The Warner weekly sun. (Warner, Brown Co., Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1885, 1885-04-17

VIC NdN u Dpl4hS ~ hH>
June. All the other trees have given
mp long age, and ceased to look Tor
anything save and sheets and
biting frOsts and winter rains. How
fearfully they moan and wall when the
winds come sweeping down from the
northwest. They have thrown away
every brown leaf weeks and weeks ago.
They will never wear leaves again,
they know. The ground about their
frozen feet is hard as flint. The sap
is frost in their veins. Their limbs are
stiff. The skies are gray, the hills are
white and the meadows are dritted.
There will never be any summer again,
so the oaks and the naples and the
hickor:es 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-
ly 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 a see.
And the busy, noisy, prattling, sing
ing creek has gone into a new BUSH
ness. Ice-bOund a. 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 moth
ing Iovelier than this silver lace work,
with all her roses. Down below the
silent wheel the little creek does not
murmer and laugh. 1t 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 raYine and spitefullv 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 1t until the very
windows rattle and the pigeons up in
the loft coo and murmer soft, musical
frightened protests.
Heigh no! You know, when !
looked out of the window to-day / 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 q voice soft and low as
the song of a water nymph on many
fountained Ida. The scattered flakes
r falling on the ice-bound creek, and
the cedars sway patiently and the leaf
less oaks shiver with the sense of win
ter, but in the monotonons song of the
falling water there is a dream of ane-
mones in the ravines and blue violets on
the hillsides. In the drifting spray and
the teathery waters / see the ..beauty
that is born of a murmurIng sound"
child wondering brown eyes, with the
starlight N their glances a vision,
beautiful browed, fair as the morning,
di1apled like the eddies in the race,
pure as the blossoming lilies that rock
on the ripples in the summer days; the
daughter of a queen with the blossom
of girihood on her lips; wearing a
crown of pain that made her more
than royal; patient, trusting, hopeful
as the silent cellars 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 p~ulseless heart, the snowy mantle
of the silent bills 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
muffied drums or minute guns. the sad,
white hills are voiceless, the cedars
bend their crested heads so mournful-
ly, and all the mill is lonely. dark and
cold, because no more it hears the
voice of Natalie.-R. u Burdette, IN
Mo~tbaroofox~ea M;yTo~