The St. Cloud journal. [volume] (St. Cloud, Minn.) 1866-1876, 1872-05-23
'opy any flower you send him, exact.

with sort OF lazy indignation, laying
her head dowa among;s crowded little
family Of the yellow violets, under. &.
great split rock. - j
Ozark blue: IS not good night-color,
however, says Sylvia, still pursuing
her own train of meditation. -.
"How drowsy the rivers roar makes
one !" I say, yawniog, and burying my
hot face iu n,y outstretched arms; "if
you two will not speak, l shall be asleep
in three minutes" -,
"How hideops Il t3 says Sylvia,
dropping her genital, and gazing with
SIT Ct disgust at S,he*tear,og food.
"Glaoier-rivers always arc. Did you
ever SEQ any thing so dirty in your life p?
1t looks as il hundreds and thousands
Of washer-women had been washing in
it with myriads of cakes of soap"
After all, we never reach the glacier.
If luncheon has cheered, it has also en-.
ervated us. We content ourselves with
languidly strolling to the waterfall.
Now We bave reached it now excrtion
is at an end !; now We lie, lazy as lotus
eaters, en- the dry, warm heritage
:scaut, yet so sweet land gaze and lis
ten, gaze and listen, for God knows
how long, to the loud, white beauty Of
the fall. Down it comes from the top
of the low hill in one long, snowy
plunge then smooth sliding over the
polished backs Of the great stones; a
curliag Of creamy wavelets; then
another foamy leap in lightning and
froth then. green pool, where the
sun is holding dazzling mirrors, too
bright to look at, to the pines dark
faces. The long roar rings loud yet
gentle in our cars, bringing to us a
drowsv joy. Even sylvia's grumb'inss
are stilled at least we no longer hear
them, Lenyre and I. We have climb
ed slowly and internationally up the
rocks to little plateau, whence we can
see the waters chiefest plunge. Who
can stop it? The air is full Of its cold
white powder i; great stone opposite is
forever wet with the cool damp dust
drifted against its shining sides. Little
lilac primulss confidently grow aad
bloom in its clefts. o torrents and
hills and flowers, you make me drunk
with beauty What can bo nobler than
to watch the play Of Gods imagination
in these silent places?
With elbows deep sunk 10 geutians,
and head on hand, We lie and lie and
lie, till the sun is marching, in all biz
afternoon heat and mellow glory
through the pale turquoise sky. The
pines above our heads smell divinely
There is no flower, however sweet, thai
has better fragrance than that which
the grave, flowerless frs give out at the
bidding of their master, the high June
sun. For half.hours, hours--we know
not which-neithor of US has spoken
My eyes have long been fixed on the
little rainbow that the waterfall ha'
caught and held fast, with its fain
green and yellow and red, in her shir
ing tolls. Presently, and little by lit
tie, l cease to see the tender colors O
the prism-I cease to hear the water
plunge and the pines low sigh; au
asleep. Whether my doze is long O.
short, I do not know. 1 imagine, how
ever, that it is not very long; but it i
broken at last by sharp exolamatlo,
from Lenore. t. -:e
"What are you makiog such. a nois
about?" I cry, starting up and rub
bing my eyes. "Oue may as well b
killed >as frightened to death
'CAarz;e!!" =. ::> J.:
! AMI dreaming still? No; tho va
+ ter falls voice has ccme back to M
cars, and the pines woody frsgrsnc
to my nostrils. Providence has gran,
ed Sylvia's prayer-for a. prayer
was; at least, it fulfilled the hymn
definition of prayer: *
"Prayer is the hearts incere desire,
:, Uttered or unexpressed."
There he stands, three PAGES fro,
me, among the juniper-bushos, soil
and real In the loose and untinte
clothes that summer Britons lov
stands there in all the stalwart, deep
colored beauty. Of his manhood
Providence has sent Us a man "to Civ
the whole thing FLIP" Lenore, ha
risen to her: feet and is. facing hiu
Their hands are not touching, neithe
are they speaking, only they, are look
ing at one another long and dumbly
Embarrassment at the reoollected hos
tility Of their last parting is trying
Lenore's tongue, as l feel; but wha
is it that is giving that look Of silent
painful wonder to Scrope's face?
"Wby are you looking SO hard a
me?' she says, at last, in a Low
voics, With tremulous asperity. "Is
there any thing odd about me
Do MT you knowsthat it is not goot
manners to look so hard at any one 2
T-1-beg your pardon" he says
stamueriug. "I-I-did not mean
you see, it is 50 long since hav
t apen-O 's1..i' sI.i:aa:3Ic ;,s.'', r.
I I have scrambled to my feet an,
shaken the illicit MONDAY sleep from
my eyes. "Charlie!" I cry secon'
time, coming forward ; and not being
person with anv great command' o