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that something great had happened, and that he had a share in it.
14. It was glory enough for one day, and the next duty on hand was to repair the damages of their long fasting. Two Arrows and his dog walked proudly at the side of Long Bear as he led the way back to camp. No longer a nameless boy he was still only in his apprenticeship; he was not yet a warrior, although almost to be counted a “ brave.” It would yet be a long time before he could be permitted to go upon any war-path; he might, however, be assured of a good pony when there should be hunting to be done.
There were fires burning before several lodges when the news came in, and it was not long before there was a grand feast. Starvation had been defeated and all that happiness had been earned by Two Arrows.
W. 0. STODDARD.
XVIII. — COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION.
The beaver cut his timber with patient teeth that day, The minks were fish-wards, and the crows surveyors of
highway. When Keezar sat on the hillside upon his cobbler's
form, With a pan of coals on either hand to keep his waxed
And there, in the golden weather, he stitched and ham
mered and sung; In the brook he moistened his leather, in the pewter
mug his tongue. Well knew the tough old Teuton who brewed the stout
est ale, And he paid the good wife's reckoning in the coin of
song and tale. The songs they still are singing who dress the hills of
vine — The tales that haunt the Brocken and whisper down
Woodsy and wild and lonesome, the swift stream wound
away, Through birches and scarlet maples flashing in foam
and spray Down on the sharp-horned ledges plunging in steep
cascade, Tossing its white-maned waters against the hemlock's
Woodsy and wild and lonesome, east and west and
north and south; Only the village of fishers down at the river's mouth; Only here and there a clearing, with its farmhouse rude
and new, And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, where the scanty
No shout of home-bound reapers, no vintage song he
heard, And on the green no dancing feet the merry violin
stirred. “Why should folk be glum,” said Keezar, “when Nature
herself is glad, And the painted woods are laughing at the faces so sour
Small heed had the careless cobbler what sorrow of
heart was theirs Who travailed in pain with the births of God, and
planted a state with prayers — Hunting of witches and warlocks, smiting the heathen
horde — One hand on the mason's trowel, and one on the sol
dier's sword! But give him his ale and cider, give him his pipe and
song, Little he cared for church or state, or the balance of
right and wrong.
66 'Tis work, work, WORK,” he muttered — " and for rest
a snuffle of psalms !” He smote on his leathern apron with his brown and
waxen palms. “Oh for the purple harvests of the days when I was
young! For the merry grape-stained maidens and the pleasant
songs they sung!
“Oh for the breath of vineyards, of apples and nuts
and wine ! For an oar to row, and a breeze to blow, down the
grand old river Rhine!” A tear in his blue eye glistened, and dropped on his
beard so gray. “Old, old am I,” said Keezar, “and the Rhine flows far
But a cunning man was the cobbler; he could call the
birds from the trees, Charm the black snake out of the ledges, and bring
back the swarming bees. All the virtues of herbs and metals, all the lore of the
woods, he knew, And the arts of the Old World mingled with the mar
vels of the New.
Well he knew the tricks of magic — and the lapstone
on his knee Had the gift of the Mormon's Urim or the stone of
Doctor Dee. For the mighty master Agrippa wrought it with spell
and rhyme From a fragment of mystic moonstone in the tower of
Nettesheim. To a cobbler Minnesinger the marvelous stone gave
he — And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, who brought it over
He held up that mystic lapstone, he held it up like
a lens, And he counted the long years coming by twenties and
by tens. “One hundred years," quoth Keezar; “and fifty have
I told: Now open the new before me, and shut me out the
Like a cloud of mist the blackness rolled from the
magic stone, And a marvelous picture mingled the unknown and the
known. Still ran the stream to the river, and the river and
ocean joined; And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, and
cold north hills behind.
But the mighty forest was broken by many a steepled
town, By many a white-walled farmhouse, and many a garner
brown. Turning a score of mill-wheels, the stream no more ran
free; White sails on the winding river, white sails on the
far-off sea. Below in the noisy village the flags were floating gay, And shone on a thousand faces the light of a holiday.