The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-02-04
good wine. What is it I. see down

1I IS nOLnlng-Jne trunk Of tree"
 "The trunk of tree-the trunk of tree l" she murmured, "and behind us, don't you hear something?"
 "It is the wind in the trees, or the breaking of dead limb."
 They are fortunate who, in the night, in the middle of the forest, can feel as undisturbed as if sitting at their own fireside. It is hardly fear, but the silence awes one. Involunta- rily one looks for eyes among the shadows, and seeks to define the con- fused forms which appear and change at every moment. A very world creaks and snaps under your footsteps, and, on stopping, one hears the plain tive howl of the distant watchdog, the hooting owls that call to each other, and the hundred sounds far and near that are without explanation. A something strange surrounds and en- velops you. Are you alone, you walk quickly; are you two, you walk closely, and the proffered arm is gladly taken. My wife hung upon mine.
 "Shall we become wood-choppers? We will build pretty cabin, simple but tasteful would have little cur tains at the windows, carpet on the floor, and my piano in the corner"
 She said all this in half whisper, and now and then her hand trembled on my arm.
 "You would soon have enough of your cabin, my dear"
 "Oh the wretch p
 And then after minute she added:
 "You think that do not love you, you and your boy? Oh, my darlings, how l love you! Oh, how much Oh, how much! The happiness of each day is past expression. One sees it so plainly that one hardly perceives it! It is like daily bread; who lifts the hat for 1t? and yet it is life-is it not? But now and then, when the thoughts turn inward, when one covers the face with the hands and thinks, one says, I am ungrateful, for I am happy and I have thanked no one. And still more to be together, to walk arm in arm. Stay like this-it seems a light thing this moment; ah, we'll Il love you, my darling, love youw
 She les ned her head upon my arm and clung closely to me.
 "Good heavens !" she cried; eff I should lose you !"
 She spoke in low voice, as if in fear. Was it the night or the forest which frightened her, or perchance her own words?
 'I have often dreamed" she went on, "that had spoken to you the last farewell. You would cry, both of you, and l should press so closely to you that we should seem but one. These are only dreams, you say, but care not, since they have shown me that l live in you, my darlings. What was that that cracked? Did you see something cross our path?"
 My only answer was to fold her in my arms and press her close to my heart. We went on walking; but it was impossible to renew our converse tion. Now and then she pressed my arm and stopped me, saying
 "Hush! Listen! No, it is noth- ing"
 At last we saw through the trees little light, which disappeared from time to time, now hidden by the trunk of tree, and then coming into view again. It was the light that waited for us behind our window cur tain. It was time, we were wet through.
 l brought huge log for the fire, and when the bright flames rose, we sat down in the great chimney cor ner. I took off her shoes and stock ings, and held her feet towards the fire, shielding them with my hands.
 "Thank you, my dear thank you," she said, leaning on my shoulder and looking at me so tenderly that the tears filled my eyes.
 "What was that which you were saying in the woods, little one?" said when she was warm again.
 "You were thinking of that? Twas afraid, that is all, and when one is afraid, one sees phantoms."
 Then she threw her arms around me. and, laughing, said:
 "COme to bed, woodman."
 That was, l know too we'll, our last walk. Therefore do I remember it. How often since have travelled that road in the sober quiet of closing day. How often have I passed the ferns that her feet had pressed, and parted the grasses with my hands, poor fool that I was, to find the last print of her footstepl How often have I stopped in the glade, under the birches that showered their drops upon us, and fancied that saw the swing of her skirts among the shadowsl seemed to hear her little cries ofalarm, and, coming back in the evening air, I have found upon my way all the mem- cries that she has left there, from the watchdog's distant bark to the crack inc of the branches from tho <roro