For the Scirntist. 
The Mushroom and the Arrow. 
By Geo. C, Stealey. 
Green was the grass, the rocks were wet 
In the hollow; the morning, mild; 
In leafy arch the old oaks met, 
And the crazy crow grew crazier yet, 
'Till the gloomy traveler smiled; 
Smiled as he stopped his horse to rest. 
To nibble where the grass was best, 
And from him wandered forth in quest 
Wherewith to be beguiled. 
By chance an arrow-head he found 
Under a mushroom's haunted dome, 
An old war arrow, in the wound 
Designed to break; an ancient tome 
Of unwrit tales of war and crime, 
Its angles worn by centuries slow, 
By summer's rain, by winter's snow, 
Since when the strong arm bent the bow 
For the long flight through time. 
Mushroom, in an hour you grew 
And to-morrow will be dead; 
Ten thousand years, perhaps, the dew 
Has fallen on the arrow head. 
Old arrow, formed for deadly feuds, 
What shade around the mushroom broods 
Of hunters stealing through the woods? 
Made they the fossil humming bird 
Fly from a bloom, part of the breeze, 
Or Behemoth through Yosemite 
Dash in terror, breaking trees? 
The evil deed, 'tis truly said. 
Lives; the good with our bones is laid; 
An to that proof the arrow head 
A sermon in stone is made. 
Who gave it form, of what estate? 
Though charity knew that hand so well 
That of his bounty thousands tell, 
Yet in that soul a leaven fell, 
Slept cruelty, malice and hate. 
Sang he an Aryan song, 
That old barbaric artisan, 
Or droned he but in Nature's tongue, 
As down the edge his eye he ran, 
His sound for joy the water-fall's 
His rage expressed in wolf-like snarls, 
His threatening made with snake-like 
breath, 
The arrow head his thought for death? 
What is its date? From bordering shade 
Was silent deadly vengeance paid, 
When sweeping down the cradled glade 
Beneath the oaks of other years. 
On burganet and dancing blade. 
On crucifix, on axe and spears 
Alternate sun and shadow plays, 
When to the cornet's quivering praise, 
Come prancing on their golden bays, 
The Spanish cavaliers? 
