Courier Democrat. (Langdon, N.D.) 1891-1920, 1917-04-12

lap. A sigh passed h1S mothers set
hips.
Eyes, my son, Meriwether," said she.
This is the last Journey! I have lost
you. then. it seems? You do not wish
to be my boy any longer? You are a
man altogether. then?'
II am Meriwether Lewis. mother"
said he gravely. and no more.
Yes" She spoke absently, musing-
ly. Eyes, you always WERE"
81 went westward. clear across the
Ragged mountains" said the youth.
"These"-and he pointed with con-
tempt to the small trophies at his belt
twill do for the darkies at the sta
Sles. l put yon old ringtail up a tree
last night, on my way home, and
thought it was as well to wait till
dawn till I could see tbG rifle sights.
and afterward-the woods were beau
tiful today. AS to trails, even If there
is no trail l know the way back home
you know that, mother"
II know that. my on, yes. You were
born for the forest. l fear l shall not
hold you long on this quiet farm"
Call in time, mother. l am to stay
here with you until / am fitted to go
higher. You know what Mr.. jefferson
has said to me / am for Washington,
mother. one of these days, for l hold it
sure that Mr.. Jefferson will go there in
some still higher place. He was my
fathers friend and is ours still"
ut may be that you will go to Wash
ington, my son." said the mother. 81
do not know. But will you stay there?
The forest will call to you all your life
all your life! Do l not know you,
then? Can not see your life-all your
life-as plainly as if it were written?
Do l not know-your mother? Why
should your mother not know?'
He looked around at her rather
gravely once again. unsmilingly. for he
rarely smiled.
"How do you know. mother? What
do you know? Tell me-about myself.
Then | will tell you also. We will see
what l ought to do"
My son.. it is no question Of what
you ought to do, for that blends too
closely in fate With what you surely
will dO-muSt do-AecauSe it was writ
ten for you. Yonder forest will always
call to you" She turned now toward
the sun. sinking across the red leavcd
forest lands. The wilderness is your
home. You will go out into it and re-
turn. often. and her at last you will
go and not come back again-not to
me-not to any one will you come
back"
The youth did not 10 as she sat.
her hands OH his head. Her voice went
on, even and steady:
you are old, Meriwether Lewis. 1t
is time now. You are a man. You al
ways were a man. You were born old.
You never have been a boy and never
can be one. You never We're q child.
but always a a When you We're a
baby you did not smile: when you We're
a boy you always had your way. My
boy. a long time ago l ceased to oppose
that will of yours. l knew hat it was
useless. But. ah. how l have loved
your promise. | knew you would do
what you had set for yourself to do. l
knew you would come back with deeds
in your hands. my boy. gained through
that will which never would bend
for me or for any one else in the
world"
He remained motionless, apparently
unaffected, as his mother went on:
"You were always old. always grown
up, always resolved, always your own
master, always Meriwether Lewis.
When you were born you were not a
child. When the old nurse brought you
to mel can see her black face grin
ming now-she carried you held by the
feet instead of lying on her arm. You
stood. you were so strong. Your hair
was dark and full even then. You
were old In two weeks you turned
where you heard a sound. You recog-
nized sight and sound together as no
child usually does for months. You
were beautiful, my boy; so strong, so
~straight-ah. yes-but you never We're
a boy at all. When you should have
been a baby you did not weep and you
lid not smile. | never knew you to do
so. From the first you always We're a
man"
She paused, but still he did not speak.
That was well we'll enough, for later
we were left alone. But your father
was in you. Do I not know well enough
where you got that settled melancholy
of yours, that dependency, that som
Der grief-call it what you like-that
marked him all his life and even in his
death? That came from him, your IA
Their. 1 thank God I did not give you
that, knowing what life must hold for
you in suffering. He suffered, yes, but
not as you will. And you must-you
must. my son. Beyond all other men
you will suffer-"
You were better named Cassandra,
mother" Yet the young man scarce
smiled even now.
Yes, l am a prophecies, all too sooth
a prophecies. my son. I see ahead as
only a mother a see. perhaps as only
ono of tho old h;rhlor1 h1ood ~.