The star of the north. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1849-1866, 1861-02-13
NUMBER 6.
A Beautiful Story.

The Green Bay (Wis) Aduoccfe has a
talented and accomplished lady correspon-
dent, who signs herself "Long a coming.n
If she is as beautiful as some OF her beati.
ful productions, we think she can bear the
palm. Here is one of her last effusious.
done up in rhyme, and pretty little thing
il is. 1t is entitled
THE MoCcAsIN FLOWER
Twas Just one hundred years ago. down
on the little Suamico, a maiden, on the yell
low sands, was tearing, with her pretty
hands, her long and glossy raven hair. IL
was civilized despair; for, though she
knew not ''Ovid's Art of Love,n she had a
human heart that loved with more than art:
twas life-all that defines that one word.
wife-was gone and botied from the world:
the stars and neon TO darkness hurled
Life ran, an ever-widening river, to seas
where darkness hung forever. Flow on,
thou careless Suamico, by golden sands
forever flow. The honeysuckIe, blooming
wild, leans down--the little Indian child
kneels down 10 kiss thv wave, besides the
Indian warriors grave and there the bride
walks with her lover, under the summer's
lealy cover, unier boughs of verdant trees
that murmur in the evening breeze, nor
| flowers OF one hundred years, can equal
now that maiden's tears, that fell a century
| ago, and sancti6ed the Suamco.
"But why should maidens thus despair %
| she said, aud smoothed her raven hair
| 'l'll follow in The painless wind. and this
dark river leave behind Better die in loves
endeavor, Than sink in hopelessness for.
ever"
The red stars gleam, the whip poor-wiH
answers the owl under the hill The snakes
are coiled in tangled swales the woods
seem fall OF human walls, and fiend, fit for
a maiden's head, and ghostly forms,
from which she fled and, on the lake, the
! lonely loon floats by the lillies, 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 the
east the morn turns gray, sinks on the hill.
side, far away. And there, besides the
bubbling spring, where overhanging grape
vines swing she sees the young birds, in
the nest, hide their heads in the mo,her,s
! breast All, birds have mates, each has
home, but love lorn maids are doomed 10
roam. Bnt, when morn pours in its golden
flood, she finds trace of fresh shed blood
| "a broken arrow from his culver. for
whom she wept beside the river. Love
lent her wings-away she few, through
noon day heat and evening dew, and all
the night Till the morn again. Alas, for
stony-heared men, Love follows them
with bleeding feet, through painless woods,
and in the street-forgives what cannot be
forgiven, and goes 10 plead mans cause in
Heaven.
Her moccasihs are gone; the maid sinks
down where the sun and shadow braid a
carpet in the noon-day hours; the crimson
drops are on the flowers; and tears are in
the violets eyes, and in The scented air the
sighs the last faint gusts, the fitfuI breath
OF life has blown her on to death. In the
happy hunting grounds above, she found
eternity of love. And now, wher'er the
maiden trod, the moccasin peeps through
the sod. And Indians say they grew as
large as any maiden's shoe. and they by
Indian maids were worn when other moe.
casins were torn. Flow, on, thou careless
Suamlco. BY golden sands forever flow
. Take the songs the wild birds sing; take
these flowers that fling. would your
T murmuring waters bore some sorrows from
; this fragrant shore, that those who mourn
! Hpon thy sands, for hearts grown cold in
! stranger lands, might see the heart of hope
float by, might hail it in their deep distress,
] and on it float 10 happiness.