HOLLOW 49 



The hottest summer never checked its bounteous 

 stream ; the keenest winter never laid a curb upon its 

 freedom. 



But in the old house hard by, whose children dipped 

 their pitchers from the brink, is silence now and ruin. 

 The very sparrow, missing here man's presence, comes 

 no more to rest beneath the eaves. 



Shyer birds than he haunt now in summer time these 

 ruined gables. Wagtail and robin hide their nests in 

 hollows in the walls. The flycatcher flutters through the 

 ever open door. Even the grass snake basks upon the 

 spacious hearth, and in the cavernous chimney, blackened 

 by the logs of many winters, the bats in silence wait the 

 twilight hour. 



When the old tower rising on the far-hill slope, is 

 through grey mists of sunset hardly seen, will float 

 across the valley the soft sound of evening bells. 

 Perchance in the shadow of that ancient yew lie the 

 spent ashes of the old man desolate, who, with sad 

 eyes, at midnight watched upon this hearth the dying 

 embers of its last wood fire. Does never ghost return 

 to wander in the ruins of his home, no shadowy 

 figure steal at nightfall through the silent rooms ? 

 Who shall recall the story of the wasted hearth, its 

 memories of grief and joy, of childhood and old 

 age, of 



4 ' youthful dreamers 



Building castles fair with stately stairways 



Asking blindly 

 Of the Future what it cannot give them ; " 



