THE HARP IN THE WILLOWS 



A PRAIRIEMAN sat on a bank between the breaks of the 

 Beaver. The little stream was almost concealed by the 

 willows that grew on its edges. Their yellow arms moved 

 gently under the west wind's breath. When shaken by sud- 

 den gusts they shed their leaves like flakes of yellow snow. 

 From many a tangle of vines the foxgrape hung in blue-black 

 clusters. It was a fitting place to sleep and dream. Often 

 when the bodily-eyes sleep, new seeing comes upon the 

 soul. Men often see most with their eyelids closed. The 

 prairieman saw a being of bewitching beauty standing in 

 the willows with a harp at her side. Her shoulders were 

 draped with some snowy fabric, as if it were woven from the 

 yucca's bloom. Her tresses were like black threads that the 

 winds had plucked from the robes of night. Her eyes held 

 the light of summer noons. The motions of her hands were 

 as measured as the movements of music. Her sandals shim- 

 mered like shoes of gold. The prairieman waited in wonder 

 to catch the cadence of her words. Or, he thought, mayhap, 

 that she might sweep unwonted strains from that strange 

 harp which she held in her hands. He waited in silent 

 wonder. The harp was wreathed about with grape-leaves, 

 goldenrod, and many-flowered aster. The strings of the 

 harp were not all the same color. Some were white, others 

 red, and some were black. The mysterious stranger swept 

 her hand across the responsive strings. Eagerly the prairie- 

 man bent toward the melody. Never before had he been so 

 expectant. As the music flowed over him, every fiber of his 



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