 
 So they chatted along about water, and air, 
 126 
 
Birds, snakes, climate, trees, soil; praised the settlers 
 
 who dare 
 Break the forests to make themselves homes. Not the 
 
 two 
 Held the talk, for the magnetic traveler drew 
 The young lady, almost 'gainst her wish, to partake 
 In the colloctition. But her interest awake 
 And engaged once, she found an agreeable man 
 Of the world who could say airy nothings, and ran 
 In a melliferous stream on and on, and held her 
 'Til she argued, in shame, if this one she'd prefer 
 To Seagrave, nor explain the ill thought when she tried. 
 Well dressed and good mannered, with an air that 
 
 implied 
 He belonged at the front of the best social line. 
 His glance gave commination she could not define, 
 But she could not resist, or did not; at heart sick 
 For submitting to Dyke, yet urged on by the pique 
 Held toward Winthrop because he'd not freely explained 
 What relations to him this strange man has sustained, 
 Instead of evading, or, as she held, denying 
 He knew him — biting her lip — it was lying. 
 The conversation ran on ; the steamer as well. 
 At the landings they gazed — Punta Rassa, Sanabel 
 And Pine Island; at last, and about the hour due. 
 They in safety debarked at the wharf in Trabue, 
 Punta Gorda elsewise, which looks over the spread 
 Of broad Charlotte Harbor, now purple and red. 
 Crimson, lilac and gold, a most beautiful sight 
 127 
 
In the sheen of the late afternoon's bright snnh'ght. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 In the cool morning air, when the dew spread around 
 
 Like a rain over night for the grass and the ground, 
 
 And the ozone was free to give vigor to life. 
 
 The blue jays v/ere a-wing. and the mocking bird's fife 
 
 Shrilly sounded, our three traveling people had place 
 
 In the sleeper northbound at no hurrying pace 
 
 Up the Peace River Valley, Sevrance would have had 
 
 Air. Dkye remain back; still he was a good pad 
 
 Now to knock up against for a couple of days. 
 
 Through a low, level land which so little displays 
 
 To interest awaken, and Dyke, what so his make 
 
 Was decent acquaintance to the tediousness break. 
 
 But he did more than this; he made haste to improve 
 
 The occasion, without stepping out of the groove 
 
 Of propriety strict. Neither bashful nor bold 
 
 He succeeded, ere reaching New York to get hold 
 
 Of the maiden's affection; he was asked to call, 
 
 And the girl realized her mistake ere the fall 
 
 Of the word, but the strength of this stranger's will 
 
 force 
 Overcame her and she felt like wax in the course 
 Of formation by moulder ; she shuddered in dread. 
 Yet constrained to remain by the glamor which shed 
 Fear and liking at once, like the light which allures 
 The frail moth from retreat, tho' it singes, ne'er cures 
 128 
 
The inquisitive fault; save too deep in its breath 
 The misguided insect flutters down to its death. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 {Mr. Winthrop to Miss Sevrance) 
 
 "Darling Alice : — The days by the calendar are 
 Counted not as they were ere thou, bright northern 
 
 star, 
 In my heaven arose, and the light of thee shone 
 So all that was splendid theretofore in my zone 
 Grew dark and disheart'ning by the vivid contrast. 
 Now the days drag along with my thoughts ever cast 
 On thy beauty and grace, on thy goodness and love. 
 The attributes all of favored angels above. 
 And I long for the hour when I'm bid to thy side 
 And the word shall be said which will make you a 
 
 bride. 
 House and island the same ; nature's features as dear 
 As they were in the past when thou entered my sphere, 
 Or so reason declaims; but they do not so seem, 
 And that happy time past appears only a dream 
 Of impossible things, while I am now awake 
 To the diviner phases of the life which thee make. 
 All the verdure's unchanged, and the nightly dew 
 
 weaves 
 Its garlands of diamonds round the edge of the leaves 
 And Golconda rivals when the sunbeams first flash 
 129 
 
From Aurora's bright brow and her swift brushes dash 
 With such color the east; and when evening draws 
 
 nigh, 
 From my door I behold many purple threads fly 
 In and out and across the quadrant's crimson-rose, 
 And the horizon's gold fringe fades, falters, and grows. 
 All these colors reflected, 'til the Gulf's placid breast 
 Seems a pathway that leads to the ultimate rest, 
 Colors that when together oft fastened our gaze 
 And in vain we sought adjectives wherewith to praise. 
 They're the same as they were, but they're changed to 
 
 my view. 
 For my fancy paints now fairer, warmer, each hue 
 With the glow of thy love. And my books are all here, 
 But they're touched not nor read, and the pages once 
 
 dear 
 Have surrendered their charm, and another divine 
 With a tenderness holds every thought which is mine. 
 I hourly behold thee in the downy white folds 
 Of the soft clouds which o'er the cerulean sky rolls. 
 And I feel thy eyes glow in the stars of the night. 
 Which above me, thou knowest, are wonderfully bright ; 
 And thy voice ever sounds in the wind which comes o'er 
 The waves and the forests, greeting me at my door. 
 Have compassion, I, pray thee, for the Ihavoc here wrought 
 In the life of this man whose affairs are distraught 
 By thee, beauteous maid, and whose salvation will lie 
 In thy early demand that thy affianced fly 
 
 130 
 
With the speed of the whid — for his sails must be 
 
 spread — 
 To thy side in the north, and the word shall be said 
 That will make thee the wife of a mortal thus raised 
 To the happiest state, which the apostle praised. 
 Let me hear from thee soon. Next to seeing thy face 
 And enfolding thy form to its merited place 
 On my passionate breast, that must answer ; a kiss — 
 Very many, I send. O no single one miss. 
 And a myriad more for thy lover please save. 
 And believe me sincerely, in love, your 
 
 Seagrave." 
 
 LXV 
 
 Sleeping Boston. The sun in midsummer array 
 
 Had started the thousands to woods, mountains and 
 
 bay, 
 And in fashion's Back Bay, blinds in darkness were 
 
 dra\vn. 
 Save occasional place where the folks would not fawn 
 On these edicts, or had other reasons as good. 
 Who kept their home comforts which they well un- 
 derstood 
 Could not be found 'mid crowds at the summer resorts 
 With the gossiping throngs and the lounging cohorts. 
 At all events, Sevrance was at home, in the toils 
 Of the legal profession, with its onsets and foils; 
 Up a winner one day, down the next in defeat, 
 
But, whatever his luck at the bar, in receipt 
 Of not too modest fees. Of all things he abhorred 
 'Twas to be by the public a cheap lawyer scored; 
 And he argued if men would rush into the law 
 'Twas a luxury for which they their purses must draw. 
 And Miss Sevrance at home, with a cousin remote 
 Of her father's, a blonde, slender, tall, whom you'd vote 
 Of line queenly, so proud was her way, and her tread 
 Firm and regal; blue eyes large and bright, and her 
 
 head 
 Stately poised was adorned with a crown of rich hair, 
 And a danger lay hid in its tangling lair ; 
 If in friendship she bent, yet her sympathy held 
 No close confidences which so ardently swelled 
 In young Alice's heart, blind to blushes, which raised 
 As she talked of her hero, and his courage praised. 
 Yet, if truth must be told the fair Geraldine's brain 
 Held much broader culture and of classical strain. 
 She found way to contribute as her friend sat to write 
 The first letter of love to her far distant knight, 
 Curbed the frankness which Alice could not restrain, 
 Threw in a suggestion of a Sappho refrain 
 Which compelled Winthrop's pause, and he rightly felt 
 
 sure 
 That 'twas foreign to her ; would she stoop to procure — 
 To purloin, in short? The suggestion once made, 
 Tho' he scouted at it, yet it rankled and staid. 
 But 'twas justified quite to fair Geraldine Snow: 
 If he half met the praise he was one she would knov/, 
 132 
 
And there sprang in her mind what she dare not give 
 
 speech — 
 That if Winthrop should come to her presence she'd 
 
 teach 
 Some things worth the knowing which surely would be 
 Harkened to by an innocent from a lone key 
 Far from women ; he might know his books as a sage ; 
 But to feminine charge full as weak — as a page 
 Of Dean Howell's. And she doubted never her style 
 Would make capture; if not, that her tongue could 
 
 beguile 
 While Miss Sevrance would think what 'twas better 
 
 to say. 
 And, besides, was she not here to be in the way 
 Of these lovers^ — this loving? Her mission was real. 
 What is love but a trade? — in it nothing ideal. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 In the meantime, the dark Mr. Dyke had appeared 
 At the Beacon Street house; and if Miss Sevrance 
 
 feared 
 His black eyes, as she said, 'twas a fear modified 
 By a charm undefined when he came to her side, 
 And she could not resist that which she should repel. 
 And she said to her friend, as the softened light fell, 
 In their chamber one night after David had left: 
 "What — what power has this man? Is it some wicked 
 
 weft 
 
 133 
 
To be shot 'cross the warp of my life, and to spoil 
 AH the future? He seems like a snake in a coil 
 Getting ready to strike, and I shudder. Again, 
 I'm attracted, and feel a luxurious pain, 
 'Tis so queer a commingling of joy and distress. 
 At times, tho' he's absent, his power comes to oppress, 
 Like a deep shadow, spread as a pall o'er my soul. 
 And I'm beckoned thro' gloom toward a desperate 
 
 goal." 
 
 Miss Snow 
 "Oh, you poor, nervous child ! It is only a trick 
 Of an overwrought brain. Surely, none would I pick 
 From the hundreds of men as a gentleman born 
 Before this Mr. Dyke, who would probably adorn 
 Any circle haut ton. If your lover can match 
 Him in manners and looks, you have made a good 
 
 catch, 
 And I bless you again as a woman whose luck 
 Is freed from the evils of a mischievous Puck. 
 But I'd not be surprised if to Boston he came 
 He would seem like a bear really hopeless to tame." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "Mr. Winthrop is noble, so learned, and so brave." 
 
 Miss Snow 
 "Oh, yes! Our lovers must be that always to save 
 Their position. Each girl must some male from the 
 
 race 
 Make selection and raise to a heroic place 
 134 
 
In her own mind." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "You laugh." 
 
 Miss Snow 
 
 At the folly our sex 
 Ever shows when a man takes occasion to vex 
 Us with love." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "You talk wild. And have never you known 
 What it is to be loved?" 
 
 Miss Snow 
 
 "Yes, indeed. I must own 
 To a dozen affairs of the kind. So you see 
 That the story is worn pretty threadbare with me." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "Are you joking?" 
 
 Miss Snow 
 "Don't cry, O my Alice; forgive. 
 No. I should not have said what I did. Let love live 
 In such breasts as it may. Here's a kiss for good night. 
 May your hero still be of your dreams the delight." 
 
 LXVII 
 
 But Miss Sevrance's sleep was not sound, and her 
 
 dreams 
 Most depressing. In one she was crossing deep seams 
 And rough ribs and scoria of a bleak lava bed 
 135 
 
Whose rent fragments, sharp edged, bruised her feet 
 
 till they bled; 
 Not a tree, flower, nor shrub, showed itself in the glare 
 Of yellowish green heat that swept down thro' the air. 
 She limped, choking, along, when a wide fissure gaped 
 From which up came a form that appall'd her. 'Twas 
 
 shaped 
 Like a man, yet no man. It had horrible claws. 
 Tigerish eyes and a mouth like a viper's. A pause, 
 And the voice of Dyke spoke : "You are welcome, 
 
 my dear; 
 But I claim, first, a kiss as a mark of good cheer 
 Thro' this damnable place." As his claws the flesh tore 
 From her shoulder, his lips, with foul breath, to her 
 
 bore 
 Such a kiss, — like a sting. She awakened and screamed. 
 And exhausted then lay in a tremble, she deemed 
 It so real ; and for days she was haunted, depressed 
 By this incubus weighing like a sin in her breast. 
 She grew haggard and wan, wished for Winthrop one 
 
 hour 
 With his courage and strength, and his good sense 
 
 to tower 
 As a bulwark around her ; the very next, fear 
 He would scoff and despise with strong words that 
 
 would sear. 
 So, all of her letters limped along on a crutch. 
 Saying less than she would, lest she might say too much. 
 
 136 
 
LXVIII 
 
 In a third story room on a South Boston Street, 
 Where the tenements crowd 'till the lines of them meet, 
 Where the people spend all, and their poverty feel 
 In a district, in short, called the shabby genteel — 
 In a low darkened room, sparsely furnished and mean, 
 Mr. Dyke calmly sat facing angry John Dean. 
 
 Mr. Dean 
 "Dave, you must get to work, and the girl, too, you see ? 
 You can't put the burden altogether on me. 
 I do my share — always; and you know that — enough. 
 Both of you'll have to hustle in moving the stuff." 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 'We must wait yet awhile." 
 
 Mr. Dean 
 "See this coat? Will that wait? 
 Why a tramp would be poor who affords not its mate." 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 "Oh, your clothing's not bad. Money soon will be rife 
 In our camp, when that girl becomes your servant's 
 
 wife — 
 'Twill be heaven and cash, and our ship will be in, 
 For her father is rich." 
 
 Mr. Dean 
 "But it is not her tin." 
 
 137 
 
Mr. Dyke 
 "Yet you bet he'll come down when I catch hold his 
 
 leg! 
 From scandal of that sort an excuse he will beg." 
 
 Mr. Dean 
 "Well, go it! God speed you. God? 'Tis Devils that 
 
 keep 
 Watchful care o'er your life, if awake or asleep." 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 "Well, whichever it is, things at last will come right, 
 As they have in the past; and the sun will be bright 
 By and by, tho' the present is shrouded in gloom." 
 
 Mr. Dean 
 "But, 'tis said that a wrong will at last meet its doom." 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 "They are relative terms, right and wrong, as the stand 
 From which you look at them ; either one will expand 
 Without limit, if brought into favorable light. 
 That a living is due every man as of right 
 Can't be gainsaid, and each has his own way to get 
 What is only his own. One in this spot may set 
 Under motion his plans, the next there put his stakes, 
 And each is entitled to whatever he makes." 
 
 Mr. Dean 
 "What in thunder, I'd like to inquire, do you want 
 Of a woman as wife? She'll make trouble and haunt 
 
 138 
 
You away from this trade." 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 
 No ; she never will know 
 What profitable seed we here secretly sow, 
 Or her conscience might wake if it escaped my clasp." 
 
 Mr. Dean 
 "Is the game worth the risk. Do you think you can 
 
 grasp 
 Enough money to pay for the danger?" 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 
 "If not, 
 The whole thing long ago would have been sent to pot. 
 And you know very well I can drop her the day — 
 The next day should I choose. 'Tis an opera bouffe 
 
 play. 
 While the money is sure, still beyond that I hope 
 A man will toboggan down the slide which I soap. 
 There's a proud, measley wretch who in mere meanness 
 
 hath 
 Made attempts several times to put stones in my path, 
 And I'll laugh when he squirms on the confines of hell, 
 As he looks back to see by whose tripping he fell." 
 
 LXIX 
 
 A woman's perceptions are wonderfully quick 
 When the trump is a heart and a marriage's the trick; 
 139 
 
And Alice was second to no other in this 
 Special faculty — these insights which never miss 
 Fire, and true in their aim. So she knew that this man 
 Would seek culmination of his audacious plan 
 Before many days passed ; and would she still remain 
 The same helpless being, with head ache and heart 
 
 pain? 
 Was it love of the dang'rous in this that led her 
 To grope round for the black when the white she'd 
 
 prefer? 
 Had she lost self control? Could there be no appeal 
 From the will of another to what she might feel 
 Was her own proper way? And was she in a daze 
 To be blindly led thro' a dark intricate maze 
 To — to — where would it end? She was lost in the doubt 
 Which encompassed her soul like a damp fog about. 
 She then halted 'til Dyke, with his art in command, 
 Came and knelt at her feet, pleading long for her hand, 
 Spread the future before her a Paradise fair 
 And they the two bless'd ones to be entertained there. 
 'Twas all a dim glamor what she said — what she did. 
 But she felt her strength come with her tears as she 
 
 hid 
 Her shamed head in her hands, and sobbed back she 
 
 could not 
 Hear him further, and said let it all be forgot, 
 For he never — no, never, could any hope find. 
 For himself, Mr. Dyke kept his presence of mind 
 And his temper, and spoke a few words to assuage 
 140 
 
The turmoil that appeared in the girl's brain to rage; 
 Set his voice to low key, with pathetic regret 
 That a passion so single as his should have met 
 With reception so — well, so indifferent, at least ; 
 Poor requitement for love which no moment had ceased 
 In its growth since he first found it spring from the 
 
 seed. 
 Would she think it all over, and the uncommon need 
 He was in to be saved, and she easily might 
 By returning his love ; and he left with good night. 
 
 LXX 
 
 W^hen alone by herself, she was angry first, 
 
 Then, excitement still high, she her writing desk burst. 
 
 Drew her paper and pen, wrote, with spirit and dash — 
 
 She scarcely knew what, but it bore more of the flash 
 
 Of her own proper self, the recipient thought, 
 
 Than any from her that to his home had been brought. 
 
 And Alice strange freedom for a little while felt 
 
 As if she had risen to a clarified belt 
 
 Of pure air where she breathed with the ease as of old 
 
 Before stifled by Dyke with his suave voice and cold 
 
 Glittering words, and alone she could write as denied 
 
 With her friend Geraldine sitting close by her side. 
 
 As she always did sit when the other would write; 
 
 But the girl from this burden had respite tonight. 
 
 141 
 
LXXl 
 
 "My Dear SeagRave: My love seems to take brighter 
 
 phase 
 As it springs out the dullness, the darkness and haze— 
 The wretched environs into which I've been thrown. 
 How it happened, don't ask ; the fault may be my own ; 
 I don't say ; I don't know ; all my thoughts are in strife* 
 But tonight Mr. Dyke asked if I'd be his wife — 
 Mr. Dyke, your old friend, he at least claims the post, 
 Tho dislike for him grows 'til it seems I'll be lost — 
 In the spell that he weaves. Will you set your boat's 
 
 prow 
 To the northward at once? Will you come to me now? 
 When I need you, aye, more than I did on the shore 
 Of the Isle of the Blest, where your ample arms bore 
 Me from waters of death; for of death I was not 
 In the least bit afraid. But to think I've forgot 
 For a moment your love, as I must if the man 
 Plad excuse for his coming. I'm sure that I can 
 Endure not, and I cry 'cross the earth and the sea 
 For my lover from far to come soon unto me 
 And resolve threatenings dark which now hover around 
 To a sheltering care in which love shall abound. 
 Geraldine — or Miss Snow — has this evening gone out 
 With papa ; now on that you may surmise or doubt 
 Till you are tired, and I could never help you a bit, 
 For I can't make my mind up to what is in it. 
 But I'm glad she's not here while I have this to write, 
 142 
 
For she says many things which are witty and bright 
 Which somehow I borrow, quite unconsciously, too. 
 And reaHze later the folly. Do not you 
 Abhor this confession, and the confessor more? 
 But I further can't write ; I expect at the door 
 Every moment to hear the night key in the latch 
 By the tenants returned. I must hasten to catch 
 The collection last made from the letter box near, 
 And expect a good scolding when Miss Snow shall hear 
 I write with her absent. I have written so fast 
 It may be hard to read. Think! The die is now cast 
 And may panoplied fortune and pleasure advance! 
 Ever and ever your true love, 
 
 Alice Sevrance." 
 
 LXXII 
 
 Seagrave needed no time to get ready to start ; 
 At Punta Gorda his yacht in the care of Joe Smart, 
 A rare boatman, he left, when he read the last line 
 Of the letter which came ; the previously blind sign 
 Which was scrolled on the walls of his house became 
 
 plain 
 And, sans all preparation, he'd take the first train, 
 Replenish his wardrobe on occasion or chance, 
 And he'd sharpen meanwhile the long blade of his lance 
 For his enemy's head ; for the more he reviewed 
 The letter he'd folded, he its import construed 
 To be not in the lines which his Alice had writ, 
 143 
 
But between them, and he guess'd she never would fit 
 
 The effect to the cause, but was lost in the dark 
 
 Of some villanous scheme which Dyke's kidney could 
 
 hark 
 To the onset against what was sacred and pure 
 Without scruple. But Seagrave would go with a cure 
 For ulcer of that sort. "I will never," he said, 
 "Be content till Aliss Sevrance to safety is led, 
 And a net for that rascal be woven. Perhaps — 
 Geraldine — there is something about her which taps 
 My suspicions. I have little ground for the thought, 
 But momentous results have from smaller been 
 
 wrought." 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 But he turned from the worry, his lesson was learned 
 Long before to not borrow of troubles interned 
 In the future, for surely they might be concealed 
 So securely as never to light be revealed. 
 However, if such should develop, why the need 
 Would be served by nerve-force, husbanded for the 
 
 deed. 
 As he pass'd, he preferred to o'erlook the landscape ; 
 On the state's growth to reflect, from low Sable Cape 
 To the mouth of St, Johns, which a brief time had 
 
 changed 
 From interminable forests thro' which cattle ranged 
 And a rare Cracker camp, to a settled estate 
 144 
 
With its clearings and groves, happy people elate 
 
 In their homes 'mid the flowers where the year blandly 
 
 smiles 
 In fruitage abundant, and all nature beguiles 
 To a long life of pleasure; below an earth fair, 
 And above a blue sky and a marvelous air. 
 Towns and hamlets by scores struck his eyes as he 
 
 roll'd 
 Thro' the country, with schools, and the spires of 
 
 Christ's fold. 
 Hotels and court houses; a devout multitude 
 Having plov/ed what so lately was wide solitude. 
 Far away from old homes, but yet not feeling lost 
 With their many railroads and their diurnal post. 
 They Vt^ere people of brains, and invaders in peace 
 Who came for contentment and to gain a new lease 
 Of life and enjoyment in the sun amid flowers, 
 Where zephyrs are soothing, and the redolent hours 
 Waste away as in dreams when the fairies troop out 
 In their garlanded robes to lead spirits about 
 Under orders from Mab. Here they'd planted the vine, 
 And beneath their own fig trees could sip of their wine 
 Thro' the days when the sky was of soft glowing pearl 
 Or at eve when the sun in the west would unfurl 
 The bright variant banners, delighting the eye 
 With the colors belonging alone to this sky ; 
 And surrounded by groves of the lemon and orange 
 Whose gloss'd leaves and gold fruit make a picture 
 
 for range 
 
 145 
 
Of man's gladdened vision ; the broad ananas fields, 
 Bananas and giiavas, and a score more which yields 
 Beyond an abundance. If all this had been done 
 In a decade, he thought, 'twas a victory won 
 Having parallel none, and the future outheld 
 With a generous hand a cornucopia swell'd 
 For the thousands by tens who should have happy 
 
 homes 
 In this land of the sun where the snow never comes. 
 Where the foliage is soft and the blossoms are sweet, 
 And Athena, blue-eyed, prolongs life from her seat 
 On Olympian hill; and the hopes of the day 
 Melt the dreams of the night in a blessing alway. 
 This was better, he owned, than the solitude kept 
 By himself on the isle which so peacefully slept 
 In the translucent sea ; yet each man to his will. 
 The intelligent folks who have come here to fill 
 The broad land with a fruitage were building a state 
 To be marked in years coming as prosperously great. 
 Solitude they'd not bear as he did. They'd prefer 
 To rub fellow elbows, to meet men in the stir 
 Of advancement and strife and activities strong. 
 So did he. But his trials he'd insist did belong 
 To the domain of healing of body and soul; 
 He'd been broken in both and was emerging whole. 
 And who'll say, after all, what is noblest and best 
 In mortals by millards who on earth have made quest. 
 And for what? The beyond is a Magnalia, blind 
 As is that whence the seed sprang to grow in its kind. 
 146 
 
What law-laking Egoist to bind would assume 
 
 The mind of another, quench ihe lights which illume 
 
 The life, brief as an hour to a chiliad? None 
 
 Have secrets exclusive from what life's web is spun. 
 
 Are the many or few justified in a claim 
 
 Of right over the one? Why, history must name 
 
 One alone in the walk of progress who has led 
 
 Earih, and the multitude nameless went with the dead. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 Thus his mind v/as engaged. But the prosaic side 
 And disquiet of Seagrave Winthrop's late summer ride, 
 He found in confinement to the hot rumbling car, 
 With the powdery dust from its pounding and jar. 
 It bore on him, the change from the air clean and free 
 And the silences deep of his isle in the sea; 
 And the loud talk of men 'bout their catties and hogs 
 Was to him the miasma afloat o'er the bogs 
 Intellectual. Here, v/hen the summer months grow 
 The train service dies down to a few cars and slow, 
 But when once he had caught the fast northern mail 
 
 train — 
 A long distance runner with a speed to maintain — 
 He felt as if going, he pass'd state after state, 
 And on reaching New Jersey, he had counted eight. 
 He stepp'd from the sleeper to the old ferry ark 
 Which conveyed him the Hudson across to New 
 
 York,— 
 The great city whose noise and confusion and lights 
 147 
 
Struck his ear like a Babel and revealed the sights 
 Which astonished. "Ah, me, 'tis no wonder," he said 
 "That half of the people never know the life led 
 By the others." Between city life and the far 
 Distant stillness of country, with little to mar 
 Virtuous life, there's a gulf very deep, very wide, 
 And if each has its dark, it has, too, its white side. 
 Which is better? one asks. The discussion's as old 
 As the building of towns. Every person can hold 
 To the theory he likes ; but there is no dispute 
 That the cities would die if they did not recruit 
 From the vigorous blood of the country, the brawn 
 And the strength, to be thrust in unpitying pawn 
 For wild gain ; for the city's a mill that runs fast, 
 Grinding up flesh and blood, with scarce aught at the 
 
 last 
 But scant grave for the bulk of its toil-driven slaves 
 Who're sustained by a false stimulation which saves 
 From remorse. Still, 'tis great in some ways, not the 
 
 least 
 In its contrasts extreme, from the millionaire's feast 
 In his palatial home near the grand Central Park 
 To starvation and filth where the alleys grow dark 
 With dense population in their tumbledown shells 
 And life is but suffering a succession of hells; 
 From the nobles of wealth who administer true 
 What is put in their keeping, to the accursed screw 
 Who, like all the others, bids farewell to the earth 
 As much of a pauper as he was at his birth, 
 148 
 
For Charon never carried across his dark pool 
 A stiver or sixpense — think of that, dying fool! 
 From sealskin, silk and lace, and perfume of rare cost, 
 To cheap calico gowns ; from my lady engross'd 
 In society's whirl, to the sempstress who knows 
 Day nor night from her drudgery the slightest repose; 
 From churches uptown never entered by God 
 Nor whose people have ever pass'd under the rod. 
 To the widow who weeps in a damp corner dim 
 With the angels around bringing comfort from Him. 
 Then the question recurs, where does happiness rest? 
 And whose name shall be first when Humanity's 
 
 bless'd? 
 Shall then Crassus be crowned? Shall the tramp be 
 
 a king? 
 Shall Magdalene's finger bear honorable ring? 
 He pondered these problems with results rather scant — 
 They well would have puzzled a Fichte, Heigel or 
 
 Kant — 
 As he rode in his cab; still unraveled the snarl 
 When at last he got out at Hotel Albemarle. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 Without any delay, he a messenger sent 
 
 For a long ago friend, Mr. Farrington Bent, 
 
 Who came that same evening; tall, broad-shouldered 
 
 and stout. 
 With a masterful step, as if he'd pick a route 
 149 
 
And pursue it regardless of what might it block, 
 And in friendship or fight equally ready to lock, 
 If his gray eyes spoke right. But his manners were 
 
 mild 
 And engaging, almost, like a precocious child. 
 Shaking hands warmly, Seagrave proceeded to tell 
 In a short, hurried way of his vacation spell 
 Which had kept him away. From this, quickly he 
 
 turned 
 To the subject in hand — to the one thought that burned. 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "Farrington, let me ask if you're still in the same 
 Old profession engaged?" 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "Yes, the same hunt for game, 
 And, what's more to the purpose, I find it — sometimes." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "I want your assistance." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "Well — in my line of crimes?" 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "I don't know. Perhaps not any crime has been done ; 
 Proof is lacking. I'll tell you, and you can keep run 
 Of the story. Your help for past friendship I ask, 
 With a guarantee that you'll be paid for the task. 
 If a wrong has been done you're the man who can find 
 
 150 
 
The rascal who did it, and the snare weave to bind. 
 There's a woman — 'tis said there is one in each case 
 Where a man is concerned." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "Yes, of course; or the race 
 Would from the earth perish." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 
 "You're facetious, but I 
 Am deadly in earnest." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "That's all right; and I cry- 
 Back to you at this sport. But I'm bound to be heard 
 Since it Adam commenced — Adam, villain absurd — 
 'Tis the fashion for men to attribute their sin 
 Or its cause, to a woman. There's nothing within 
 Expression of language to characterize right 
 These miserable sneaks who would get out of sight 
 Behind feminine skirts. Why don't sometimes men 
 
 raise 
 Themselves up to Truth's plane, and their voice to the 
 
 praise 
 Of womanly virtues? If no better were she 
 Than the average of men, I am afraid the decree 
 Would be end of the world. I am tired of the lie 
 That the women to men every evil supply." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "You have well said your say. I'll agree to agree 
 151 
 
With your utterance strong. If you'd waited for me 
 To in half dozen words end of my sentence reach, 
 I'd have lost an essay, and you — well, saved your 
 
 speech. 
 There's a woman involved in the case I present, 
 As lovely a creature as the Fates ever sent 
 To accompany man on his journey mundane, 
 Whom I've plighted my love, which she returns again 
 With devotion as warm and as pure as the light." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "Ah, indeed ! Will you please name the beauty, a sight 
 Of whom dazzles Seagrave? Before whom he would 
 dance?" 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "Don't extravagant grow. She Miss Alice Sevrance 
 Of Boston." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "I would tender you joy, with the hope 
 That the future will give you a pleasure whose scope 
 Shall be limitless. But all you so far have told 
 Does not reach to the pith of the subject." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 
 "A bold 
 Raucous rascal comes next, whom I'm compelled to 
 
 place, 
 From what little I've read of this fad folks embrance 
 As a hypnotic fiend. I could vanish his spell 
 O'er the girl, if a spell he has woven. But 'twere well 
 152 
 
In my mind to look out if he's not bigger game — 
 If some prison wants not on its roll this same name. 
 That chap I am after. Late last Spring he was south 
 On the Caloosahatchie — at Myers, near its mouth, 
 And a while afterwards there were found in the town 
 A score counterfeit bills, which had been scatter'd 
 
 round. 
 The proof really is slight that he left the notes there — 
 I'm obliged to admit for with you I'll be fair — 
 But one dealer was sure that Dyke gave him this bill 
 On the National Bank of the Upper Minkskill." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "What, this bill? Why, Seagrave, if you've put me on 
 
 track 
 Of the gang which makes these, your acquaintance will 
 
 lack 
 Not a journey to jail, for to you it is due 
 To deliver to me the first valuable clue 
 In a case which confounded the force. But his name?" 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "It is Dyke." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "To me strange. But it may be the same 
 Is assumed." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "No indeed; but he may have a score 
 Besides this, which is right." 
 153 
 
Mr. Bent 
 
 "I have followed for more 
 Than a year — nearly two, I should say — on the trail 
 Of this bill, working hard, and doomed ever to fail." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "That is queer, for this Dyke was too stupid to scold 
 When at school, he as dull as Abderean of old; 
 But a natural thief, he his lessons would steal 
 And, exposed, was dismissed without any appeal." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "They're the kind who evade the detective's pursuit 
 The longest." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "Why is that?" 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 
 "I don't know; they do it 
 As though ignorance were shield, but when they're 
 
 at last found, 
 The detective, because he has not run to ground 
 Such a dullard before, is provoked at himself. 
 But I hope I've a point to land Dyke and his pelf. 
 It is now ten o'clock. In an hour I will start 
 For Boston. Will you go?" 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 
 "I think not. Any part 
 I might play over there would suspicion awake 
 And defeat the measures you may prefer to take. 
 154 
 
I will write on this card names and numbers to aid 
 you to start. If I can be of help when you've made 
 A survey of the field, send a message by wire. 
 At this house I remain." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 I your calmness admire. 
 Good or bad, I'll report. But I hope it will show 
 Something else than defeat. Time is passing, I go." 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 O Justice, heaven-born, works salvation at last. 
 And it signifies not if the unjust have pass'd 
 Tens or hundreds of turns where the law lies in wait. 
 It is finally met, whether early or late. 
 Whether God's law or man's, it its vengeance complete 
 Will measure to culprit, and know never defeat. 
 And tho' sometimes man's law one a failure may deem 
 For awhile, 'tis not freedom, for God's law supreme 
 Will admit no escape. But it generally haps 
 That the artfullest sinner will somewhere make lapse — 
 The Fates, after long guiding thro' criminal maze. 
 Will finally desert their poor victim, and gaze 
 From their vantage on him when involved in the toils 
 Which he wove for himself, and they smile as the coils 
 Draw tighter around him. Mr. Dyke had arranged 
 For action for certain on a Wednesday, but changed 
 It to Saturday. Why? He did this surely not 
 155 
 
To permit Mr. Bent to arrive on the spot. 
 For Bent did not arrive, he, at least, was not seen. 
 He argued with wisdom that belonged to the dean 
 Of the detective branch of the government force 
 That tho' not knowing Dyke, Mr. Dyke might, of 
 
 course. 
 Be on him, so he took two good men who were strange 
 To the East, and gave them charge of finding the range 
 Of his game. And of these, one, O'Neil, the first day 
 Saw Dyke go to the Beacon Street house, go away 
 Shortly after, and tracked him thro' rushing and roar 
 'Til he entered the South Boston tenement door. 
 Then a second beheld ; in ten minutes a third ; 
 And this latter he knew — was nicknamed the Fly Bird — 
 From a picture which hung in the gallery of thieves. 
 Then he saw softly turned on the third floor the leaves 
 Of a blind, and felt sure he was on the right scent 
 Of the quarry, and left to make report to Bent. 
 
 LXXVIl 
 
 Events moved for the Sleuth, for O'Neil the next day 
 Followed one of the men o'er a tortuous way 
 To Charlestown — a house where the shutters were dark. 
 "That's the place," uttered Bent, "whence our friends 
 
 will embark 
 When we call," after he had considered the facts. 
 "They are foxy; their pals even know not the tracks 
 156 
 
To that house over there, where we'll find that they 
 
 turn 
 Out their work ; in the other, and without concern, 
 They live safely, and meet whom they will ; after this 
 I will be over there. You, O'Neil, never miss 
 An hour's watch in the day ; get a room on the street 
 Where a view you can have. When a rag or a sheet 
 From a window is hung, or a pistol shot sounds. 
 To the rescue then come. We must keep within bounds 
 And exercise patience ; perhaps days — perhaps weeks — 
 We must circumspect be. Give South Boston to Leeks ; 
 He to you will report and speak never to me. 
 You in this room alone must ever I see. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 That same night, Mr. Bent, when the silence hung deep 
 Over Charlestown, and tired people all were asleep, 
 Made his way up. the steps and, selecting a key 
 Which threw back the bolt, he entered softly, as free 
 As an owner in fee; passed thro room after room 
 With the rays of a bull's-eye dispelling the gloom, 
 And found — in the basement — what he deemed he would 
 
 find. 
 And was satisfied quite, at least in his own mind. 
 At the progress to date. In the front second floor 
 He found, upon opening with his false keys the door, 
 A room dark in its dust, which was surely not used, 
 And he laid down and slept, where he was not refused 
 157 
 
The sweet, easy slumber his own bed would afford. 
 After rising, and lunch, he, with sharp augur bored 
 An inch hole in the floor and the ceiling below ; 
 Then sat down by the window to wait for hours slow 
 To roll by. Thro the blinds' narrow slits, he could view 
 What was passing beneath. There were only a few 
 People seen on the street, but the watcher ne'er showed 
 Disappointmnt or hope, nor appeared tho he owed 
 Aught to time, or against time had debt. If his mind 
 Was kept busy, as 'twas, one no flushings could find 
 Of his thoughts in his eye — every muscle was tame. 
 But at last his face lit, as two men briskly came 
 To the door, entered softly, went promptly down stairs, 
 Where at work they began, entirely unaAvares 
 That their movements were followed by eyes full as 
 
 keen 
 As their own, for an hour ; and then Bent having seen 
 What he wished for, withdrew, and retired to his room. 
 Threw himself on the pallet and slept till the gloom 
 Of the evening allowed him to make his retreat, 
 And his faithful lieutenant in conference meet. 
 They agreed on one thing — any time they might choose 
 They could tighten the lines, but as yet they would lose 
 The bell wether. They'd wait yet awhile, but alert 
 To the needs any hour might them call to exert. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 But ihis case, for a wonder, moved along, didn't stretch 
 158 
 
Nerves or patience. Next day they saw Dyke come 
 
 and fetch 
 Ladies two. "Now," said Bent to himself, "I shall hear 
 If not see," and he sprawled on the floor with his ear 
 To the hole he had bored, and was gladdened again 
 To discover that sounds from below came up plain. 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "Where are we? What this place? Geraldine,do not 
 
 leave 
 Me alone with this man. Why, I did not conceive 
 That you'd help to deceive me, for where are your 
 
 friends 
 Whom you said we should meet?' 
 
 Miss Snow 
 
 "You are aware of the ends 
 Which we seek." 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 "There! No more in that strain; now go out 
 And your important errand please hasten about, 
 While I to Miss Sevrance can the better explain." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "What! You're locking the door?" 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 "Yes, so we can remain 
 Undisturbed a few moments." 
 159 
 
Miss Sevrance 
 
 "What, what does this mean, 
 Mr. Dyke?" 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 *'Pray be calm. Here, unheard and unseen, 
 I again press my suit; at your feet humbly kneel 
 And implore you to give me an answer." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 
 "You deal 
 In soft words and harsh acts. You your answer shall 
 
 take. 
 No ! Never ! A thousand times No !" 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 
 "Please awake 
 To the fact that you're prisoner here, and your heart 
 You must yield — or your hand — ere you ever depart, 
 And I'm sure you'll prefer any trouble to save." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "Back! Back! Come not near me. Would you kiss 
 me, vile knave?" 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 "Have a ciare of your words, my sweet one, or you'll 
 
 find 
 That I can be somewhat, — when provoked, — say, 
 unkind," 
 
 i6o 
 
Miss Sevrance 
 "Oh, why did I know you? Mr. Winthrop was right. 
 You're a wretch," 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 "Ha, ha! Winthrop, indeed! why this fight 
 Is against that same man, who aloof held himself 
 From those better than he — got, as 'twere, on the shelf 
 Of his pride, and the top one at that. Will he laugh 
 In his joy at the news that you're my better-half?" 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "Oh, never! God protect." 
 
 Mr, Dyke 
 "I would not contradict; 
 For I think you mean yes. Miss Sevrance, this conflict 
 Of tongues shall have ending; we're to be married soon, 
 When returns Geraldine — 'twas to be just at noon." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "I would die first." 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 "Ah, Death does not come at our call. 
 It is when we don't want him he throws somber pall 
 O'er our heads. But you see, do you not, worse than 
 
 death 
 Looks you full in the face, for suspicion's low breath 
 Is as bad as the truth when the truth is the worst; 
 By your own guilt undone, you are already cursed, 
 For an hour we have been in this room all alone — 
 Don't you see what I mean?" 
 i6i 
 
Miss Sevrance 
 
 "O my God! Am I stone? 
 Yes ; I see and I feel. It has been, knave, your aim 
 To put this upon me, and to blacken my name 
 Oh, death I would welcome ; yes, a thoustand times yes, 
 Than to live and as woman be any the less. 
 As united to you I would be. Why, I scorn 
 The thought. Did I slumber ; was it of the dark born 
 That this rottenness here once a cade goodness 
 
 gleamed — 
 Was with manhood endowed?" 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 
 "I declare, if you dreamed, 
 You're awake to the honor approaching." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 
 "You think, 
 It may be, it is noble to here on the brink 
 Of a prec'pice to set me. Perhaps you have power 
 To my body impale, but the soul seeks its dower 
 Far beyond and above. Think you answer'll not make 
 To the vengeance of Him who will never forsake, 
 As I firmly believe, such vile criminal's trail." 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 "There, stop ! I insist. Think you words will avail 
 To change my decision, when I've gone to this length?" 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 
 "O father ! O Winthrop ! O my God, give me strength 
 
 162 
 
In an hour of such need!'* 
 
 Mr. Dyke 
 "Ohj now dry up those tears, 
 Or your eyes will be spoiled. Here Miss Snow 
 
 reappears, 
 For I hear carriage wheels ; 'twill be over soon now, 
 And wisdom it is to the inevitable bow." 
 
 LXXX 
 
 Mr. Bent at the blind slipped his handkerchief thro' 
 And walked noiselessly down and the front door bolt 
 
 drew 
 And admitted O'Neil. Neither uttered a word 
 As they stood for a moment and low voices heard 
 In the parlor; then both threw their weight 'gainst 
 
 the door 
 Which went in with a crash that astonished the four. 
 *'Hell, 'tis Bent !" exclaimed Dyke, and he made a wild 
 
 dash 
 As escape he Vv^ould make. The big man like a flash 
 Was upon him, however, with grip of a vise 
 In which he was a child, and as ribbons of ice 
 The irons circled his wrists. But the second man 
 
 fought 
 In a desperate way, until finally brought 
 To a Quakerish mood by a harsh temple blow 
 From O'Xeil, just in time to return to Miss Snow, 
 Intercepting her exit. 
 
 163 
 
Mr. Bent 
 
 "No, madam, you must 
 Remain with your people for awhile. I can't trust 
 You away from my sight." 
 
 Miss Snow 
 
 "You're impertinent, sir ; 
 Let me pass." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "I cannot. 'Twill be dangerous to stir." 
 
 Miss Snow 
 "What invasion is this? I don't know what it means." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 " 'Twould take time to explain." 
 
 Miss Snow 
 "If there's cause for the scenes 
 You have made with these men, you have not the least 
 
 cause 
 To give me detention." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 
 "It accords with the laws 
 We make for our guidance; and this beautiful pair 
 Of silver steel bracelets I shall ask you to wear." 
 
 Miss Snow 
 "Oh horrors ! Arrested ! You're mistaken, and do 
 You, oh, you vile creature, believe I'll yield to you?" 
 164 
 
Mr. Bent 
 "I dare say. There's the proof ; they fit snugly. O'Neil 
 Will you step down in front while I hold these folks 
 
 leal 
 With revolver, and tell that Jehu not to wait; 
 That our plans have been changed; you will return at 
 
 eight." 
 
 Mr. Miller 
 "Will you be kind enough now to say why I'm detained, 
 This indignity thrust upon me, the cloth stained 
 By these desperate acts?" 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 
 "Oh, you innocent man? 
 It is my place to get what information I can, 
 But I have none to give." 
 
 Mr. Miller 
 " 'Til you're called on to answer 
 For imprisonment false." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "You will soon need a fan, sir, 
 If with folly you heat. Name your church. — Oh, your 
 
 tongue 
 Has no lie ready-made for a question thus sprung?" 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 When O'Neil had come back to his chief's side, then 
 both 
 
 165 
 
Of the men, and in spite of resistance and oath, 
 Were searched thro with dispatch, and made sure they 
 
 were fast 
 Each in separate room ; after which Bent, at last, 
 Gave notice to Alice, who had set as one struck 
 With a dumbness thro'out the brief struggle, her pluck 
 Dissipated, her cheeks being ashen, her eyes 
 Lifeless, evincing neither fear, hope, nor surprise, 
 Nor in the drama going on the least interest. 
 Had she come in few weeks from the golden-tinged 
 
 crest 
 Of high hopes to this trough of despond? Aye, and 
 
 worse, 
 To, still blameless of that, be put under the curse 
 Which would follow henceforth every move which she 
 
 made 
 Until dust came to dust and her body was laid 
 In enwrappings of clay ; and for him who had brought 
 Her to look upon life as mosaic inwrought 
 With such beautiful gems — would she dare with this 
 
 stain 
 On her garments, assume to look ever again 
 In his eyes, or allow her ears open to hear 
 His reproaches? Indeed, could she ever appear 
 Unto him, or the world, or herself, as she did 
 To within briefest time? And her father — she hid — 
 Her first movement— her face, as she felt the dull ache 
 Of an overtired heart. Blessed love does not make 
 
 i66 
 
Second place for a parent, tho' a new flower should 
 
 grow 
 More sublime by its side and its blossoms should show 
 Brighter colors, new forms, yielding perfume which 
 
 seals 
 The eyes and the senses to all save sweet ideals. 
 But more, the affection which had grown thro the years 
 Between father and daughter had — and had caused 
 
 her tears — 
 Seemed to wane on his part under Geraldine's reign 
 As a queen for the realm which she labored to gain. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 With her thoughts at this stage, Mr. Bent seemed to 
 
 find 
 Time to give her attention; in words firm and kind. 
 And so loud that Miss Snow could not help hearing all. 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "Miss Sevrance, permit me, if I may, to recall 
 From the dark, cloudy realm where occasion has 
 
 thrown 
 You without any thought or of effort your own; 
 You are safe where you feared, for a witness has heard 
 Since you came to the house every syllabled word, 
 And besides, what will gladden your mind in this hour 
 When the elements strive and the night shadows lower, 
 Is the news that I give you that Winthrop is near, 
 167 
 
That the message is gone which will bring him soon 
 
 here, 
 For he waited without, as it were on the skirt 
 Of this dramatic scene, lest his presence should hurt 
 Our plans for the capture of the people entrapped 
 With such ease in this place, and few more will be 
 
 wrapped 
 In the arms of O'Neil, my assistant, who's gone 
 To South Boston to see if a prize may be drawn 
 That will match one we've got herein under our thumb. 
 I regret very much that I cannot give some 
 Relief sooner to you, but precaution must use 
 Against any escape to the street of the news 
 Of this event, lest those whom we're after elsewhere 
 Should get wind and evade us ; the chase has been rare, 
 And I cannot afford any change of the plan." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "Can't I send to father?" 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 
 "No; O'Neil, sooner than 
 Any message, will reach him." 
 
 Miss Snow 
 
 "I ask you again 
 If enabled you are this affair to explain? 
 Why is it I'm subject to this outrage, abuse, 
 And the gentlemen, too? Have you any excuse 
 To offer?" 
 
 l68 
 
Mr. Bent 
 "Not the least, madam — here. Proper time 
 Will arrive, say tomorrow, when the alleged crime 
 Shall be inquired into." 
 
 Miss Snow 
 
 "Crime?" 
 Mr. Bent 
 
 "I beg you don't start." 
 Miss Snow 
 "Crime? Crime? Do I hear right?" 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 
 "Yes." 
 Miss Snow 
 "You think you are smart." 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "No; but rather I thought in the months on this case 
 I was frightfully dull, and the outrageous race 
 You have run me, I'm sure to your credit shall stand 
 When I gather together this numerous band- 
 Will you tell me how many there are? — You are still. 
 That is proper enough. What you say, of course, will 
 Be all used against you. Eight ! O'Neil should be back. 
 Ah, is that he, I wonder? It sounds like a hack." 
 
 Mr. O'Neil 
 "I am here on the dot. We have ne'er had a case 
 Where the threads interwove like the bars of fine 
 lace 
 
 169 
 
As they have in this one. We got three men down 
 
 there 
 And the other was found in his office. I dare 
 Say they're safe by this time. Shall we move now 
 
 with these?" 
 
 Mr. Bent 
 "Yes, Miss Snow, you will go with O'Neil, if you 
 
 please." 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 Miss Sevrance was home, if it so could be called 
 With her father away. Its deep stillness appalled 
 As from one room to other she unconsoled went 
 In the wildest unrest, while forebodings found vent 
 In the mutterings which fell from her delicate lip, 
 Blanched and ashen; her eyes red, half hid by the dip 
 Of lids swollen by tears, and her fingers entwined 
 As if praying defense from a fear half divined. 
 vSince her mem'ry first ran they were never apart 
 For a whole day before this, and all that the heart 
 Of a child toward a parent, or of his unto her 
 Could be, had existed. Why this break should occur 
 At the end of a day of such trouble and shame 
 Perplex'd her and sorrowed, turned impotent and lame 
 Her logic and reason ; made more poignant her grief ; 
 For this night of all nights, she'd have felt the relief 
 Of his warm sympathy which was ready to break 
 Forth for her if she had disappointment or ache. 
 170 
 
And this moment she sorrowed as never before, 
 With no hand to press hers, with no kind tongue to pour 
 Feeling words as a balm to her heart, there to heal 
 The cruel rents which were made by the poisonous 
 steel. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 Was she weak? Both in Dyke and Miss Snow she'd 
 
 believed, 
 In the latter the more, and the more been deceived. 
 If indeed it were not, the whole thing, a mistake. 
 Was it real or a dream? Was she surely awake? 
 Did she live? For she seemed to be somewhere in space 
 With menacing demons, without friend or friend's face 
 To give smile reassuring and banish the curse 
 Which hung dismally 'round, and from bad went to 
 
 worse 
 As her fevered brain played with the gruesome details 
 Of the sad day's events. And — so with woman prevails 
 The perverse route of thought — Winthrop's name at 
 
 the end 
 Of all others followed, with scant promise to mend 
 Her distraction. How could he approach if he heard — 
 And could he miss knowing — what of late had occurred? 
 In her mind's eye she saw back of all Seagrave stood 
 With his glance bent on her in a pitying mood, 
 But vindictive toward Dyke, and her sympathy flowed 
 From the strong to the weak. If he mere pity showed, 
 171 
 
She stood not in its need. So she thought, but she did 
 Need it more than she deemed. She knew not what 
 
 was hid 
 In the hours passing fast to give her further trial, 
 Nor what comfort the strength of that one from the isle 
 In the South could afford her ; how his tender eyes 
 Could console and his tongue could outstraighten the 
 
 lies 
 Which had woven her round with an intricate mesh, 
 And in excellent phrase give escape from the lesh. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 So, exhausted, she threw herself down on the bed. 
 Not to sleep, but to pass the time hanging like lead. 
 And if slumber did come, earth was never quite lost, 
 For there stalked thro her brain a multinomial ghost. 
 'Twas her father's form first, but he kept his head 
 
 turned, 
 Tho she begged for one glance, he made gesture which 
 
 spurned 
 Her; she fell back in tears. Behold, then 'twas 
 
 Seagrave 
 And his very voice, too, saying: "After a knave 
 And succeeded by one;" he then bade her allow 
 Him as token of love to touch lips to her brow. 
 'Twas transformed into Dyke, but his eyes had turned 
 
 green, 
 And rough, parchment-like ridges of skin rose between; 
 172 
 
His lips moved; he would speak; but an unmeasured 
 
 arm 
 Reached from space and hurled him, ere he lifted alarm 
 Far away. But the form was still there — Geraldine, 
 Who contemptuously gazed on the ruinous scene, 
 And, with toss of her head, said : "Five minutes grace, 
 You'd have journeyed down there in the devil's 
 
 embrace." 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 With this phantom and that, horrid night wore along 
 As she toss'd to and fro, and the fever grew strong 
 In her veins, till at last the faint light of the morn 
 Showed without, and she slept thro an hour or so torn 
 From the fateful day's dole; and she finally awoke 
 To the voice of her servant who precipitately broke. 
 Crying, into the room, "Oh, Miss Alice, O woe 1 
 What has happened? Three men, big and strong, are 
 
 below 
 Who proclaim they have come to make search of the 
 
 place. 
 And there's one man with whiskers and sun-colored 
 
 face 
 Who would see you at once, and said he could not wait. 
 What's his name? Well, I think 'twas Wind some- 
 thing — Windgate." 
 "Mercy! Mr. Winthrop ! Can I go, such a fright? 
 173 
 
Why, I've scarce slept a wink thro' this demon-filled 
 night." 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 With misgivings she went down the Stairs, Step by step, 
 
 Very doubtful how much of herself she had kept 
 
 For this man of all men — was he not? She had thought 
 
 So at no distant time. But now had he not brought 
 
 This catstrophe on, and should she forgive 
 
 Even him — him for whom it was once life to live? 
 
 So, still hesitating, she, the portiere drew 
 
 And with defiant air went with quickened step thro. 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "Oh, Alice, my loved one, what a trial this has been 
 For a woman who has ever been wrapped within 
 The soft shelter afforded to you heretofore; 
 But I came with all speed — should have been here 
 
 before — 
 When the telegraph brought word I'd not break Bent's 
 
 plan, 
 And you now must divide just so far as you can 
 All the trouble surrounding you, of which you know 
 Not the greater as yet, I'm afraid; for 'twill grow 
 As the day does, and yet if you'll meet it full face 
 There's deliverance to weigh— something gained you 
 
 may place 
 Against sorrow. Alice! Why so still stand you there? 
 174 
 
Have you nothing, my love, for me save that cold 
 stare?" 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "Mr. Winthrop, be seated, I'm tired, and can't stand 
 Any longer. Perhaps you'll explain why this band 
 Of armed men have come here unannounced to invade 
 Private houses by force and audacious parade — 
 Without reason or sense to arrest Mr. Dyke 
 And Miss Snow — such insults, they at my feelings 
 strike." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "I know nothing but what every reader may know ; 
 For the papers today several columns bestow, 
 With black letter titles, on the momentous event, 
 Save this isolate fact that I knew Mr. Bent 
 Left New York with suspicion that Dyke was engaged 
 In this crime — that is all." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "And what's that? Have they waged 
 Persecution on men, and on women, because 
 They merely suspect them of violating laws?" 
 
 'O Alice!' 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 Miss Sevrance, if you please," 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 
 "Miss Sevrance, 
 175 
 
"I am here, having come at your call a distance -'* 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "Rut too late." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "Say not that. You are tired, I'm aware, 
 From a day of much trouble and unusual care. 
 I will not detain you ; but let me say again 
 That my hand has not been in this business ; no stain 
 Would, however, adhere if I had. I'd been proud 
 Had I helped in detecting the villainous crowd — 
 Such they are if one-half of the report is true. 
 There's that Dyke — I told Bent what about him I 
 
 knew — 
 And him only I know, and he never a friend. 
 He lied simply to you about that for some end. 
 We're acquainted, 'tis true, because we met in school, 
 From which he was expelled as a robber and fool. 
 There are five other men, and one woman — Miss 
 
 Snow — 
 The charge counterfeiting; this, at least, you should 
 
 know, 
 And I tell it therefore. The proof seems to be sure." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "It is strange Mr. Bent should so freely use your 
 Name connected with this, and still stranger you should 
 Have deaf ear for my call, but respond when he would 
 Send a message." 
 
 176 
 
Mr. Winthrop 
 " 'Tis naught but I can make plain 
 In few minutes, but shall for the present refrain. 
 You should trust me for that." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "But suppose I should not?" 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "I refuse to consider that, here on the spot, 
 When you're scarcely yourself, where so much has 
 
 gone wrong, 
 And perhaps it were best to this scene not prolong. 
 1 would beg you to rest, and to also prepare 
 To hear that your father is mixed in this affair 
 In some manner; I hope he is not compromised. 
 I'll be pleased to respond any time when advised 
 I can render you help; and a messenger from 
 You will find me at Room Fifty-two, the Vendome." 
 
 .XXXVIII 
 
 He no sooner had gone that she wished he had staid; 
 And too late realized the injustice displayed 
 In the words she had used, in the sentiment hid 
 For the nonce in her heart — in her heart? God forbid; 
 But the rather she felt in her unbalanced brain. 
 And she flew to the door, called again and again : 
 "O my lover, come back! O my Seagrave, return! 
 1 meant not what I said, and the utterances burn 
 177 
 
As a fire in my throat; and you're right, ever right, 
 And that other is wrong — an offense in my sight ; 
 To my eyes, to my reason — repulsive thing; 
 And I offered defense — ah, me, that is the sting. 
 Seagrave gone? Did he go at my unfeeHng taunt, 
 And will never he come howe'er much I may want 
 His protection and care? O my lover, Seagrave, 
 O forgive the unkind, the cruel blow which I gave !" 
 But she cried to the air, and no answer was heard, 
 Save the anguish that deep in her consciousness stirred. 
 And she wrung her pale hands in an agony sore, 
 'Til her rings cut the flesh and its blood markings bore 
 Direful proof of distress. She the hurt did not feel, 
 Nor observe the red drops from her wan fingers steal. 
 She collapsed on the couch, senses dead, nerves awake, 
 And hysterically cried as tho' her heart would break; 
 And between sobs she gasped : "O how bitter the fate 1 
 O my loved one, come back! Do I call thee too late? 
 O what sin in my life that prayer-offerings refuse? 
 And what inpetto pain thus as torment pursues?" 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 Mr. Winthrop went off with his heart none the less 
 Charged with love for Miss Sevrance ; he knew her 
 
 distress 
 And its cure, he believed ; 'twas to be at her side 
 Very little, or pity. She rather would ride 
 Out the tempest alone. But he sent twice a day 
 178 
 
An inquiry polite, a new book or bouquet 
 
 Of the rarest rich flowers which he knew she admired. 
 
 And he had his reward ; ere the week had expired 
 
 He received at his room a diminutive note 
 
 That was slightly perfumed with sweet heliotrope, 
 
 A perfume he had come to regard as a part 
 
 Of herself. She was one of the few who have art 
 
 To select and adhere to an incense which reeks 
 
 With the subtlest charm and a soul-language speaks. 
 
 The note said if his breast a forgiveness held 
 
 For her ungentle words, which it seemed had expelled 
 
 Her from claim to depend on his kindness or aid, 
 
 She'd be pleased to see him when his willingness made 
 
 It convenient to call. She had something to say 
 
 Which should claim his attention with little delay. 
 
 xc 
 
 He had carefully kept the case under review, 
 Minutely perusing every day what was new. 
 The few facts as brought out, and the reporters' hints — 
 And surmises outnumber the facts in our prints, 
 For much padding is put into our dailies too large ; — 
 Was aware, too, that Bent had, to uphold the charge 
 Proof enough, and kept back for the trial even more, 
 And was satisfied, when the first hearing was o'er 
 That the prisoners were held. If reporters had known 
 All the facts, Winlhrop knew that they would wider 
 have strown 
 
 179 
 
Their wide areas of type — that three plates had been 
 
 found 
 Locked in Sevrance's safe; at his home, underground 
 In the darker back cellar two more were upturned; 
 That Miss Snow, undismayed, saucy, cold, unconcerned, 
 'Til they ripped up her skirts, when like tigress she flew 
 In a passion and fought with a fierceness that fev/. 
 Few women could equal — she had reason enough. 
 For her garments were lined with the villainous stufif. 
 As good luck for once happened, each man had been 
 
 pinched 
 With some on his person, and Bent knew the case 
 
 cinched 
 In every direction; besides, one sought to feel 
 For immunity due for the treacherous squeal. 
 Telling Bent that he knew every thread running thro 
 From beginning the web, both the old and the new. 
 Later on when the case celebra came to trial 
 Mr. Bent disregarded this confessor vile. 
 And they all went to prison with very short shift, 
 Save he who for himself in the clouds made a rift 
 With a suicide's hand, — a confession to save 
 The expense of convicting one single less knave. 
 
 XCI 
 
 The holder of knowledge which he wished was much 
 
 less. 
 Lest it prove an embarrassment in his address 
 i8o 
 
To Miss Sevrance, he hastened without any wait 
 To the Beacon Street house, but he felt his mind grate 
 With surmisings how she would receive him; if she 
 Yet was angry where she ought from anger be free, 
 As she should be, and must, if the truth were all 
 
 known. 
 And the poison had died from her pathway where sown 
 By that fiend of all fiends. For the woman, his love 
 Rose to sublimest heights, reaching far and above 
 Everything on earth, and a pity profound 
 For the distresses which for the time wove around 
 Their entangling web, filled his heart and gave pain. 
 But he kept it concealed, and concealed to remain. 
 Save freed by occasion, for she was, he believed, 
 A woman whose anguish could be never relieved 
 By mere pitying words, 'til her reason had sought 
 For the truth, and for that she foundation had wrought 
 Whereon safely to stand. He expected a change, 
 That she'd come to her senses, and measured the range 
 Of the charges which had been persistently press'd 
 Against all of the persons who were in arrest, 
 And considered them probably both pro and con. 
 What conclusion she might have arrived at thereon 
 Was another thing quite — that he did not much care. 
 But his own position had been looked at more fair, 
 Or she never had sent him that modest request, 
 Whioh behind the mere words held the swell of her 
 
 breast 
 To the old tender love which was born on his isle 
 i8i 
 
In the soft-tempered breeze and the sea's sunny smile, 
 When all trouble and care seemed removed full as far 
 As the glowing Centauri or the distant dog star. 
 
 XCII 
 
 He had prepared for change, and he found change, 
 
 Indeed; 
 A calm pallor had sprung from the sorrowful seed 
 Which made her look older but, if possible, raised 
 Her rare beauty so much that the angel was phased 
 In her face, and her eyes had a newer, deep light, 
 As if heavenly brightness had illumined the night. 
 And she smiled, how'er faintly, as she crossed the floor 
 With the rustle of silk as Seagrave passed the door. 
 Holding out both her hands, and with uplifted face 
 Where he could not resist, if he would, to implace 
 A kiss duly sedate, but with rapturousness warm, 
 And its sweetness he felt as of shine after storm. 
 
 XCHI 
 
 Then she gently withdrew from his clasp, and retired 
 To her blue velvet chair, and the smile he admired 
 Died away from her face, but it left even more 
 Of the angel thereon than had shown there before. 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "You received, then, my note. I'm so glad that you 
 came." 
 
 182 
 
Mr. Winthrop 
 
 "Did you think I would not?" 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 
 "Why, perhaps." 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 
 "And your name 
 Alice Sevrance, and mine Seagrave?" 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 
 "So; it is that 
 I would speak of. You know? For your simile's pat." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "'Tis a riddle you give." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 
 "Much the harder to guess 
 Was I. myself; no, not my own self, I'll confess. 
 The last time you were here I was dazed, and it seemed 
 I was under the will of another, and deemed 
 I must do as I did, tho I perfectly knew 
 To my chagrin 'twas wrong— a nightmare reaching thro 
 Day and night with its foulness, and the more I strove 
 To get free from the bond it appeared stronger wove 
 Weakly helpless, I used not the words which I would 
 But those which the demon there directed I should. . 
 'Twas like being borne down in a turbulent tide 
 Wholly powerless to reach the banks smiling and wide ; 
 Twas like walking in gloom of a hell-darkened day 
 With a longing for heaven just over the way; 
 183 
 
'Twas a suffering deep of an anguish untold 
 With a sight of relief of which one might take hold, 
 And yet hung to the grief, to the suff'ring and pain 
 Because lacking in strength to dissever the chain. 
 On, however, that day — the hour when that man fell, 
 There seemed to come sunshine and it ruptured the 
 
 spell; 
 And 1 once more rejoiced in a freedom of thought, 
 As refreshing a change as e'er miracle wrought. 
 And with horror look back, and astonishment, too. 
 On how little corruption can one's strength subdue." 
 
 Mr, Winthrop 
 " 'Tis a marvelous tale ; and your misery must 
 Have been dreadful from fang of that viperous thrust. 
 When I hit him at Myers for his causeless insult 
 I might harder have struck and with better result — 
 Might have killed him, in short ; but I never could crave 
 The contemptible blood on my hands of that knave. 
 A reciprocal stroke of good fortune shone out 
 Of the darkness when Bent placed himself on the route. 
 My blood chills when I think of you wound in the coils 
 Of a serpent like that. And now, free from those toils, 
 Let us take happy theme, and that dark one forget." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "But I have something else still more marvelous yet; — 
 You'll please read this letter; you will see that I am 
 Not, nor was, what you thought, what I thought; but 
 a sham 
 
 184 
 
Of the Alice 3^011 v/ooed in your far away land; 
 And we'll bury the past in its grave, and the hand 
 Which I gave you take back; for I never could hold 
 An engagement where dross goes as tender for gold." 
 
 XCIV 
 
 She coucluded; her voice was resonant but low, 
 With a pathos perhaps indicated. And so. 
 Without making reply, he approached her and took 
 The envelope she held in her fingers, which shook, 
 And the tears started forth from her beautiful eyes, 
 Which she checked with new strength not the less a 
 
 surprise 
 To herself than to him. What was this that she meant. 
 He made mental question, as he over her bent 
 With a look that spoke volumes of love to the maid, 
 And an assuring kiss on her hot brow allayed 
 The turmoil of her mind, and one arm he had thrown 
 'Round her waist, and stood there as if claiming his 
 
 own. 
 And she thrilled from the fire of his hand grasping 
 
 hers. 
 
 Mr. Winthrop 
 "Shall I meeX your request? If this paper avers 
 Aught unpleasant, perhaps I would better not read, 
 But give it to the flames as outside of our need. 
 For I cannot conceive of a cause 'neath the sky 
 Why this should not be still an insecable tie. 
 185 
 
I am sure I would rather from life have release 
 Than give you up, my love." 
 
 Miss Sevrance 
 "But you must read it, please." 
 
 xcv 
 
 Perplex'd for the moment, he first paced up and down 
 On the carpet, and counted the spots, blue and brown 
 Which he cross'd. He did not make attempt to surmise 
 What secrets were coming, whether truths or bald lies. 
 And new troubles for them. The mind, somehow, 
 
 refused 
 To consider the thing. On the contrary, he mused 
 On the day he first saw Alice Sevrance and saved 
 Her from tempest and wave which so furiously raved; 
 How he gathered her up in his arms, with her cheek 
 Pressing closely to his ; how his heart went to seek 
 In the succeeding days for his love a return, 
 And the happy reward. Ah, that white flame would 
 
 burn 
 Unquenchable. Arriving at that point, he again 
 Took his seat with a sigh as a natural refrain 
 To his thoughts; glanced once more at Miss Sevrance, 
 
 and fed 
 On her beauty. Then turned to the letter and read: 
 
 i86 
 
XCVI 
 
 {From Mr. Scvrance to Alice) 
 
 "My dear Alice: — I've something to say, and don'f 
 
 know 
 How to say it, or how to begin, save I go 
 Far av/ay thro the years, when as boy I was bad 
 As I possibly could be, and thus always had 
 Of rascality more than I well could attend, 
 And the end of it was as is always the end 
 Of a criminal course, soon or late, I was sent 
 With another to jail, where at labor I spent 
 Five unpromising years. Tho surrounded by crime, 
 I saw clearer than ever, and for the first time 
 In my life, drew a line between evil and good. 
 And believed good the best and resolved when I should 
 Recover my freedom, I would walk in the path 
 Of honor. I it kept for a time, tho' it hath 
 Overweighted my thoughts, for temptation will spring 
 In attractive apparel, and with effort to bring, 
 V/ith all sorts of allurements, one back to the ways 
 Which abandoned have been ; so the arch demon preys 
 At the vitals forever of those who belong 
 By desire or by chance to the criminal throng — 
 And more men go astray from some chance they find in 
 Their pathway, than enter deliberately on sin, 
 Tis not a real demon, but a kink of the brain 
 Which torturously strains at good grace to attain 
 187 
 
To the primal at length; so, consider this just, 
 
 Never one yet reformed who was worthy of trust. 
 
 They may be, as I was, for long years in the right, 
 
 Or at least so appear to the multitude's sight; 
 
 But at last they are touched at a spot rendered weak, 
 
 As I was, and return to the odorous leek. 
 
 Nor is this here nor there. I must haste to reveal 
 
 To you secrets I thought were enclosed by the seal 
 
 Of oblivion's stamp, the last kindness I owe 
 
 To a woman whose love's been all daughter could show 
 
 To a parent, and yet who's not parent to you. 
 
 Your mother I knew not, but I heard it as true 
 
 That she died at your birth, a good woman, I trow. 
 
 To bring forth such a child. But your father I know 
 
 Was a man out of few, but was reputed stern 
 
 And 'twas said that he would from the right never 
 
 turn; 
 His possessions were fair, got by good, honest thrift. 
 He had weight in the town, therefore when he would 
 
 sift 
 Certain wrong we did him — put his name to a note — 
 Our career was cut short, and the magistrate wrote 
 Out our prison passports. 
 
 "I had sworn to reform, 
 But I first was to have vengeance on De I'Orme — 
 That — Robert De I'Orme — was your own father's name; 
 To accomplish it stole from his yard on the same 
 Day I returned to town his one sweet baby girl 
 i88 
 
On a sudden impulse, in the angry whirl 
 
 Of ideas unexplained. But possession of you 
 
 Was an unbounded trouble, and what I should do 
 
 A confounding question. The first act was to flee 
 
 Through wood-roads and mountains, and from pursuit 
 
 get free. 
 I might kill you, and who would be wiser or know 
 What the ending had been? But your sweetness, the 
 
 flow 
 Of the silken-like locks of your soft, chestnut hair 
 From a brow which then showed, as it now shows, so 
 
 fair, 
 Saved your life; and the next mooted question, to give 
 You away, or place you in asylum to live. 
 Aliles, and hundreds of miles, on and onward we sped. 
 And my spirits arose on the thoughts which were fed 
 By your God-moulded face and your stoical peace. 
 And I pledged to you life and a part of the fleece 
 Of the ram Chrysomallus which I would go seek 
 With all the persistence of the Argonaut Greek. 
 For the theft, I confess that I had no remorse; 
 You a talisman grew as I laid my rough course 
 To the eastward, and saw with each setting of sun 
 The miles which we covered, a fair distance done. 
 It was you who inspired, why, I know not, the hope 
 Of a promising future, wide, boundless in scope; 
 On the moment, I cast off the name I had borne. 
 Assumed that which I wear, which in turn has been 
 
 torn 
 
 189 
 
Into tatters, and you were my daughter. Thenceforth/ 
 'Twas for you I resolved to make life something worth. 
 Oh, our traveling was long, o'er the v/earisome miles, 
 And a pinching of funds — for your angel-like smiles, 
 'Til at last this great city rose high on the view, 
 Where the past could be buried and life commenced 
 
 new ; 
 And I luckily found a poor woman, Ann Wrenn, 
 Who died, you'll remember, when you were about ten, 
 Who was kindly toward you. Very humble our life 
 For some years, while I fought with all strength in the 
 
 strife. 
 But good fortune the way always readily paved. 
 As I valiantly marched ; aye, I more and more saved ; 
 When the battle was fought, and I stood in the bar 
 It seemed that the zenith I had reached from nadir. 
 Looking back twenty years — I was young then, and 
 
 strong, 
 With all faculties bright which to manhood belong — 
 I had pride in my work and its wonderful grov/th, 
 But above all in you to whom I all oweth. 
 With intensified care, T observed where you stepp'd, 
 And was ever alert to all harm intercept ; 
 You, indeed, were a treasure ; I saw you advance 
 In both knowledge and beauty with pride, felt the 
 
 glance 
 Of your womanly eyes, 'til it cleft off the love 
 Of the father — almost — placed another above 
 And superior thereto; but I crushed down the same 
 190 
 
So surely it did not rise again to my shame. 
 
 And my care — how you paid it, a thousand times o'er 
 
 In the sunshine you scatter'd thro years just a score 1 
 
 I beheved, and yet think I was all unto you 
 
 In my way. We were happy — I gloat in the view — 
 
 As daughter and father could be. Few were the homes 
 
 That were freer than ours from the decrepit gnomes 
 
 Of differences, folly, and strife; and a few — 
 
 Very few, that are bless'd by the sunlight and dew 
 
 Of trust perfect and joy, and of grace, as was ours. 
 
 It was, and is over. The sunniest sky lowers 
 
 At a time least expected. The fates made me meet, 
 
 To my horror, years several ago, on the street, 
 
 My companion in jail. I desired to ignore 
 
 The persistent fellow, but he pressed me the more, 
 
 Like a hound on my track, with the threat to expose 
 
 All the past ; and at last for his riddance I chose 
 
 A weak course, gave him funds — paid the rascal 
 
 blackmail. 
 And this opened the way to a dreary entail 
 Which brought with it destruction, for he slowly drew 
 Me into acquaintance with this villainous crew, 
 And now jibes at my folly. He told me last night, 
 With a leer that disgusted, that back in Raquitte, 
 In the very same month that you, Alice, were lost, 
 De rOrme chanced to meet a misfortune which cost — 
 Cost him everything — life; briefly put, he was slain, 
 I suspect by this man. 
 
 191 
 
"I can never again 
 On this earth see your face. Ere these lines meet your 
 
 eye, 
 Arthur Sevrance to all will have uttered good-bye, 
 And the coroner been called. For the poison I've kept 
 On me always, for fear that detectives who slept 
 To appearance awhile, would awake, and aware 
 I'd be surely condemned, but sworn never to share 
 Second time prison life. I've related these things 
 In a short, hurried way, which a memory hot brings, 
 That m.ay in the future be of value to you. 
 And because simple justice demands them your due; 
 To exhibit, no less, that your blood is not soiled 
 By a trace of the crime which has so utterly spoiled 
 This accurs'd life of mine. So farewell and farewell. 
 Show this letter to none ; burn it up and don't tell 
 What it says. I beg you, if you ean, to forgive; 
 And I hope happy years will be those which you live. 
 I subscribe, as you've known me, as bitter tears dance 
 In my eyes, truly yours — farewell, 
 
 Arthur Sevrance." 
 
 XCVII 
 
 Winthrop read the last line, and refolded the sheets. 
 Amid silence so deep he could hear his heart-beats 
 And his fingers ran slowly o'er the paper's long crease ; 
 And his thoughts went astray, as flotsam of the seas. 
 'Til he chanced to look up, saw the pallor which lay 
 192 
 
On Miss Sevrance's cheek, like a mask of death clay, 
 And a tremor which ran on her lips plainly said 
 That life stood as forfeit, and 'twere rest to be dead. 
 Seagrave sprang to her chair, on the floor by her side, 
 With his arm 'round her form, let one hand o'er hers 
 
 glide, 
 And his eyes looking up, with a warm, loving glow : 
 "O my Alice! Alice! 'Twas not so! O not so! 
 Not a thing — not a shadow of doubt touched my mind. 
 This, if anything, should you and I closer bind. 
 'Twas yourself that I loved, and yourself is here still, 
 With the goodness and sweetness which all ideals fill. 
 You have suffered— are suffering. I wish I might share 
 What I may of such trials. Events lately laid bare 
 We'll forget, if we can, and the actors forgive 
 As we humanly may. For the future we'll live 
 In the holiest love which the earth will allow 
 With its grossness. Permit me to reseal the vow." 
 
 On a wave girt isle in this southern zone, 
 A man and a woman stood together 
 
 This winter, and looked on what has been known 
 In current gossip, light as a feather 
 Blown hither and yon in changeful weather, 
 
 As a castle builded by a hermit old— 
 
 A weary wanderer, adventurous, bold. 
 193 
 
The house had fallen, and the logs were rot, 
 
 And mosses and ferns were o'er all growing, 
 
 And where the garden and where it was not 
 Was all the same to the viewers, owing 
 To the rankest weeds and trees o'erflowing 
 
 In a favored clime, with never a dearth 
 
 Of tropical growth to cover the earth. 
 
 They silently stood, and the woman turned 
 To the splendid man and sweetly smiling. 
 
 And he clasped her there and a warm kiss burned 
 On lips a stoic would deem beguiling, 
 And with hands entwined the dear hour whiling, 
 
 They went to their boat and swiftly away 
 
 From Isle of the Blest of their early day. 
 
 194