Prescott journal. [volume] (Prescott, Wis.) 1861-1871, 1871-05-17

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rested, and around her was all black
gloom and quiet. Che spoke to the baby
just TO hear heaself speak. and to know
that she bad not lost her voice. She
thought lhen-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. aud
the sounds of creation were blotted out
from the world. She thought, too, of
mariners clingipg TO spars. and of poor
women who were dashed to RATS, and
beaten to death by the cruel sea. She
tried 10 thank God that she was thus
spared, and lifted her eyes from the baby
who had fallen into fretful sleep. Sud
denly, away to the southwark, a great
light lifted Itself out of the gloom. and
flashed and flickered, and fickered and
flashed again. Her heart fluttered Quick
" against the baby's cold cheek. 1t was
the lighthouse at the entrance of the bay.
As she was yet wondering. the tree sud.
denly 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 II not been for her baby who was
ailing and croupy, had it not been for the
sudden drying up Of that sensitive foun>
tain. she would have felt safe and relieved.
! Perhaps it was this which tended 10 make
all her impressions mournful and gloomy.
As the tide rapidly fell, great flock of
black brent fultered by her, screaming
and crying. Then the plover few up
and piped mournfully, as they wheeled
around the trunk, and at last f,arlessly
1t upon it like gray cloud. Then the
heron few over aud around her, shrek
ing and protesting. aud at last dropped
its gaunt legs only a few yards from her.
But. stranger than all, pretty white bird,
larger than dove-like pelican, but
not pelican-circled around and around
her. AT last it lit upon a rootlet Of the
tree, quite over her shoulder. She put
ont 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 80 chilled
and cold, and bad such blue look upon
the little lnshes which il didn't raise at
all, that she screamed aloud, and the bird
flew away, and she tainted.
Well, that was the worst Of it, and
perhaps it was not so much, after all, to
any but herself. For when she recovered
her senses it was bright sunlight. and
dead low water. There was n confused
noise of cultural voices about her, and
an old squaw, singing al Indian "hus-
aby," and rocking herself from side to
side before fire built on tho marsh. lie
| fore 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 young squaw,
who must have been n mother herself
fathomed her thought, and brought her
the "mowitch," pale, but living, in such
queer little willow cradle all bound up,
| just like the squaw's own young one, that
she laughed and cried together, and the
young squaw aud the old squaw showed
their big white teeth and gliuted their
black eyes and said, "Plcnty get well,
skeeua mowitch." '.wagee man come
plenty soon," and she could have kissed
their brown faces in her JOY. And then
she found that they bad been gathering
berries on the marsh in their queer. com
ical baskets, and saw the skirt of her
gown fluttering on the tree from afar,
aud the old squaw couldn't resist the
temptation of procuring new garment,
and came down and discovered the
"wagee" woman and child. And of
course she gave the garment to the old
squaw, as you may imagine, and when
he came at last ard rushed up to her.
looking about ten years older in his anx-
iety, she felt so faint again that they had
to carry her to the canoe. For, you see,
he knew nothing about the flood until he
met the Indians at Utopia, and knew by
the sigus that the poor woman was bis
wife. And Mt the mex. high tide he tow.
ed the tree away back home, although it
wasn't worth the trouble, and built an.
other house, using the old tree for the
foundation and props, and called it after
her, Mary's Ark! But you may guess
the next house was built above high wa
ter mark. And that's all.
Not much, perhaps, considering the
malevolent capacity of the Dedlow
Marsh. But you must tramp over 1t at
low water, or paddle over it at high tide,
or get lost upon it once or twice in the
fog, rs have, TO understand properly
Mary's adventure. or to appreciate duly
the blessing of living beyond high water
mark.
Jean Paul, in one Of the most beautiful
and pathetic essays. accords the highest
honor to the woman who is brave enough
to live single from noble motives; and
all those whose observations of life are
worth anything, well know that multi.
tudes Of the most gifted and lovely of the
sex. from the peculiar circumstances of
their lot, or the impossibity of finding
true mates, live un.wedded. A woman
may match herself ever SO unworlhily,
may live in fact a life of Iegalizsd shame,
and yet be ranked in honor above the
purest and no5lest single woman, who
| has kent her ideal bYioht and seorned In