The Harp in the Willows 



chords as if from the lips of grief, and the music moaned like 

 autumn winds. The soul of life was smiting on the scarlet 

 chords. The harp-strings laughed and wept and hushed 

 again in muffled sounds that fell away to silence and to sleep. 

 Then the prairieman knew that he had listened to the 

 mingled music of youth. 



It was the hour of sunset, and shadows were falling 

 among the willows. The harp-strings were as still as the 

 shadows. But the hush was for only a moment. When the 

 player smote the harp again the music sounded loud and 

 long. It was not unlike the undulations of approaching 

 thunder. The starlight sifted through the willows and the 

 moon hung huge and red above the eastern horizon. In the 

 music could now be heard the blare of bugles and the call 

 of captains. Steel was heard to clash on steel. Volley an- 

 swered volley. Hammers and screaming whistles mingled 

 their deafening din with the buzz of saws, the whirr of wheels, 

 and flying spindles. It was the mighty medley and music of 

 manhood. 



Again the prairies are still and the harp is hushed in the 

 willows. The coyote's call breaks the silence with a shrill 

 and fearsome sound. Around the North Star the Dipper 

 swings in stellar splendor. The winds of the night whisper 

 their secrets to the dew-damp grass. And now the music 

 wakes again with the soul of the harper that stands on the 

 willow-fringed bank of the Beaver. Not all the song-birds 

 of the world, nor all the human singers, could match that 

 music now. Wave after wave rolls forth from the black 

 chords. But see! dusk is giving place to dawn. The "black 

 bat, night," will soon be flown. The dawn's kiss has flushed 

 the Orient. Winds of the morning wake and sing. The 



73 



