Part 89

ROBERT BURNS WILSON was born in Washington County, Pennsylvania, but removed early to Frankfort, Kentucky, where he devoted himself to landscape painting. Some of his pictures attracted attention at the New Orleans Exposition, 1884. His poems have appeared in magazines and have been much admired for their musical flow of deep feeling and fancy.

WORKS.

Life And Love: Poems.

FAIR DAUGHTER OF THE SUN.

(From Life and Love.)

Hail! daughter of the sun! White-robed and fair to see, where goest thou now In haste from thy spiced garden? Hath thy brow, Crowned with white blooms, begun To grow a-weary of its flagrant wreath, And do thy temples long to ache beneath A gilded, iron crown? Tak'st thou the glint of Mammon's glittering car To be the gleam of some new-risen star-- Yond clamor, for renown?

Stay, lovely one, oh stay! Within thy gates, love-garlanded, remain: For love this Mammon seeks not, but for gain-- He is the same alway. This god in burnished tinsel, as of old, Cares for no music save of clinking gold-- All else to him is vain: His heart is flint, his ears are dull as lead; A crown of care he bringeth for thy head, And for thy wrists a chain.

Bide thou, oh goddess, stay! Even in the gateway turn! The orange tree Keeps still her snowy wreath of love for thee; The jasmine's starry spray Still waves thee back: O South! thy glory lies In thine own sacred fields. There shall arise Thy day, which fadeth not: There--patient hands shall fill thy cup with wine, There--hearts devoted, make thy name divine, Their own hard fate forgot.

DEDICATION.--SONNET.

TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER.

The green Virginian hills were blithe in May, And we were plucking violets--thou and I. A transient gladness flooded earth and sky; Thy fading strength seemed to return that day, And I was mad with hope that God would stay Death's pale approach--Oh! all hath long passed by! Long years! long years! and now, I well know why Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away. First loved; first lost; my mother: time must still Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best In me and in my art is thine:--Me-seems Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill, My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams, I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest.

FOOTNOTE:

By permission of the author, and publishers, the Cassell Publishing Co., N. Y.

"CHRISTIAN REID."

FRANCES C. TIERNAN.

MRS. TIERNAN has written many novels of Southern life. She is a daughter of Colonel Charles F. Fisher of Salisbury, North Carolina, who was killed in the battle of Manassas. Her best known book, "The Land of the Sky," describes a summer tour through the grand mountains of her native State, taken before the railroads had penetrated them.

WORKS.

Valerie Aylmer. Mabel Lee. Nina's Atonement. Carmen's Inheritance. Hearts and Hands. Land of the Sky. Heart of Steel. Summer Idyl. Roslyn's Fortune. Morton House. Ebb Tide. Daughter of Bohemia. A Gentle Belle. A Question of Honor. After Many Days. Bonny Kate. Armine. Miss Churchill. Land of the Sun (1895).

ASCENT OF MOUNT MITCHELL, BLACK MOUNTAIN, NORTH CAROLINA.

(From The Land of the Sky.)

The sun is shining brightly, and his golden lances light up the depths of the forest into which we enter--an enchanted world of far-reaching greenness, the stillness of which is only broken by the voice of the streams which come down the gorges of the mountain in leaping cascades. Few things are more picturesque than the appearance of a cavalcade like ours following in single file the winding path (not road) that leads into the marvelous, mysterious wilderness. When the ascent fairly begins, the path is often like the letter S, and one commands a view of the entire line--of horsemen in slouched hats and gray coats, of ladies in a variety of attire, with water-proof cloaks serving as riding-skirts, and hats garlanded with forest wreaths and grasses. The guide tramps steadily ahead, leading the pack-horse, and we catch a glimpse of his face now and then as he turns to answer some question addressed to him. . . . . . . .

"We wind up the side of the mountain like this for several miles," says Eric, "then we travel along a ridge for some distance, and finally we ascend the peak formerly called the Black Dome, now Mount Mitchell. The whole distance is about twelve miles, and the most of it is steady climbing." . . . . . .

"And it was in this wilderness that Professor Mitchell lost his life sixteen or seventeen years ago, was it not?" I ask.

"Yes, Burnett [the guide] was one of the men engaged in the search for him. He will tell you all about it. . ."

The forest around us becomes wilder, greener, more luxuriant at every step. . . . Presently, however, the aspect of our surroundings changes. We leave this varied forest behind, and enter the region of the balsam, from the dark color of which the mountain takes its name. Above a certain line of elevation no trees are found save these beautiful yet sombre firs. They grow to an immense height and stand so thickly together that one marvels how any animal larger than a cat can thread its way among their stems. Overhead the boughs interlock in a canopy, making perpetual shade beneath. No shrubs of any kind are to be found here--only beds of thick elastic moss, richer than the richest velvet, and ferns in plumy profusion. . . . Dan Burnett leads on, and presently we emerge on the largest and most beautiful of the little prairies through which we have passed. This stretch of open ground lies at the foot of the highest peak, the abrupt sides of which rise in conical shape before us. It is here, Mr. Burnett tells us, that the mountaineers who were searching for Professor Mitchell found the first trace of the way he had taken.

"We had been searchin' from Friday to Tuesday," he says, "and on Tuesday we was pretty nigh disheartened, when Wilson--an old hunter from over in Yancey--said he hadn't no doubt the professor had tried to go down to Caney Valley by a trail they two had followed thirteen years afore, and which leads that way"--he points down into the dark wilds below us. "Well, we looked along the edge of this here prairie till we found a track. Wilson was right--he had tried to go down to Caney Valley. We follered his trail fur about four mile, and I was one of them what found him at last."

"He had lost his way," says Eric. "I have seen the spot--they call it Mitchell's Falls now--where he died. A stream of considerable size plunges over a precipice of about forty feet into a basin fourteen feet deep by as many wide. Into this he fell, probably at night."

"But how was it possible to bring a dead body up these steeps?" Sylvia says, addressing Mr. Burnett.