The Emporia news. [volume] (Emporia, Kan.) 1859-1881, 1859-12-03
A Beautiful story.

A beautiful story.
The Green Bay Advocate has a talented
and accomplished lady correspondent. VINO
signs herself aLong-a Coming" Ii she is
an beautiful as some of her brilliant pro-
ductious. we think she can bear the palm
Here il one of her last illusions, done up
in. rhyme, and pretty little thing it is. 1t
is entitled
THE MoccAsIN FLOWER.
Twas just one hundred years ago. down
on the Little Suamico, maiden, on the
yellow sands, was tearing, with her pretty
hands, her long and glossy raven hair. 1t
was a civilized despair; for though she
knew not "Ovid's art of Love-" she had a
human heart that loved with more than art /;
twas life,-all that defines that one word
wife, was gone and blotted from the world I;
the stars and moon to darkness hurled
Life ran, an ever wild 'ning river, to seas
where darkness hung forever. Flow ON
thou ceaseless Suamico, by golden sands
forever flow The honeysuckle blooming
wild leans down,-the little Indian child
kneels down to kiss thy waves beside the
Indian warriors grave; and there the bride
muir in the evening breeze, nor flowers OF
one hundred years can equal that maiden 8
tears, that fell century ago, and sanctifed
the Suamico.
s.But why should maidens thus despair %
che said, and smoothed her raven hair
"IIl follow in the painless wind, and this
dark river leave behind. Better die in
loves endeaYor, than sink in hopelessness
forever"
The red stars CLEAN, the Whip poorwill
answers the owl under the hill. The snakes
are coiled in tangle swales, the woods seem
full of human walls, and iends fit for 6
maiden's head, and ghostly forms from
which she fled; and on the lake the lonely
loon floats by the lilies where the moon
casts shadows from the tall dark trees
while, softer-footed than the breeze, she
steals on in the hunters track. The moon
is gone, the night is black she, when tht
east the morn turns gray, sinks on the hill
side far away. And there, beside the bub
bling spring, where oyer-hanging grape
vines swing, she sees the young birds in the
nest hide their heads in the mothers breast
All, birds have mates, each has home
but love- lorn maidens are doomed to roam
But when morn pours its golden flood, sh'
finds a trace of fresh-she blood-a broker
arrow from his culver, for whom she wept
beside the river. Love lent her wings
away she few, through MONDAY heat til
evening dew, and all the night till morn
again. Alas for stony hearted men! Love
follows them with bleeding feet, through
painless woods and in the street-forgives
what cannot be forgiven, and goes to plead
mans cause in heaven.
Her moccasins are gone; the maid sinks
down where the sun and shadow braid 6
carpet in the MONDAY hours, and crimson
drops are on the flowers; and tears are in
the violet's eyes, and in the scented air the
signs, the last faint gusts, the ftful breath
of life has blown her on to death. In hap
ply hunting grounds above, she found eter
nifty of love. And now, where ere the
maiden trod, the moccasin peeps through
the sod. And Indians say that once ''they
grew as large as any maiden's shoe, anc
they by Indian maids were worn when 9th
er moccasins were torn" Flow on thor
ceaseless Suamico, by golden sands forever
flow. Take the songs the wild birds sing
take these flowers that I fling, / would YOU
murmuring waters bore some sorrows from
this fragrant shore, that those who mourn
upon thy sands for hearts grown cold il
stranger lands, might see the rainbow il
the sky, might see the ark of Hope foa
by, might hail it in their deep distress, ant
on it float to happiness.