The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1871-06-03


redwood tree swung around and drifted away
with its living cargo into the dark night.
For all the excitement and danger for all
her soothing of her crying babe, for all the
whistling of the wind, for all the uncertainty
of her situation, she still turned to look at
the deserted and water-swept cabin. She
remembered even then, and she wondered
how foolish she was to think of il at that
time, that she wished she had put on
another dress and the bsbys best clothes;
and she kept praying that the house would
be spared so that he, when he returned, would
have something to come to, and it wouldn't
be quite so desolate and-how could he ever
know what had become of her and her baby
And at the thought she grew sick and faint
But she had something else to do besides
worrying, for whenever the long roots of her
ark struck an obstacle, the whole trunk made
half revolution, and twice dipped her in
the black water. The hound, who kept dis
tracing her by running up and down the
tree and bowling, at last fell off at one of
these collisions. He swan for some time
beside her, and she tried to get the poor
beast upon the tree, but he ''acted silly
and wild, and at last she lost sight of him
forever. Then she and her baby were left
alone. The light which had burned for few
minutes in the deserted cabin was quenched
suddenly. She could not then tell whittier
she was drifting. The outline of the white
dunes on the peninsula showed dimly ahead,
and she judged the tree was moving in a line
with the river. 1t must be about slack water,
and she had probably reached the eddy formed
by the confluence of the tide and the over
flowing waters of the river. Unless the
tide fell soon there was present danger
of her drifting to its channel, and
being carried out to sea or crushed in the
floating drift. That peril averted, if she
were carried out on the ebb towards the bay,
she might hope to strike one of the wooded
daylight Sometimes she thought she heard
voices and shouts from the river, and the
believing of cattle and bleating of sheep.
Then again it was only the ringing in her
earss and hrobbing of her heart. She found
at about this time that she was SO chilled and
stiffened in her cramped position that she
could scarcely move, and the baby cried so
when she put it to her breast that she noticed
the milk refused to flow; and she was so
frightened at that, that she put her head
under her shawl, and for the first time cried
bitterly.
When she raised her head again, the boom
of the surf was behind them, and she knew
that her ark had again swung round She
dipped up the water to cool her parching
throat, and found that it was as salt as her
tears. There was a relief, though, for by this
sign she knew that she was drifting with the
tide. 1t was then the wind went down, and
the great and awful silence oppressed her.
There was scarcely a ripple against the
furrowed sides of the great trunk against
which she rested, and around her was all
black gloom and quiet She spoke to
the baby just to hear herself speak, and
to know that she had not lost her voice.
She thought then--it was queer, but she
could not help thinking it-how awful
must have been the night when the great
ship swung over the Asiatic peak, and the
sounds of creation were blotted out from the
world. She thought, too, of mariners cling
ing to spars, and of poor women who were
lashed to RATS, and beaten to death by the
cruel sea. She tried to thank God that she
was thus spared, and lifted her eyes from the
baby, who had fallen into a fretful sleep.
Suddenly, away to the southwark great light
lifted itself out of the gloom, and flashed
and fiickerd and f1ickered and flashed again.
Her heart futtered quickly against the babys
cold cheek. 1t was the lighthouse at the
entrance of the bay. AS she was yet wonder
ing, the tree rolled little, dragged little,
and then seemed to lie quiet and still. She
put out her hand and the current gurgled
against it. The tree was aground, and by
the position of the light, and the noise of
the surf, aground upon the Dedlow Marsh.
Had it not been for her baby, who was
ailipg and croupy, had it not been for the
sudden drying up of that sensitive fountain
she would have felt safe and relieved. Per-
haps it was this which tended to make all her
impressions mournful and gloomy. AS the
tide rapidly fell, great flock of black brent
futtered by her, screaming and crying.
Then the plover flew up and piped mourn
fully as they wheeled around the trunk,
and at last fearlessly lit upon it like a
gray cloud. Them the heron few over
and around her, shrieking and protesting, and
at last dropped its gaunt legs only few
yards from her. But, strangest of all, pretty
white bird, larger than dove-like pelican,
but not pelican-circled around and around
her. At last it lit upon rootlet of the tree,
quite over her shoulder. She put out her
hand and stroked its beautiful white neck,
and it never appeared to move. 1t stayed
there so long that she thought she would lift
up the baby to see it, and try to attract her
attention. But when she did SO, the child
was so chilled and cold, and had such blue
look upon the little lashes which it did not
raise at all that she screamed aloud, aud the
bird few away, and she tainted.
Well that was the worst of it, and perhaps
il was not so much after all, to any one but
herself. For when she recovered her senses,
it YVES bright sunlight, and dead low water.
There was q confused noise of guttural voices
about her, and an old squaw singing an In
dian ''hushaby," and rocking herself from
side to side, before a fire built on the marsh,
before which she, the recovered wife and
mother, lay weak and weary. Her first
thought was for her baby, and she was
about to speak, when a young squaw,
who must have been. a mother her
self, fathomed her thought, and brought
| her the ''mowitch, pale but living
in such a queer little willow cradle, al
bound up, just like squaws own young