Year: 1864

mother in little brown cabin, BY fountain
in dell among the foothills, far below
:" Papa" is the word blueeyed child by
her side is lisping-'tis he they are thinking
Of whose breast is mott pushing through the
snow wall about the FIR tree high in the ST.
erras. In the little brown cabin white
cloth is spread on the table; dainty dishes
smoke on the hearth--why does he not Gomez
Look out little baby, look out at the door
look often, child. = g =


How like great tents look the clumps Of man.
zanta How the young frs are bowed
But see, on the side of yon great white noun
tain-two black, moving specks. What |!
have they stoppedy No; they are moving
now-but not now. They seem moving
again, but--no-No; the tired steed can 60
no farther--cannot be driven. He is stretch.
ed in the snow. Now our wauderer must
make his own path. See, the snow is against
his breast, but he pushes bravely through
Listen was that a moans II was a sigh
from the dumb companion or the lost man,
but he has put his head down again--he is
weak, he cannot follow his master. Look |!
the man has turned about; now he kneels
down by the poor brute and takes its head
in his lap, his arms arc about its neck. Will
he stay and die with his horsep No--the
cabin and the two bluc.eyed babies | In vain
the poor horse now lifts his head--in vain
listens for his masters voice--hs masters
breast is against the snow, his thoughts are
with comely dame and the little ones that
cling to her clothes, in the little brown cabin
by the fountain in the dell, far below among
the foothills. Dull is the boom of the snow
falling from the tops Of tho lofty pines =
lonely grouse is startled and flies across to an
opposite mountain, with q din that echoes
far up and down the canon. Now all is still !;
where is he who IS lost so high up in the
mountains? Omncus, sad, is the stiffness.
See, he lies with his face on his arms-his
breast still against the snow. This saddens
me, for am thinking Of the cornely dame in
the little cabn--yes, and Of the little ones
that hang by her clothes. Will he never
move again? The snow is deep, but life is
sweet, and loved ones dear All, good he
is rising. But soc why is he 80 feeble-he
was strong yesterday !? All, mo, he lies
again with his head on his arms, and has
scarce moved five PAGES. The white cloth is
spread on the table, dainty dishes smoke on
the hearth" Why does he not come ?"--
Look out little blue eyed tlaughter look out
at the door! Poor mother, keep your dain-





be home The face Of the lost man is stin
buried in his arms, he uttcrs no sound, he
does not move. From the tall pines the snow
falls heavily about him, but he is not dis.
turbed. Poor man he is very tircd-very
drowsy. He will take a short sleep, then
try again to get out of the snow. He is snil.
ing. The young pines about are hooded
with snow, snow has bent the young frs; yet
above ALL the sky is blue. He sees none of
thrsc-he smiles, for he sees the white cloth
that is spread on the tablc-the dainty dish
es on the hearth--he is almost home. Look
out, little blue.e eyed daughter, and you, little
baby, look out at the door poor mother look
no more to your dainty dishes, for papa"
is now at Home. Alas now that we look
again-look at his glazed eyes and his rigid
limbs, we see that il is too true. lie is at
home, at rest. for he is dead Cold are the
nights on the mountain he;ghts--col the
stars and blue sky. The stitfened form G.
the lost gold hunter still lies in the snow ON
the side OF the great white mountain we are
sad TO know how many nights have passed
since he went to sleep with his face on his
arms and his breast against the snow, dream.
ing OF the white cloth spread on the table in
the little brown cabin. far below among the
t"o'hiils. The gray wolf, perched on his
rock, looks down on two dark spscks in the
snow and Notwithstanding ravens circle
above the pines. The two dark specks are
our lost man and his dead stecd-lying
scarce half mile apart. Hateful are those
croaking ravens, and hateful that wolf
growing so bold and his eyes so greedy, as
he stands chattering with his feet on the
brink OF his jutting rock, and his shaggy
neck stretched out hungrily toward the dead
in the snow. The shines warm about
the little brown cabin in the foothills two
hlue-eyed children play about the door, and
the birds sing en- the nearest trees the
mother, shading her eyes, gazes Up at the
mountains, though she has no hope Of see
ing him she is thinking Of no dantics are
on the hearth, nor is the white cloth spread
on the table When spring comes the re-.
mains Of the lost man may be found-but
who knows p Weekly Occidental, NJ. T.