Part 93

There was no ear Or far or near, Save one small sparrow of the wood, That song to hear. This, in a bosky tree, Heard all, and understood As much as a small sparrow could By sympathy. 'Twas a fair sight That morn of Spring, When on the lonely height, The spirit paused to sing, Then through the air took flight Still lilting on the wing. And the shy bird, Who all had heard, Straightway began To practice o'er the lovely strain; Again, again; Though indistinct and blurred, He tried each word, Until he caught the last far sounds that fell Like the faint tinkles of a fairy bell.

Now when I hear that song, Which has no earthly tone, My soul is carried with the strain along To the everlasting Throne; To bow in thankfulness and prayer, And gain fresh faith, and love, and patience, there.

FOOTNOTE:

By permission of the author, and publishers. G. P. Putnam's Sons, N. Y.

AMÉLIE RIVES CHANLER.

~1863=----.~

MRS. CHANLER, or AMÉLIE RIVES as she still styles herself in writing, was born in Richmond, Virginia, but passed her early life at the family place in Albemarle County, called "Castle Hill." She is a granddaughter of William Cabell Rives, once minister to France and author of "Life of Madison"; and her grandmother, Mrs. Judith Walker Rives, was a woman of much ability, and left some writings entitled "Home and the World," and "Residence in Europe."

She was married in 1888 to Mr. John Armstrong Chanler of New York and has since spent much time in Paris, studying painting for which she has as great fondness as for writing.

Her first stories were written in the style of the time of Shakspere; the best of them is "Farrier Lass o' Piping Pebworth." They created a sensation as they came out and were said to be the work of a girl under twenty. She has also written stories of Virginia life and of modern times; besides poems, and dramas, in which last her talents seem to reach a higher plane than in any other kind of writing.

WORKS.

A Brother to Dragons. Farrier Lass o' Piping Pebworth. Virginia of Virginia. The Quick or the Dead? According to St. John. Athelwold, [drama]. Barbara Dering, [sequel to The Quick or the Dead?] Nurse Crumpet Tells the Story. Story of Arnon. Inja. Witness of the Sun. Herod and Mariamne, [drama]. Poems, [scattered in magazines]. Tanis, the Sang-Digger.

TANIS.

(From Tanis, the Sang-Digger.)

Gilman was driving along one of the well-kept turnpikes that wind about the Warm Springs Valley. He recognized the austere and solemn beauty that hemmed him in from the far-off outer world; but at the same time he was contrasting it with the sea-coast of his native State, Massachusetts, and a certain creeping homesickness began to rise about his heart.

In addition to this, he had left his delicate wife suffering with an acute neuralgic headache, and also saddened by a yearning for the picturesque old farm-house in which he had been born, and where they had lived during the first year of marriage. The trap which Gilman drove was filled with surveying instruments, and, as he turned into the rough mountain road, which led towards the site of the new railway for which he was now prospecting, the smaller ones began to rattle together and slide from the seat beside him. Finally, as the cart slipped against a stone, the level bounced into a puddle. He was about to jump out when a bold, ringing voice called to him:

"Set still--A'll pick hit up."

Then a figure slid down the rocky bank at his right, her one garment wrinkling from her bare, sturdy legs during the performance.

Gilman had never seen anything like her in his thirty years of varied experience.

She was very tall. A curtain of rough, glittering curls hung to her knees. Her face, clear with that clearness which only a mountain wind can bring, was white as a seagull's breast, except where a dark, yet vivid pink melted into the blue veins on her temples and throat. Her round, fresh lips, smooth as a peony-leaf, were parted in a wide laugh, over teeth large and yellow-white, like the grains on an ear of corn. She wore a loose tunic of blue-gray stuff, which reached to the middle of her legs, covered with grass stains and patches of mould. Her bare feet, somewhat broadened by walking, were well-shaped, the great toe standing apart from the others, the strong, round ankles, although scratched and bruised, perfectly symmetrical. Her arms, bare almost to the shoulder, were like those with which in imagination we complete the Milo. Eyes, round and colored like the edges of broken glass, looked out boldly from under her long black eyebrows. Her nose was straight and well cut, but set impertinently.

As she picked up the muddy level she laughed boisterously and wiped it on her frock.

"Thank you," said Gilman, and then, after a second's hesitation, added: "Where are you going? Perhaps I can give you a lift on your way? Will you get in?"

"Well, a done keer ef a do," she said, still staring at him.

She got in and took the level on her knee, then burst out laughing again--

"A reckon yuh wonders what a'm a haw-hawin' at?" she asked, suddenly. "Well, a'll tell yuh! 'Tiz case a feels jess like this hyuh contrapshun o' yourn. A haint hed a bite sence five this mawnin', and a've got a bubble in th' middle o' me, a ken tell yuh!"

She opened her flexible mouth almost to her ears, showing both rows of speckless teeth, and roaring mirthfully again.

"I've got some sandwiches, here--won't you have one?" said Gilman.

"Dunno--what be they?" she asked, rather suspiciously, eyeing him sidewise.

He explained to her, and she accepted one, tearing from it a huge semi-circle, which she held in her cheek while exclaiming: