The Arkansaw traveler., 1885-02-14
THE OIL, aslz.l. N wzNrRR,


 THE pHa; MIL. IN waMrRR. k [R. |. havd.sss, s t sa assssess All sAa vpxia xhoat sAe mill hes Kcse To sleNp.~ le ia AihaEnaaing, hkas thM heae. rhe hills have paalnd thn. sheesa If snow l up to their eAins and eser their heAAs, esd saeep % sennd@ thAk tke ressieaa winds have te do their snuEing fnr them. iss How pasieassy wass sss esasss Erg sAe days of apzing and ths snnshine ef Jane. AM the ether sreea have given Np fong Eaao, ard censed e lock for anythiax cave |s4ews cad sleais ana biting frp6ss and winses rains. How teasfnlly sAey mean and val when the winds come, sweeping down from the northwest They have thrown away every brown leaf weeks end seeks ago. They will nsver wear leaves again, they kaow. The ground about their frozen feet is hard a 6inG The sap Is frost in their veins. Their limbs ere sti6. The skies are gray, the hills are white and the meadows are dyifaed There will never b. any summer again, @ the oaks and the naples and the hickoxies complain. But tho patient cedars bending under the burdan of snow that trims their dark grsen cloaks with white as soit as swans down, they lnok out upon the sleeping fields and down at the silent creek, p atiently, trust fully waiting for May and June. Never wailing because the snows are deep and che winter ix long; when the winds are soft and gentle tho cedars whisper, and when the gales are blowing 6crcsly they -~l~. s~k n~A ak An ek~ . A~s~ shoulders as they bend and sway. But always they are hopeful, patient and they stretch their green arms out over the pillows oi snow, as # to greet the coming spring, which they alone of all the trees can sec.
 And the busy, noisy. pratsling, singing creek has gone into new business. Ice 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 venerable icicles, and the shivering spray has coated every branch and twig along the shore with sparkling frostwofk. Fairy work 1t is; June can make nothing lovelier than this silver lace work, with all her roses. Down be- low the silent wheel the little creek does not murmur and laugh. It chattets and shivers, and just a fast as 1. can it runs under the ice to get out of the biting wind that comes bowling down the great ravine and spitefally nips at the ripples as 1t goes sweeping across the white hills and the moaning oaks, How 1t will twist and bend the knotty old monarchs in it's wild, rough play. It even catches the old mill by the shoulders and shakes it nntil the very windows rattle and the pigeons up in the lof coo and murmur soft, musical frightened protests.
 Neigh hol You know, when looked out of the window to-day was juss think-
 ing what bustling, busy, noisy days they
 used to be on the farm when the thsesh
 ers came, and l wasn't going to talk
 about anything else. But the lonelinsss
 that sleeps in the old mill h these winter
 days, the cooing of the doves up h the
 loft, the still, white hills crowded tho
 noisy days out of my heart. Away down
 below the fsamiAg waters break oves the
 ice-crcsted dam, and the white wreath,ng
 spray drifts away from their murmuroas
 song in the cold December air. The music dreams into the echoes of voics soR and low as the song of . water nymph on many. .founsained Ida. The scattered flakes are falling on the ice-
 bound creek, and the cedars sway pa-
 tiently and the leaAess oaks shives with the sense of winter, but in the monoton-
 ous song of the falling water there is . dream of anemones in the ravines and
 blue violets on the hillsides. In the driit- ing spray and the fsathsry waters zee the "beauty that is born of murmuring sound; ]" child wondering brown eyes,
 with the starlight ip their glances; .
 vision, beautiful browed, fair as the morn-
 ing, dimpled like the eddies in the race,
 pure as the blossoming lilies that rock on the nipples in the summer days; the daughter ofs queen with the blossom of girihood 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 mo about the old mill on the laughing creek and talked
 with us about the olden summer days.
 And now the white lids have ciosod over
 the brown eyes, the tired little hands are
 clasped in drsamless sleep above the
 pulseless heart the snowy mantle of the
 silent hills is Ike the drapery we wrapped
 about her when she fell asIeep, and all
 the laughter has died out of the dimpled
 cheek and the hurIying race. the familiar
 waters sob, sob all dsy in echo to the
 mourning doves, the distant fails boom
 out like mufiied drums CT minute guns, the sad, white hills are voicelsss, the cedar bend their crested heads Q mourn fully, and all the mill l. lonely, dark and cold, because no more 1t hears the voice of Natalie.
 .a .s Repressipg osnins. lChicago Heraid.)
 The whifligig Of journalism, liks every tking else, makes change, and the style which used to make the whole ely shud-