The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1884-12-18

tissue down the white-robed cliff. The
Cathedral Spires rose crystal clear into
the blue sky, and on Clouds Rest, the
white drifting nimbus of the sky
caressed their sister snowdrlfts of the
peaks. The great pines of the valley
were cones of amethyst; the very air
was set with dazzling jewel points, and
the pure solitudos pulsed with impris-
oned sparks of heavenly fire.
An artist sketching the picturesque
groups of mountaineers, heard of "the
girl up yonder"-a g,rl whose daily
haunts we're where the clouds and ST.
lence wander, maiden who was seated
beside the moon, while the stars twink.
led like firefies about her.
In time he found her. Never flower
before bloomed like this snowhower be-
meath his gaze.
Shows can not smother passion, or stars
stir the pulses like the light in nearer
eyes. To this ardent poetic soul, with
it's disregard of fitness, of constancy,
or duty, or happiness beyond the pres
ent hour, the snowfower gave her life.
He had found beauty, he worshipped it.
The humble eye is satisfied forever with
the shabby print of Madonna on
the wall, but new pictures replace the
old on the easel of the artist. His
search is always for beauty; having fix
ed one face upon the canvas his eye
roves for a brighter cheek and SUMMER
halr.
But, for the time, she was his angel.
Disregarding the world, society, friends;
forgetting education, style, culture
all that he would at another time re-
member-he took her from the heights
where she had been the companion OF
nature, to show her to a groveling, pu-
trid world.
Alas! Snowfower of the Sierras!
Alas. that fatal name-that pure and
fatal name-dower of the SHOWS!
Did Fate christen thee, child of the
upper air? Hast never seen the beau
tiful sunaower drained of it's rosy beau
ty, by ice-dripping tears? Dost thou
not know that the plant of the clouds
has never been transplanted to lower
fields?
The father talked wildly to the way
farers who came now and then to lift
his latch-string for nights shelter by
the cabin fire. He repeated, in wretch
ness, that retribution had overtaken
him. As cruelty as he had fed from
the wife of his youth, his girl had gone
from him. Not all his love or care
could prevent her from giving the blow
which fate had reserved for him. Nut
tering, or silent and glowering, the
weeks and months found him, until at
last he disappeared from his homo and
was lost forever to human view.
This is the story the guide told me as
We stood by the freless hearth Of that
deserted home.
She died, poor girl-died of q broken
heart.
For those who dwell in lowlands, the
roses bloom; for creeping things there
are the moses and the violets. Each
plane in life has it's own corresponding,
recommending loneliness. Let him who
lives in rose-thickets be content, nor
seek to pluck the blossoms of the crags;
nor he who roams the SHOWS think to
keep in its freshness the rose that nature
left in warmer climes.
She died, SO the story runs, on Christ
mas Eve. Many years ago at Christmas
time, in the dazzling radiance Of q
moonlight night, wanderers on the
snow slopes saw phantom gliding on
pearly snowshoes over the glittering
peaks. She was shroudod in white,
and out other pale face her eyes gleams.