A RETROSPECT. 



J. LOVERING. 



A long room, with book shelves around 

 2 sides, broken by the wide hearth, where 

 blazed a bright wood fire. On the other 

 2 sides deep windows filled the space. 

 Heavy curtains of rich texture masked all 

 but one. Through that filtered the soft 

 light of the moon, reflected from the glis- 

 tening snow that covered the ground out- 

 side. 



Over the mantle hung the slender bar- 

 rel and dainty stock of a little rifle, crossed 

 by an old shot gun, the stock patched and 

 mended with nails and many turns of wire. 



Between the 2 a face, now brightened to 

 living hues by the flickering firelight, now 

 pale and ghostly with the white light from 

 the window, smiled down on him from its 

 gilded frame. 



The smoke curled up in blue spirals from 

 his pipe as he settled back with a sigh of 

 content into the deep-seated armchair, his 

 feet thrust out to the grateful warmth of 

 the fire. Through the shrouded window, 

 clear and distinct in the white moonlight, 

 miles away, the peak reared its massive 

 whitened crest like some grand old Titan, 

 peering beneath frosted brows at the silent 

 world below, keeping watch and ward over 

 the gateway to mountain fastnesses be- 

 yond. 



From the picture framed in the parted 

 curtains his gaze wandered around the 

 room, watching the dancing shadows come 

 and go, as the fitful flames leaped and 

 played in the deep hearth. A puff or 2 at 

 his pipe and, as he lay back and sent the 

 smoke rings curling upward, from over 

 the mantel 2 eyes met his with sentient 

 look. In reverie he meets that look, gaz- 

 ing long, till the face grows more distinct. 

 A soft felt hat is pushed back from the 

 low, white brow, covering the close-braided 

 knot of silky brown hair; a dark hand- 

 kerchief is knotted loosely around the deli- 

 cate white throat; the dead-leaf brown of 

 the canvas coat with its many pockets 

 covers the shoulders; the little rifle has 

 left its place over the mantel and is now 

 grasped firmly in those fairy fingers, whose 

 touch had so often brushed back the hair 

 from his forehead or rested confidingly in 

 his rough palm. The old gun is gone, too; 

 the hearth has given place to a broad reed- 

 grown lake, the fire is only the* first rays 

 of the morning sun, the cushioned chair 

 has grown hard. He sits upright; the 

 seat beneath him quivers with an onward 

 motftm; the narrow sides of a canoe press 

 against him; the slender shaft of a paddle 



is in his hand; at his feet lies the gun, no 

 longer patched and old, but with all the 

 polish and shine of newness on it. 



Suddenly the figure before him, kneel- 

 ing in the bow, stiffens in mute expectan- 

 cy; those big brown eyes grow piercing in 

 their intentness; a whirr of wings; the 

 dainty head is thrown up, the paddle in 

 his hands becomes rigid, the little boat is 

 held steady' for a moment as, with a quick 

 motion, the rifle is brought to the shoulder. 

 A flash, a whip-like crack and a sullen 

 splash as the bird drops into the water. A 

 smile passes sadly over his face as he re- 

 members the look of pride that comes into 

 those glorious eyes and notes the graceful 

 pose of the form he loves so well, as the 

 rifle is reloaded by a quick "pump" of the 

 lever. 



The reedy lake changes to a long stretch 

 of darkening river, the light fades away, 

 the bright stars are twinkling overhead; 

 the paddle is now a pair of oarb in his 

 hands that send the little boat along with 

 a steady "his'h" as it cuts tne water. In 

 the dim light he can see that sweet face, 

 those tender eyes, and mingled with the 

 ripple of the water he hears the tones of 

 that voice whose tender accents ever 

 thrilled his heart. 



Swiftly the boat speeds on. The dark 

 woods, their leafy branches outlined 

 against the shining stars, rise like walls on 

 either side. A dazzling white light floods 

 the leafy walls; he ceases rowing; the 

 boat drifts with the current. Far below, 

 piercing the darkness for miles, surrounded 

 by the colored lights of the coming 

 steamer, glares that white electric light 

 with intense brilliancy. The light shifts, 

 passing from tree to tree, from overhang- 

 ing bank to rocky beach, from sandy point 

 to muddy flats beyond, each twig and leaf, 

 each rock and stump, every ripple on the 

 water sharply outlined against the dark- 

 ness, unfolding like a moving picture be- 

 fore his eyes. And now the light moves 

 across the water like the long arm of some 

 immense river monster seeking its prey; 

 it passes over the little boat; pauses a mo- 

 ment. One little hand goes up to shade 

 the dazzled eyes from the blinding glare, 

 every feature of the face, every curve and 

 line of the graceful form standing out in 

 the brightness clear cut as a cameo. The 

 light passes on and with it the rushing 

 river, the puffing, groaning steamer, the 

 little boat. 



He stands before a blazing, cracking 



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