Meadow and Mountain 



Thy fragrant and crimsoned-hued ball, 



And tresses all tipped with gold, 

 Are as soft as the sunbeams that sift through the air, 



And the essence of beauty they hold. 



A thorny wee vine in the grass 



Feeds life to the sensitive rose, 

 And the lover-like sun, with tender caress, 



Her ravishing color bestows ; 

 The fine and fern-like leaves 



Are startled by touches of man, 

 No passionate lover would dare to embrace, 



But onlv her beauty to scan. 



The love-guided fingers of God 



Imprinted her there in her place, 

 And torn from the motherly breast of the soil, 



Life's glow fades swift from her face; 

 O Beauty has many a form, 



And garments of many a hue, 

 But she lingers to greet her lovers who seek 



Her haunts in the flowers and dew. 



But Bluestem's eyes soon again lost sight of Beauty. 

 While he sang she seemed to slip away. He was as sensi- 

 tive now as the sensitive brier. The bloom had fled, but 

 the tiny thorns remained. In Bluestem's world of beauty 

 he often found bee-stings and thorns mixed with the honey 

 and the blossoms. This puzzled him, but he found no answer 

 on the prairie to that puzzle. " Blossoms and thorns, honey 

 and stings that mixture would perplex a philosopher," so 

 said Bluestem, as he sobbed in the wind. Then he left off 

 puzzling, and looked again for Beauty. For she had come 

 back to him as often as she had left him. She had delighted 

 him as often as she had disappointed him. She left him 



234 



