"Verily, oh, raven!" despondently 

 said Noah, "it doth appear that the 

 dove, not more than thou, didst find a 

 place for the sole of her foot. I will 

 wait yet another seven days," he added 

 thoughtfully, "ere I send her forth 

 again." 



And Noah waited seven days, and on 

 the morning of the eighth he sent the 

 dove forth again in quest of dry land. 



The day passed, but ere evening fell 

 the bird returned, bearing in her bill, 

 as a token that the waters had abated, 

 a freshly-plucked olive leaf. 



"Thou art God's own messenger," 

 joyfully said Noah, tenderly caressing 

 the dove. "Verily something more 

 than instinct guided and prompted thee 

 in thy flight this day." 



And Noah waited yet another seven 

 days ere he again sent forth the dove. 



This time, to the ark, the dove re 

 turned no more. 



"Coo-o-o," more plaintively than 

 usual, called her mate the next morn 

 ing. "Co-o-o-o." 



"He mourns for his lost love," pity 

 ingly said Japheth, the youngest son. 



"Verily, something hath befallen the 

 bird!" 



"Nay," responded Noah, "liberty is 

 sweet. After long captivity in a dark, 

 close house-boat, freedom might well 

 try the fidelity of e'en a turtle dove. 

 She awaits his coming, perchance, in 

 the nearest pine or willow tree. Open 

 then the window and let him forth." 



And Japheth did as his father com 

 manded, but sorrowfully, for it chanced 

 that in close companionship, lo, these 

 many days, with these innocent chil 

 dren of nature, Japheth had come to 

 acquire a tender love and care for both 

 beast and bird. 



"Go, thou mourning dove," he said, 

 unconsciously bestowing a fitting name 

 upon the gentle bird. "Go!" And, 

 spreading his beautiful wings, off the 

 dove joyfully flew, following with uner 

 ring instinct the path in the air yester 

 day taken by his mate. 



And yet a few days and Noah re 

 moved the covering from the ark and 

 looked, and behold, the face of the 

 ground was dry. 



THE MAYFLOWERS. 



(The trailing arbutus, or Mayflower, grows abundantly in the vicinity of Plymouth, and 

 was the first flower that greeted the Pilgrims after their fearful winter.) 



Sad Mayflower! watched by winter 

 stars 



And nursed by winter gales, 

 With petals of the sleeted spars 



And leaves of frozen sails! 



What had she in those dreary hours, 

 Within her ice-rimmed bay, 



In common with the wild-wood flowers, 

 The first sweet smiles of May? 



Yet, "God be praised!" the Pilgrim 

 said, 



Who saw the blossoms peer 

 Above the brown leaves, dry and dead, 



"Behold our Mayflower here!" 



"God wills it: here our rest shall be, 

 Our years of wandering o'er, 



For us the Mayflower of the sea 

 Shall spread her sails no more." 



O sacred flowers of faith and hope, 

 As sweetly now as then 



Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, 

 In many a pine-dark glen. 



Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, 

 Unchanged, your leaves unfold, 



Like love behind the manly strength 

 Of the brave hearts of old. 



So live the fathers in their sons, 

 Their sturdy faith be ours, 



And ours the love that overruns 

 Its rocky strength with flowers. 



The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day 

 Its shadows round us draws; 



The Mayflower of his stormy bay, 

 Our Freedom's struggling cause. 



But warmer suns ere long shall bring 



To life the frozen sod; 

 And through dead leaves of hope 



shall spring 

 Afresh the flowers of God! 



Whittier. 



37 



