New Ulm weekly review. [volume] (New Ulm, Minn.) 1878-1892, 1885-04-22
stiff: Theskies,are gray. the bills are
white and the meadows are drifted.

stiff. Theskies,ar gray, the bills are
white and the meadows are drifted.
There will never,be anysummer again,
80 the oaks and the naples and the
hickories complain. But the patient
cedars- bending under the burden OF
snow that trims their dark green cloaks
white as soft as swans down, they look
out upon the sleeping fields and down
at the silent creek, patiently, trustful-
~ waiting for May and June. Never
wailing because the SHOWS are deep
and the winter is long; when the winds
are soft and gentle the cedars whisper,
and when the gales are blowing fierce
ly they only sigh and shake the snow
from their shoulders as they bend, and
sway. But always they are hopeful,
patient and they stretch their green
arms out over the pillows of snow, as
if to greet the coming spring, which
they alone of all the trees-can see.
And the busy, noisy, prattling, sing
ing creek has gone into new bust
ness. lce-bound as far as you can see,
and in the air holes. here and. there.
how black and cold the water runs.
The dam is bearded with long venera-
BILE icicles, and the shivering spray has
coated every branch and twig along
the shore with sparkling frostwork
Fairy work it is; June can make noth-
ing ]ovelier than this silver lace work,
with all her roses. Down below the
silent wheel the little creek does not
murmer and laugh. It chatters and
shivers, and just as fast as it can it
runs under the ice to get out of the
biting wind that comes bowling down
the great ravine and spitefully nips at
the ripples as it goes sweeping across
the white hills and the moaning oaks.
How it will twist and bend the knotty
old monarchs in its Wild. rough play.
1t even catches the old mill by the
shoulders and shakes:lt until the very
windows rattle and the pigeons up in
the loft COO and murmer soft, musical
frightened protests.
Heigh no You know, when I
looked out of the window to-day l was
just thinking what bustling, busy,
noisy days they used to he on the farm
when the threshers came, and wasn't
going to talk about anything else.
But the loneliness that sleeps in the
old mill in these winter days, the COO
ing of the doves up in the loft, the
still, white hills, crowded the noisy
days out of my heart. Away down
below the foaming waters break over
the ice-crested dam, and the white
wreathing spray drifts away from
their murmurous song in the cold De-
cember air. The music dreams into
the echoes of voice soft and low as
the song OF water nymph on many
fountained Ida. The scattered flakes
are falling on the ice-bound creek. and
the cedars sway patiently and the leaf
less oaks SILVER with the sense of win
ter, but in the monotonons song of the
falling water there is dream of ane-
mones in the ravines and blue violets on
the hillsides. In the drifting spray and
the teathery waters l see the ''beauty
that is born of a murmuring sound;'
child wondering brown eyes, with the
starlight in their chances vision,
beautiful browed, fair as the morning,
dimpled like the eddies in the race,
pure as the poisoning lilies that rock
on the ripples in the summer days; the
daughter of a queen with the blossom
of girlhood on her lips; wearing
crown of pain that made her more
than royal; patient, trusting, hopeful
as the silent cedars bending under the
burden of the cruel winter-only last
Christmas time she walked with you
and me about the old mill on the
laughing creek and talked with us
about the olden summer days. And
now the white lids have closed over
the brown eyes, the tired little hands
are clasped in dreamless sleep above
the pulseless heart, the snowy mantle
of the silent hills is like the drapery
we wrapped about her when she fell
asleep, and all the laughter has died
out Of the dimpled cheek and the hur-
rying race, the familiar waters sob,
sob all day in echo to the mourning
doves, the distant fails boom out like
muffled drums or minute guns, the sad,
white hills are voiceless, the cedars
bend their crested heads so mournfu!-
~, and all the mill is lonely, dark and
cold, because no more it hears the
voice of Natalie.-R. j. Burdette, IN
Northwestern Miller.
->-->