White Bluffs spokesman. [volume] (White Bluffs, Wash.) 1907-1938, 1937-01-07

when you see the spring coming
green again. l reckon it is the seed
urge pent up for a winter and break
ing out Of it's shell. Wanting to feel
the earth warm around it, and open
itself and say, Here am, take me
and 1 shalt bear fruit::' 1 wonder if
the 'sweet-corn seeds are like me,
thinking Of Mothers garden as do
of Reuben? Would I dare even t.
think of it? Corn seed into the
warm ground, man seed (. wom-
an - "a planting. To bear his
children. With Reuben, in the
spring, in few more days it will
be. To be thinking of such things.
Always before it seemed like
thought of shame to think of man
in that way. But not with Reu-
ben and not now. Like it was a
part Of a body's life; beautiful, the
best part. Looking to this time.
Strong he. is and. gentle in his
strength.
Last spring l sat here and had
never seen him. Then Mother was
making her garden. Then Daddy
was excited about his mill, not
thinking of selling land or lying on
Cranesnest Shelf in a year. l will
think of my father. Wolfpen with
out him; Jasper to carry on; Jas
per's new wife to have the house
now. How does body go about >e-
ginning to think about things? First
you have place where you feel
alone with yourself. Like this.
Where the lay of the land is like all
the folds in our own soul. They fit
right over each other and then you
haven't any body any more. The
way the sky and the mountains
come together in the blue. The stir
Of thoughts rises there in the heart
of God. It. comes with the airy
waves of the mountainous and the
dark blue pockets over the hollows,
surging to me, play Of His thoughts
forever beating on this Pinnacle.
This cardinal feather futtering out
Of the sky almost into my lap, I
guess it must be blood drop from
the head Of God. The sudden bell
note Of the cardinals call from the
laural spray is the music of His
voice through these hills. 1t does
not belong to the redbird. Another
one sounded it last year, still an
other the year before. He lends it
to each bird generation, blowing
upon them with His breath as they
come into the earth. The Indians
heard it. too. and they are dead. My
grandfathers heard it and my IA
Their, and they are dead as the birds
are. Now I hear it going on. The
feathers futter in the pine boughs
and fit down into the apple orchard
in Wolfpen for season OF two and
are brushed away. But the bell
note sings on forever over these
hills in the very breath of God.
"Or could it be after all a sigh?
A despairing sigh from bleeding
heart before the black plague on
hawks wings STILES the melody of
the song? My fathers voice stopped
by a stone in the hands Of wicked
men. will think of him. Yonder
is the upper ford and the big rocks
where a great evil hawk battered
the song from my fathers mouth.
There floats over Ferguson's mea-
dow the black shadow from the only
cloud in the sky. 1t seems to lie
now at rest on the rocks at the very
spot where they struck him down.
And still no trace Of them that did
it. Why did it have to happen? Or
Doug broken up and blinded by a
worthless log? There is no way, no
reckoning with destruction and
death. Hurrying on somewhere else
to strike again, but giving no an
swer to a body's why. Where in
the heart Of God does death dwell?
I guess there is also no answer to
a body's where.
II keep thinking of death. I will