WHEN PASSIFLORA BLOOMS. 



AGNES M. ANDREWS. 



The little spirit under the purple flower 

 had been busy all day; it had said many 

 things to Laughing Moonbeam, and to- 

 night the Indian girl had gone to the edge 

 of the forest to listen to the sighing of the 

 waters. 



She was sorrowful with the mournful 

 water-spirit, who wept and wept and would 

 not be consoled; she laughed with the lit- 

 tle nodding forest flowers, which bent and 

 whispered among themselves, and pointed 

 long finger-like leaves at her. 



A black shadow fell across the path. 

 With a glad cry Laughing Moonbeam 

 sprang forward. A pair of brown, warrior 

 arms held the maiden, in their clasp. The 

 fast paling moon drew a veil of cloud 

 across its face. The Indian lovers stood 

 alone in the shadow of the forest, where no 

 mortal ears could hear; where only the 

 spirit of the flowers climbed among the 

 tree-tops and whispered the secret to the 

 dancing leaves, the leaves to the summer 

 zephyrs, and thence away, away, away to 

 the genius of the forest, off to the pale 

 lights in the North where dwelt the Spirit. 

 The forest was full of the Indian lovers' 

 secrets, and the whirling wavelets of the 

 waterfall sang and sang with it. The little 

 spirit under the purple passiflora was hap- 

 py, but none heard its wee voice. 



" Laughing Moonbeam, gleam from the 

 North, child of the mighty forest, know 

 that the Indian warrior loves thee; thou 

 art the jewel of his paradise; thy smile is 

 dearer to him than the scalp of his rival 

 or the death groan of his foe. I will go 

 forth, where the spirits of our fathers hold 

 their dance, and I will bring thee, little 

 Laughing Moonbeam, I will bring thee the 

 heart of the white enemy — of the pale-face 

 who steals the minds and binds the wills of 

 our people. Thou shalt be the proudest 

 among Indian women, and the warriors 

 shall pray to thee, Laughing Moonbeam, 

 child of eternal light! " 



In the West the cold moon sank between 

 an arch of giant trees; against its light the 

 lovers stole, until their forms grew faint 

 and blended into forest shadows. 



" When the little purple flower blooms 

 again — the sad little flower that makes thee 

 weep, my Laughing Moonbeam — thou 

 shalt see thy warrior lover. He will re- 

 turn to thee and thou shalt meet him in 

 the shadow of the forest. Weep not, maid- 

 en; dream rather of the victory to come. 

 In the skies shalt thou see the death-warn- 

 ing of the pale face! When the passiflora 

 blooms again I will lay the crimson blos- 

 som of love on the white heart of my 

 Laughing Moonbeam." 



At dawn he went forth, and the dusky 

 hand that plucked the purple forest flower 

 was strangely cold. The spirit under the 

 passiflora murmured softly, to itself, and 

 caught Laughing Moonbeam's tears and 

 hid them away under the soft earth, about 

 the flower's tender, thread-like roots. 



Far off in the camp of the pale-face, the 

 settlers still dreamed of the day when the 

 red-man should be driven from the forests; 

 when his home should be forsaken and the 

 gods of the Indian should be banished 

 from the wilderness. 



When the snow lay in a royal mantle 

 over the forest world, Laughing Moon- 

 beam chased the gray squirrels, frightened 

 the timid deer that drank from the stream- 

 lets, and watched the giant branches of the 

 trees that shook and shivered in the wintry 

 chill. Day by day "she longed for the little 

 spirit of the passiflora; but it came not, and 

 the heart of Laughing Moonbeam grew 

 cold and heavy. She no longer heeded the 

 gray squirrels, her old comrades; the deer 

 drank by her side and she saw them not. 

 The red foxes came to her and put their 

 cold noses close to her face; but she only 

 turned away, and their little foxy hearts 

 were troubled, and they wondered at their 

 playmate. Then they trotted back into the 

 forest. Only snow and sleeping nature — 

 Laughing Moonbeam was weary. 



One day the white spirit was gone; the 

 trees shook themselves and put forth their 

 buds; and the little brooks began their old 

 songs once more. By the fire in the tent 

 of the great chief, sat Laughing Moon- 

 beam's father, smoking his long pipe, 

 brooding over the youth and the vigor that 

 had gone before him into the Spirit Land. 

 Laughing Moonbeam slipped forth away 

 from the chattering women. She lay down 

 on the moss under the shadow of a tree. 

 A voice murmured to her. Close beside 

 her the little passiflora smiled. Then 

 Laughing Moonbeam knew her lover had 

 returned. 



By the edge of the forest, she found him; 

 but no arrow, no visible sign of death- 

 wound. In his stiff hand just a tuft of 

 blood-stained flaxen hair, the scalp-lock of 

 the pale-face. The heart of the white en- 

 emy was cold, and Laughing Moonbeam's 

 lover had come back to her when the passi- 

 flora bloomed. 



The gray squirrel stopped a moment by 

 the fresh footprints in the damp earth; then 

 he bounded away, for he was a wise squir- 

 rel, and he knew them for the footprints 

 of no red man. The spirit under the passi- 

 flora was still. 



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