The new Northwest. [volume] (Portland, Or.) 1871-1887, 1875-10-29

The mournful tones of the singers
voice mingled with the clear tones of
the instrument sounded as sad, con-
tented wall.
sT didn't bargain for anything that
solemn" said Farmer Gray; "still, it
sounds glorious"
The tears, which for year Effie had
scarcely shed at all to her mothers
memory, dropped upon her husbands
hand. Hubert kissed the marble fore
head of his wife, who was pale with
emotion.
A lark, the prince of Oregon song
sters, broke out in an enhancing
trill of melody while sitting in the
branches of an old oak tree that stood
near an open window.
Eyes looked to eyes while listening,
and memory reverted to distant scene.
Mrs. Welden grasped Ada's hand. She
was thinking of another time, when a
merry songster had been a comforter,
and blessed the mission of the happy
bird.
'This reminds me-" said Maurice, "of
poem I noticed in one of our weeklies
to-day. INTENDED to show it to Ada
before, but forgot it until this moment.n
"Who is Viola p" Ada asked, gIanc-
ing at the signature.
ga lady whose only fault is that she
so seldom writes. Oregon literature is
beginning to look up, and whenever I
see signs of its elevation, get deeply
interested" Ada took the journal and
read it aloud:
" "Beauteous child of melody,
Singing from out that old oak tree,
Perching thyself on the topmost bough,
Who can rival thy music now?
Scattering song on the morning breeze,
Like shower of rain-drops from the trees,
Telling the listeners heart of spring,
Gliding With hope-light everything,
Hopping about in the sunny hours,
O'er the yards gay carpet of yellow flowers
Thyself as like thou vert hardly seen,
filthy feathers were only tipped with green
But the russet brown of thy humble wing
! Is like leaves that grew in a former spring.
| They are withered now, and lie scattered
round,
Enriching and shielding the fruitful ground
And thy coat is so like those dead leaves, sere
That thy voice must tell me when thou ar
near.
Cheerily now thy warblings fall
On my list'ning ears, and treasure them al
Up in the choicest nook of my heart,
That their sunshine and gladnesS may never
depart.
Often wake in the cool spring night
And listen to thee with deep delight,
Breaking out in a triIl so long,
Filling the still night air with song,
Waking the echoes of midnight hours,
Shaking the dew from the sleeping flowers
AS if thou vert waking from some brigh
dream,
Or gazing with joy on the moonlit scene.
a treasure thou art, of worth untold,
Yielding us music that never grows old.
But say, sweet lark, why so happy thou art
Why so gay thy song and light thy heart
Why not grieve for plumage more rich ant
rare,
And complain to thy Maker of nothing Il
wear?'
How darest thou be seen in the summer
light,
When SO many are dressed in coIors NOR
bright?
The bird fitted by, but sang as he went,
'rm teaching lesson Of sweet content"
Ada's voice vibrated musicall,
through the cheerily lighted room
Mrs. Welden sat gazing into the fire
} her lips compressed and her eyes aglov
J with feeling.
Efie's face grew radiant. 'If weir
not happy on this green earth, the Gre
atOr can't be blamed" she exclaimed.
"Well, it's strange what notions folk
can conjure up nowadays. Who'd
thought that anybody would try t
draw poetry from a birds noise? TIL
poets are eimmortalizing everything int
song," said Farmer Gray, by way c
, comment.
! 1.-THE END.l