Part 3

My native land, henceforth no longer mine, My footsteps, seeking an adopted shrine, Have found a home, within the mountain West, Where Truth may preach her gospel unsuppressed."

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All eyes were now on Russian Pete, Who quietly resumed his seat.

At the conclusion of his tale The wind had risen to a gale, And mourned as though in sympathy With human woe and misery. Or as the winds, for some offence To man, or his creations done, Now wailed a frenzied penitence In anguish-laden orison. The elements petitioning The pardon of their stormy king, E'en as the supplicating cries Might from the damned in torment rise, And cleave the palpitating air With hopeless accents of despair.

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As Uncle Jim stirred up the fire With observation taciturn, All watched the crackling hemlock burn Till some one called for Dad McGuire.

IV. A SEQUEL OF THE LOST CAUSE

Now, Dad McGuire was old, and bent of form, Tanned by exposure to the sun and storm; Of grizzled beard and seam-indented brow, The furrows traced by Time's remorseless plough; Hardy and gnarlèd as the mountain oak, Bent by the hand of Time but still unbroke; Bowed by the weight of years and labors done, A man whose course had neared the setting sun; His face a blending of the calm and sad, Paternal-looking, so they called him "Dad."

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This man, so near his journey's close, With great deliberation rose, Coughed once or twice and scratched his nose; Then, as became a veteran, Surveyed his hearers and began; "Since Uncle Jim and Russian Pete Declared the reasons why their feet This rugged wilderness have trod, And left for aye their native sod, I, too, will recapitulate That chapter, from my book of fate.

Where Rappahannock's silver stream Reflects the moon's resplendent beam, And sheds a mellow lustre o'er The trees and shrubs that fringe the shore; Where Nature's lavish hand bestows The crystal dews and generous showers; Where lily, hollyhock and rose, And many-tinted herbs and flowers Combining, form a floral scene On background of eternal green; Where through the solemn night is heard The warbling plaint of feathered throats, As whippoorwill and mockingbird Pour forth their wealth of liquid notes, [Blank Page] While the accompanying breeze Sighs through the underbrush and trees, And rippling waters blend their tune, In salutation to the moon; Where singing insects, bugs and bees Mingle their droning harmonies, With croakings of loquacious frogs In the adjacent swamps and bogs; Where from the water, air and ground, Rises a symphony of sound; Mid nature's fond environment, My boyhood's happy hours were spent.

But now, my narrative begins: I had a brother, we were twins, Sunburnt and freckled, light of heart, Resembling each other so That few could tell the two apart. We grew, as two twin pines might grow, Upon the isolated edge Of some lone precipice or ledge, That overlooks the vale below; Remote from every wooded strip, With but each other's fellowship, In solitary station placed, With branches locked and interlaced, As sworn to cherish and defend Each other, to the bitter end.

The course of uneventful life Ran smoothly on, unmarred by strife, Till childish fancy disappeared, As manhood's sterner age was neared; Then in a city's bustling mart, The cords of fate drew us apart, Through paths of accident and chance, Environment and circumstance; Within their complicated maze, We reached that parting of the ways, Where sentiment is nipped by frost, Where ties of consanguinity Disrupt, and often disagree, Or, through indifference are lost.

We happened that eventful spring, To hold a family gathering, To reunite each severed tie So soon to be dissolved for aye.

As famines, with their blight respond, When some vile genius waves his wand, And leave a ghastly aftermath Of bleaching bones to mark their path; Or demon hands, in foul offence, Pour out the vials of pestilence, To reap, with desolating breath, A harvest of untimely death; The throes of internecine war Now rent the nation to its core, And smote, with decimating hand The best and bravest of the land, Estranging, never to amend, Father from son and friend from friend; Dissolving many sacred cords Of love in bitterest enmity. Lips once replete with friendly words Now challenged as an enemy; We, who had never quarrelled before, Parted in wrath, and met no more.

His firm convictions led him where A banner floated in the air, In silken corrugations curled, The admiration of a world; Beneath its constellated stars, Its azure field and crimson bars, Although no message ever came To tell his fate, or spread his fame, I know that 'mid the shot and shell He served the cause he fought for, well. For aught I know, his manly form Went down before some leaden storm, And lay with mangled flesh and bone Among the numberless unknown, Who filled the trenches where they died, Uncoffined, unidentified.

The voice of duty led me where The strains of Dixie filled the air, Where curling smoke in graceful rings Rose on the evening's silent wings, And hovering o'er the mist and damp, Betrayed the presence of the camp. I pass the story of the war,-- The cause we lost, but struggled for Through four long years, in southern fens,-- To wiser tongues and abler pens. Through four long years of tragedy, I fought, bled, marched and starved with Lee, Till Appomattox's final day, I, in a uniform of gray, Before the cannon's yawning mouth, Defended my beloved South.

The struggle ending, in complete, Although most honorable defeat, Footsore and hungry, broken, sad, In ragged regimentals clad, Towards Rappahannock's silver flood, I plodded homeward through the mud, To find a desolated home, The final page in war's red tome.

That day, as I remember well, The splashing rain in torrents fell; The pregnant clouds discharged their debt Of moist, apologetic tears, As if in passionate regret For rain withheld in famine years, And from exuberance of grief In drizzling penance found relief; Or, as if tears from unseen eyes Were wafted downward from the skies, In tardy expiation for The carnage of remorseless war: The sorrow of the elements For human woe and violence. The roads which thread the country lanes, Had turned to sheets of liquid mud, As if to cover up the stains Of civil war and human blood.

That evening, as a pall of cloud Enveloped nature as a shroud, Bedraggled and dispirited, My footsteps to the old home led: Again I stood before the door I left in wrath, four years before: But what a change! The vandal torch Had long devoured the roof and porch: The gray disintegrating walls Still swayed and tottered in the air, Or lay in heaps within its halls, In melancholy ruin there: The towering chimney, black and tall, Stood, as if mourning o'er its fall: And through the dismal mist and rain, The windows, void of sash and pane, Seemed staring at the gathering night, In wild expression of affright. The fields my infancy had known, With briar and weed were overgrown; The sunlight, heralding the morn, No longer smiled on waving corn.

I wandered, aimlessly around, Yet heard not one familiar sound, No stamp of hoof nor flap of wing, No low of cow, nor bleat of sheep, Nor any tame domestic thing; Silence, most horrible and deep. No pony whinnied in its stall, Nor neighed in answer to my call; No purr of cat, nor bark of dog, Naught but the croaking of the frog; No voice of relative or kin, No father paused and stroked his chin, Then rushed with recognizing grasp To hold his son within his clasp; No mother, with her silvered hair, Rocked in the same old rocking chair.

First at the ruins, then the ground, I gazed in turn, mechanically, Till, startled by a mournful sound, A piteous and plaintive cry, I turned, and peering through the storm, Discerned the outlines of a form, Bewailing o'er the ruins there In accents of complete despair. I knew her voice, and felt her woe, She was my nurse, poor Aunty Chloe! Between her sobs disconsolate, This freed, but ever faithful slave, Told of my agèd parents' fate, Then led me to the double grave.

I, who through four long tragic years, Had never yielded once to tears, Clasping her hand, so kind and true, Wept with the rain, and she wept too.

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Ere daybreak, with increasing light, Evolved from disappearing night The morn, in radiant splendor dressed, I, too, had started for the West."

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Ere the conclusion of the narrative, Through every crack and cranny of the door The snow had sifted in, as through a sieve, And piled in little cones upon the floor. Without, the raging tempest still assailed; Within, the fire to glowing coals had failed. All smoked, and with their eyes on Dad McGuire, Waited for some one else to build the fire. Such close attention had his tale received, It seemed as if 'twas partially believed; Few of the tales which we enjoy the most In verity, may that distinction boast.

The dying embers shed their mellow glow Upon the agèd face of Dad McGuire, As he swept out the little piles of snow And laid a hemlock log upon the fire. Then followed disconnected colloquies And witticisms in the form of jest; The joke is always where the miner is, The form of levity he loves the best, For cutting truths have thereby been conveyed, Where delicacy all other forms forbade.

As some fierce gale that bows the gnarlèd oak, Sinks till it scarcely sways the underbrush, The laughter, incident to jest and joke, Subsided to a calm and tranquil hush. All husbanded their energy and strength And smoked in silence for a moment's length.

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V. THE AVALANCHE

Just then a crashing sound was heard, That caused each ruddy cheek to blanch, Though no one moved nor spoke a word, All listening to the avalanche With apprehensive ears intent, Knew what a mountain snowslide meant. Nor marvel that each visage paled, Nor that the hardy sinews quailed; These terrors of the solitude The mountain's timbered slopes denude, Sweeping the frozen spruce and fir As with a snowy scimitar; Nor can the stately pines prevent Its irresistible descent; A foe admitting no defence. A moment passed in dire suspense, And at its expiration brief, Each heaved a breath of deep relief; The snowslide, terrible and vast, Had precipice and chasm leapt, And down the rugged mountains swept, Missing the cabin as it passed.

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The cabin clock had indicated five When due composure was at length restored; As evidence that all were still alive, Queries were made about the "festive board," As sailors shipwrecked on some barren rock, After the first excitement of the shock, Mingle their words of gratitude and prayer With speculations on the bill of fare. No depth of danger man is called to face, No exultation nor extreme disgrace, No victory nor depression of defeat Can shake recurrent Hunger from her seat.

The cabin oracle so often used, A pack of playing cards, was soon produced. A turn at whist the afternoon before, Told who should cut the wood and sweep the floor. As one of the disasters of defeat, Washing the dishes fell to Russian Pete. A game of freeze-out, played with equal zeal, Decided who should cook the evening meal; Conspiring cards electing Uncle Jim, The culinary task devolved on him.

Accordingly, with acquiescent nod, Abiding by the fortunes of the game, This patriarch, so venerable and odd,-- Whose skill in cooking was of local fame, Knocked out the ashes from his meerschaum pipe And laid it tenderly upon the shelf, Took a preliminary wash and wipe, And squinting in the mirror at himself, Like most of those possessed of little hair, Brushed what he still had left with greatest care. Small use for comb or brush had Uncle Jim, His capillary wealth, a grayish rim Or hirsute chaplet, as it had been called By other miners less completely bald, Fringing his head an inch above the ears, Marked off his shining pate in hemispheres. His flowing beard, of venerable air, Enjoyed a strict monopoly in hair, As if the raven curls that once adorned His occiput, that habitation scorned And took, as an expression of chagrin, A change of venue to his ample chin.

When Uncle Jim was duly washed and groomed, The running conversation was resumed, And as the veteran his task pursued, Mixing the biscuit dough with judgment good, All smoked and talked, excepting Dad McGuire, Who, helping Uncle Jim, stirred up the fire, Raking the embers in a little pile, Then warmed the old Dutch oven up a while, And after greasing with a bacon rind, The biscuit dough was to its depths consigned.

Soon from within the oven, partly hid By embers piled upon the cumbrous lid, The baking powder biscuits nestling there With wholesome exhalations charged the air. A pot of beans suspended by a wire Swung like a pendulum above the fire, And answered every flame's combustive kiss With roundelay of bubble and of hiss, While in the esculent commotion swam The residue of what was once a ham. Though epicures, who yearn for fowl and fish, May scorn this plain and inexpensive dish, So free from the extravagance of waste, Yet succulent and pleasant to the taste, Of all the varied products of the soil, The bean is most esteemed by those who toil. Removed, in place less prominent and hot, One might have seen the old black coffee pot, And watched the puffs of aromatic steam Rise on the background of the firelight's gleam. A pleasant sibilation filled the room, As with an unctuous savor or perfume The bacon sizzled in the frying-pan, The bane and terror of dyspeptic man; But those who labor for their daily bread Of sedentary ills have little dread.

The simple yet salubrious repast Was on the rustic table spread at last. No cut-glass flashed and sparkled in the light, Nor burnished silver service met the sight. No butter dish, nor sugar bowl was seen, The grains of sugar, white and saccharine, Imprisoned in a baking powder can, Rose in a wilderness of pot and pan. The butter firkin stood upon a shelf Where every one could reach and help himself. The nibbling rodent and destructive moth Found naught to lure them in the shape of cloth. No tablespread of costly linen lent Its white disguise or figured ornament To catch the bacon or the coffee stain. Nor was there cup or plate of porcelain, For empty cans, stripped of their labels, bare, And pie tins held the same positions there.

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All congregated 'round the simple spread And ate the beans and baking powder bread, [Blank Page] With all the satisfaction and delight That crown the hungry miner's appetite; Not gluttony, that enemy to health, That often follows in the trail of wealth, But wholesome relish, which the laboring poor Enjoy, who eat their fill, but eat no more.

The final course was ushered in at last, When apple sauce around the board was passed; As Uncle Jim stretched forth his hand across The table to the dish of apple-sauce, And on his ample pie tin placed some more, A hurried knock resounded from the door, And Steve McCoy, a miner in the camp, With brow from snow and perspiration damp, Rushed in, from out the white and whirling waste, In the excitement incident to haste, And waiving further ceremony cried:-- "Our cabin has been taken by a slide!"

Steve as a snowy Santa Claus appeared, Pulling the icicles from off his beard, Relating, in his intervals of breath, His tale of dire disaster and of death; He, and his partner "Smithy," were on shift Within the tunnel working in a drift, Chasing a stringer in their search for ore, Within the hill a thousand feet or more. The rock was hard and both of them were tired, The holes were blasted as the work required; Then to their consternation and surprise, Upon emerging from the tunnel's mouth, No hospitable cabin met their eyes Upon the hillside, sloping toward the south; The hut of logs where they had cooked and slept Had been from human eyes forever swept. Their partners, it were reason to presume, Were suffocating in a snowy tomb.

"Smithy" had gone to Uncle Bobby Green, Whose cabin lay the nearest to the scene, To summon help, and get the boys to go To probe with poles and shovels in the snow, To find the living, or if life had sped, To make the avalanche yield up its dead. Of partners, Steve and Smithy had but two, "Daddy" McLaughlin and young Dick McGrew, Uncle and nephew, patriarch and youth, Both men of strict integrity and truth. Four other miners on another lease Dwelt with the boys in harmony and peace. Two strangers, who arrived the night before, Had been invited, till the storm was o'er, To share their hospitality. Their fate Had raised the list of dead, perhaps, to eight.

Ere Steve had panted forth his final word, The boys had risen up with one accord; The rescue must be tried at any cost, The chance, however slight, must not be lost.

Steve as a runner who has reached his goal, Leaned half exhausted on his snowshoe pole, The while his sturdy auditors began To don their caps and mittens, to a man, Then wrapping mufflers 'round their ears and throats, Put on their clumsy, canvas overcoats. Thanks to the providence of Dad McGuire, Who always kept a stock of baling wire And odds and ends of everything around, Their feet were quickly and securely bound With canvas ore sacks or with gunny-sacks, A thing the miner's wardrobe seldom lacks.

VI. THE RESCUE

Forth to the rescue went the miners bold, Regardless of the tempest wild and brisk, Regardless of the driving snow and cold, Regardless of the hazard and the risk; Facing with stalwart resolution brave The snowy fate of those they strove to save.

One form of courage nerves the soldier's arm, Excitement overcomes the wild alarm Which at the onset e'en the bravest feel, Though self-possession may that fear conceal. The unromantic dangers of the storm Require another and a sterner form, For no emotion nerves the craven breast To tempt the snowslide on the mountain's crest; That noblest element unnoticed thrives Beneath the surface in unnumbered lives; At danger's call the sympathetic bond Leaps to the surface, as the waves respond When one has tossed a pebble in a pond; For man has ever since the world began Laid down his life to save his fellow-man; Heroes are they, no praise commensurate, Who do their duty in the face of fate.

Through gloomy forests, intricate and dark, Which skirt the confines of the mountain park, With arduous climb and hazardous ascent Up through the gulch precipitous and wild To where the avalanche its force had spent, In silent haste the rescue party filed.

On such occasions little may be said, The sternest use subdued and whispered breath, For silence seems contagious from the dead, A vague, unconscious reverence for death. Facing the inconvenience of the blast, Which whirled the drifting snowflakes as it passed, The party shovelled; and with one accord Abstained from converse, no one spoke a word Till hours of strenuous search disclosed to sight Six corpses from their sepulchre of white. The other two, who by some wondrous means, Escaped with but some trifling cuts and sprains, Were in the meantime by their fellows found, Dazed and exhausted in the gulch below, For storm-bewildered men will grope around Describing circles in the blinding snow, Until they sink, their vital forces spent, And crystal snowflakes weave their cerement.

Six pairs of skies,[1] each improvised a sled, On which were placed the stark and staring dead; As flickering lanterns flashed a ghostly glow Upon them in their winding-sheets of snow, The sad procession now retraced its course Back through the dismal forest, while the blast Wailed forth a requiem in accents hoarse, Which shuddering pines re-echoed as it passed.

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With sorely overtaxed and waning strength, As some spent swimmer struggling to the shore, The weary party found its way at length, Back through the forest to the cabin's door. As Uncle Jim, whose life was ever spent In ministering to others, had been sent Ahead, the dying coals had been renewed With fresh supplies of pine and aspen wood, And blazed a cheery invitation forth To those who sought the comfort of the hearth.

[1] Norwegian snowshoes.

The two survivors were the strangers who Had just arrived the afternoon before; Their names nor antecedents no one knew, But western miners do not close the door On weary travellers, whosoe'er they be, No matter what their race or pedigree; The one credential needed in the west Is--human being, storm-bound and distressed. The rescued miners, much benumbed and chilled, To show some signs of conscious life began; So Dad McGuire, in therapeutics skilled To cure the maladies of beast or man, Pursuant of his self-appointed task, From out some secret depths produced a flask, Which to the rescued miners he applied As guaranteed to warm them up inside. By way of chance digression, should you ask The nature of the liquid in the flask, Which, evidently, the boys had used before, We must admit, the empty bottle bore, Like most of bottles used in mining camps, The revenue collector's excise stamps.