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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.




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

ends warm.

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

the Rhine.

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

harvest grew.

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

and sad?”

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

the sea.


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

old !”

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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.

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