Dec. 29, 1887.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



443 



were his share? And because we cannot find them he 

 turns away his eyes, making our medicine useless. So 

 then we fall and die, even as an old blind man who can- 

 not see the way. 



" 'Hear, now, you who stand among the clouds. Pity, 

 I say, your starving people. Give back those happy days. 

 Cover once more the prairies with our real food that your 

 children may live again. Hear, I say, the prayer of your 

 unhappy people. Bring back those ancient days. Then 

 will our medicine again be strong, then will you be happy 

 and the aged die content.' 



"A wonderful prayer, full of poetry," said the 

 Rhymer. 



"And how much more full of pathos," added Yo, and 

 for a short space there was silence. Then more logs were 

 piled on the fire, the horses were looked after and those 

 most likelv to wander tied up, and then all hands turned 

 in. Yo. 



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Address all communications to the Forest and Stream Pub. Co. 



THE GRAY PINE. 



PART TWO. 



THE deserted farm at the head of the valley was once 

 owned by Amos Brown, a shiftless and thriftless 

 .farmer and as unsuccessful a hunter, for though lie was a 

 good shot and much fonder of ranging the woods with his 

 gun and sad-faced hound than of tilling his sterile acres, 

 he "never hed no luck.'" Fonder yet of the social glass, he 

 spent many and more unprofitable horns in "Bell's tar- 

 vern," and' Bell had a mortgage on his farm and a lien on 

 his scanty stock every cent they were worth. 



In spite of the disheartening unthrift of the farm, the 

 old man's only daughter kept the house neat and comfort- 

 able and strove bravely against the tide of ill-fortune that 

 soon or late seemed certain to overwhelm them. Her 

 mother had died when she was but a child, and she had to 

 take a woman's place in the little household, when the 

 girls of her age "down the river" were set to no heavier 

 tasks than baby tending and berry picking. 



She was such a notable housekeeper and so handsome 

 withal, that she had many admirers and had only to say 

 the word to become the wife of the only son of the most 

 well-to-do farmer in the valley, but for some reason she 

 had not yet been persuaded to say the word. She was 

 very patient with her father, and always kind and 

 thoughtful of his comfort, humoring and caring for him 

 as tenderly as if he had been a child when he came home 

 almost helplessly drunk from his visits to the tavern, and 

 he was so proud and fond of her that it was a wonder he 

 did not mend his ways for her sake. 



One summer brought them great luck, so Amos thought. 

 An artist discovered the valley and came to board with 

 them for a week or two while he sketched some of the 

 striking and picturesque bits of the wild scenery. He 

 found enough close at hand to keep his eye and pencil 

 busy for a much longer time, and his stay' lengthened to 

 a month. Then he fitted up a rough studio in the old 

 barn, and settled down to summer's work, paying for his 

 board and privileges what seemed a windfall of wealth 

 to Amos and his daughter, though it was no more a week 

 than one must pay now for a day's entertainment at one 

 of the summer resorts of the region. 



Credit was restored at Bell's, and the old man's con- 

 vivial evenings there became more frequent. But not 

 all the ready money went that way. Some of it brought 

 more comfortable furnishings and some simple adorn- 

 ments to the house, and a becoming new dress and smart 

 bonnet made Polly so much handsomer than ever that 

 poor Hiram Hull's heart grew sorer every day with the 

 pain of misprised love. 



"Walter White, the artist, painted for love of art and an 

 ambition to make a name that he would be prouder of 

 than that of a rich man's only son. He cared nothing 

 for the gay life that most young men of fortune lived, 

 and unaccountably to them chose to spend the summer 

 days painting in this out of the way nook of the world 

 rather than take the foremost place he might among the 

 votaries of fashion. 



He was a man of pleasant speech and kindly ways, 

 and so unassuming of any superiority to these humble 

 but sensitive people among whom he was sojourning that 

 they almost all liked him, though some said afterward 

 that they had always thought they saw a lurking devil in 

 his eye and a marked hardness in his face. He treated 

 Polly with a respectful politeness so different from the 

 awkward courtesy, always bashful or rude, though 

 always well meant, of her accustomed male associates, 

 that it was a revelation to her of a life far removed from 

 hers; his speech a?id manners so unlike those of any one 

 she had ever met, made him seem like some superior be- 

 ing from another world, and she could not but feel that 

 they were very far apart. As the summer wore away, 

 marking its decline with golden-rod along the waysides 

 and with dull white patches of everlasting in the stony 

 pasture, this feeling of wide separation began to be very- 

 painful to her, and she became aware that too often for 

 her peace of mind in the days to come, thoughts of their 

 guest were constantly recurring. In a little while he 

 would be gone, and her old weary life would be resumed, 

 and go on and on, tending whither? she vaguely won- 

 dered. Its few r possible ways were narrow and rough at 

 best. And worst of all to think of was that she and 

 her life would soon pass out of his and be forgotten, and 

 she could never forget him. She grew so sad and moping 

 that her father noticed how changed she was, and dimly 

 seeing through the thin disguise of pretended gaiety 

 she at times put on, guessed at what she strove to hide. 

 Some sense of parental duty faintly illumined his befogged 

 soul, and one afternoon as they sat on the doorstep in the 

 eastern shadow of the house, he smoking and stealthily 

 noting how while she knitted her frequent expectant 

 glances were cast across the fields, he was impelled to 

 give her a gentle admonition. 



"Polly," he began, with a sudden effort, "it's dreffle 

 foolish 'n' onprofitable for folks tu git the' hearts sot on 

 folks 'at don't keer nothin'for 'em, haint it naow, Polly?" 



"Course it is, father," she answered, blushing as red as 

 the blossoms of the "posy bean" that she had trained over 

 the door. "Why?" with a forced little laugh, "It's a 

 hopesiir you haint a ben settin' your heart on— le' me see 

 —wal, that rich Widder Harmern 't owns all the iron 

 works daown t' Ironton; hev ye, father?" 



"Oh, you git aout wi' yer nonsense, Polly," the old man 

 cried, laughing at the absurdity of the idea. "No, no, 

 little gal, I haint a foolin. It 'is dreffle foolish. But I 

 hev knowed them 'at got a notiern 'at 'cause somebuddy 

 er nuther was kinder sosherble an' friendly tu 'em, 'at 

 they sot a heap by 'cm, and mebby wanted to marry 'em, 

 when they raly didn't keer a soo markee for 'era, no, not 

 one single soo markee! You 'n' I wouldn't git no sech a 

 notiern int' aour heads, little gal, but the' be them 'at 

 'ould, an' does. S'posin' now 'at — wal, s'posin' 'at one o' 

 them 'ere Stinson gals daown yunder," pointing down the 

 valley with his pipe, "got a notiern 'at 'cause, Mr. White, 

 f'r instance, spoke perlite tu her, an' thanked her more 

 fer a dipper o' water 'n' I would for a dr;nk o' ol' Medf erd 

 'r Perishville whisky" — the names of these liquors made 

 his mouth so waiery that he paused to wipe it with the 

 back of his hand — "'at he was smit with her, an' she took 

 tu sort o' pinin' arter him, haow tur'ble foolish an' on- 

 senseless it 'ould be? Naow, Polly, I ben a thinkin' 

 'baout it 'cause I seen him a prattlin' long wi' that 'ere 

 lanky Stinson gal t'other day"— Polly winced— "an' I ben 

 a thinkin' 'at like 'nough you hed orter tell her better 'n 

 tu git any sech a idee, seein' 'at she 'n' you is toll'able 

 thick." 



"Pshaw! father," she burst out contemptuously, "he 

 don't care no more for M'ri Stinson 'n he does for you!" 



"Course he don't. I haint none worried 'baout him! 

 I know 'em, them high duck city folks, smooth and putty 

 tu us here 's long we're usefie tu 'em, but when they 

 god done with us, we haint no more o' 'caount tu 'em 'n 

 the parin's o' the' nails! They'd be 'shamed tu be seen a 

 speakin' tu us 'mongst their toppin' folks t' hum! It's 

 her 'at I'm worried 'bout! You jist give her a kinder 

 p'misc'ous hint, Polly." 



Feeling that he had performed his duty with great tact 

 and delicacy, the old man knocked the ashes from his 

 pipe and went straggling off to some pottering task. 

 Polly ran indoors lest, if he looked back, he should see 

 her crying. 



A mile away in a wild gorge, where a mountain brook 

 poured its shattered current over a ledge into a pool 

 whose checkered wavelets tossed the rafts of foam bells 

 to wreckage on the stony margin and in the swift rapids, 

 and wrinkled into fantastic crookedness the reflections of 

 birch and balsam and mossy rock. Walter White sat 

 painting. He was in bad humor, vexed with himself for 

 thinking so often of Polly. He was troubled with the 

 revelation lately come to him, that the poor girl loved 

 him. But why should he be so constantly thinking that 

 she was good and handsome, and how would he miss her 

 when he went away? Why should he be very sad with 

 the thought of her wasting her life and goodness and 

 beauty on the besotted old father, or at best, on a clod- 

 dish husband? Could it be that at the suggestion of this 

 possibility a flame of jealousy burned his heart? Then 

 came a, vague wish for impossible things, that he were 

 only a hunter or a hill farmer as poor and humble as any 

 of her kind, with tier to keep his cabin or be mistress of 

 his little farmhouse. Why not quite forsake the world 

 he cared so little for? His pictures might go to it and 

 win fame for him, while he stayed here. Why not build 

 an artist's ideal home in the midst of the woods and 

 mountains that had been waiting for centuries to be put 

 on canvas — and, what? many Polly? 



A cold shiver ran through him as he contrasted her 

 uncultivated ways, her uncouth pronunciation and 

 unmodulated drawl with the high bred elegance of his 

 mother's and sisters' manners and speech. And he shud- 

 dered with disgust at the thought of drunken old Amos 

 Brown as a father-in-law. 



Then suddenly a wicked thought thrust itself upon him, 

 a thought that made him feel a horror of himself. He 

 strove to cast it from him, but it would return and hold 

 argument with all the good that was in him. No, he 

 would not be a villain, he woidd go away to-morrow out 

 of the reach of temptation. One wrench of the girl's 

 heart, another wrench of his — was it his heart, or only 

 his fancy? — and then after a few weeks' or months' ache 

 it would all be over, the heart-wounds healed and both 

 be safe and whole, and if with sad, yet with not unpleas- 

 ant memories of one another. But how could he have 

 pleasant memories of her, and she dragging out a sunless 

 life with a be:otted father, or a clod of a husband? Was 

 not any life better for her than either of these? No; to 

 bear through all her days her heavy burdens and live a 

 good and honorable life where her humble lot was cast, 

 was better a thousand times than — . He shuddered at the 

 thought of what she might become if this devil conquered 

 him. He would go to-morrow; and with tliis resolve his 

 heart grew lighter, and he hastened to finish his sketch of 

 the waterfalls. "If I could paint those foam bells as they 

 are," he said, "every one with the picture it floats, and 

 not have to content myself with the thin half circle and 

 dot of white that stand for bubbles, then I might call my- 

 self a painter! Sail to me, little bubble, and let me try." 

 When as if obeying his call one drifted toward him, a 

 sudden foolish fancy took him to let its fate decide his 

 action. If it came safely to shore, he would stay a fort- 

 night longer, if it burst before it readied the shore he 

 would go at once. He watched it intently as it danced 

 over the translucent crinkles of the pool, then joined itself 

 to a dancing mate, and the pair came whirling in an eddy 

 into harbor, touched the pebbled shore at his feet and 

 burst in one sparkle. Alas for poor Polly ! 



He staid till the maples along the riverside were blood 

 red, and the shivering poplars shone like flickering flames 

 of yellow light among the dark balsams. Then one day 

 he packed his trunk and went away. If at dusk the next 

 evening Polly was at a certain evergreen tree that stood 

 beside the road, so different from all the other evergreens 

 that they had often noticed it, she would see a light 

 wagon driven there. If the driver alighted, plucked a 

 sprig of this tree and gave it to her, she might know he 

 had come to take her to the little lake-port where her lover 

 was waiting. 



After fidgeting about uneasily all the morning of that 

 fateful day Amos Brown "kinder guessed he'd go a- 

 huntin' for a leetle spell," and taking down his gun and 

 waking the old deaf hound wandered off into the woods. 



His daughter knew that his hunting was almost certain 

 to take him in a roundabout way to Bell's, and that be 

 would not come home till after nightfall. She longed to 

 kiss him and bid him farewell, for she might never see 

 him again, but she dared not even say good-bye, for she 

 was choking with tears held back. So she only gave the 

 old hound a parting caress and said in a broken voice, 

 "Ta' care o' yerself, father." 



The shadows of the great western mountain wall had 

 fallen across the valley and half way up the sides of the 

 eastern range as Polly busied herself with her last house- 

 hold tasks. With more than usual care she laid the 

 linen cloth her mother had woven and set her father's 

 supper for him, preparing a favorite dish, and brewing 

 the pot of strong tea that he always craved when he came 

 home from a visit at Bell's. She had not realized till 

 now how desolate home would be for him without her. 

 How could she leave him so forlorn even for her lover's 

 sake? And an undefined dread oppressed her, as if the 

 shadows of the mountains had fallen on her heart. She 

 wondered why the shadows ran so swiftly up the moun- 

 tain sides, chasing the sunshine toward the peaks, and the 

 hours flew fast as those of one condemned to death, not 

 dragging slow as when they bring some great anticipated 

 joy. A voice that would not be stilled iterated that duty 

 must overbear love, that she must stay with her father. 

 And at last when the lingering touch of the sunset was 

 lifted from the highest peak to the clouds, a great peace 

 and rest came over her soul, for she had made her final 

 decision. By the fading light she wrote in a cramped 

 hand an ill-spelled note for the messenger to take back to 

 Walter White, telling Mm that she had even so late re- 

 pented of her foolish promise and would stay with her 

 father. She blushed with shame to think that perhaps 

 her lover would laugh at its blundering awkwardness, 

 but it comforted her to feel that he must respect her the 

 more for writing it. 



She had put on a dress of light-colored stuff that he 

 had praised, and when mountains and woods and clear- 

 ings were blurred together in the dark, she went out to 

 the appointed place. The river sent up its constant mur- 

 mur of many voices, changing their cadence with every 

 waft of the light breeze, yet monotonous, and always 

 sad as the sighs and mysterious ' whispers of the dark 

 forests. The crickets creaked with mournful monotony 

 their autumnal chant, and the night air was scented with 

 the odor of late blossoms and withering herbs and dead 

 leaves as she stood waiting in the black shadow of the 

 gnarled and scraggy evergreen. The tree seemed to in- 

 fuse a grave-like chill into the atmosphere beneath and 

 about it that made her shiver, and cower and hug herself 

 for warmth. 



Amos Brown had an uncommonly jolly afternoon at 

 the tavern with half a dozen boon companions, who gen* 

 erously gave their time to the drinking of the old Med- 

 ford rum that he paid for; and when toward nightfall he 

 got upon his unstable legs and went tacking along the 

 road, the landlord watching him and critically and pro- 

 fessionally considering his case, doubted whether such 

 legs would of themselves be able to take their owner 

 home. Just then a stout, good-natured looking young 

 man came sauntering past. "Look a here, Hi," said 

 Bell, accosting him, " F you're a goin' up the rud, why 

 don't ye kinder keep Uncle Amos comp'ny? Seems 's 

 'ough lie's a makin' consid'able rail f ence .fur tu git hum 

 by airly bedtime." 



After a moment's consideration Hiram Hall saw an op* 

 portunity of doing Polly a friendly service, and the cer- 

 tainty of a few minutes' speech with her that he had long 

 been wishing for, and he answered with a cheerful alac- 

 rity, "Wal, I snum! I d' know/ but what I will 1" The 

 plump little publican felt his conscience at ease when he 

 saw the strong young fellow hook his arm into the limp 

 elbow of the elder, and the pair disappeared in the bend 

 of the road. 



Amos was a light weight notwithstanding the load he 

 carried, and Hiram towed him steadily along in spite of 

 the unsteady movement of his legs, and the surge of his 

 body. He humored him with assent to his maudlin gab- 

 ble, and when he halted, balancing himself for a pro- 

 longed drunken argument, he was coaxed onward by 

 telling him that his daughter "'ould be a waitin' up for 

 him, an' a gettin' oneasy 'baout him." 



So they fared homeward till they came to the turn of 

 the road below the old man's house, when it had grown 

 so dark that the drab tracks of infrequent wheels were 

 indistinct before them, and were quite blotted out where 

 the shadows of the wayside trees fell thickest. 



Hiram stopped suddenly, clutching his companion's 

 arm, and pom ting to a dim" whiteness that slowly uprose 

 in the shadow of an evergreen, gasped in a scared 

 whisper, "What's that?" 



"By the Lord, it's a sperit, Hiruni, er less a witch!" the 

 old man said in a low voice when the mysterious form 

 became apparent to his foggy vision. "Le' go my arm 'n' 

 I'll show ye 'at a bullit 'ont hurt it!" 



The words were hardly spoken before the rifle was at 

 his shoulder and spit forth its slender stream of fire 

 toward the ghostly figure, and so quickly following its 

 spiteful crack that it seemed a prolongation of it, came a 

 sharp cry of mortal agony, and the white shape sank to 

 the earth. The two men stood blankly staring toward 

 each other through the gloaming in the sudden silence 

 that ensued, when the frightened crickets ceased their 

 melancholy creak, and the night wind held it breath, and 

 no sound was heard but the far away sighing rush of the 

 river. Then the full "hunter's moon" came pulsing up 

 behind the mountain crest and slanted its rays upon them. 

 The old man went forward into the shadows with an un- 

 defined horror upon him, and when presently the younger 

 came to him he was kneeling on the ground with the life- 

 less body of his daughter in his arms. "She was a wait- 

 in' for me, Hi," was all he said. A little later Hiram was 

 half aware of some one parting the branches and of a 

 face looking at them for an instant blank with wonder, 

 then as white with horror as he knew his own must be, 

 and then vanishing. He afterward remembered some 

 dim recognition of the sound of wheels clattering away 

 along the road. 



"Jest help me kerry the little gal up t ! the house," the 

 old man said at last, very calmly, and spoke no more till 

 they had laid her on her bed and he had lighted a candle 

 with a steady hand. "I got one more favor to ask on ye, 

 my boy. Go daown an' ask some o' the women folks t' 

 come up soon 'a they kin, er in the rnornin' 's jest as well." 

 Then with the innate hospitality of a mountaineer, "Hev 



