Central High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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 jo on. No longer I look for master's hoy, hut I look for my daughter's son. If I only could fin' him all would he well. W e could go hack. ‘Then I come to this city and see your picture outside. I see picture of your music box. Then I 'member how hoy use play for us. You seem to undcrstan I ask man ilex' me what you play. He say ‘Indian Lament.' Then my heart get full. 1 cry. Then I come see you. hat you play is v. hat 1 would lak to say. Hut 1 no can say. You make me 'member days of many moons ago. And you make me 'member when we lie free. I'm ol Indian, now. But I mus' fin' hoy. Can you an your music box help me fin' hovr I mus’ fin him. I love him lak son! The gray head sank on the heaving chest. lie wiped his eyes. “‘Mcenatah! O, Meenatah, don't you know me?’ He looked up at me in amazement. ‘Grandfather, it is I. your son. Don’t you know me? Then a smile of supreme happiness spread over his face and his eyes gleamed through the mist that covered them, lie rushed into mv open arms. An hour later the manager of the theatre came to me and asked if I were going home. Meenatah accompanied me to my hotel. “Hut our happiness was short lived. Every place that I went the old Indian went. too. Weakened by age. the strain was too much for him. I left him in a hospital in Montreal and continued my tour, fter my concert in Cincinnati, two weeks later, I received a telegram signed by Hr. I.e Rogue, saving that Meenatah was dying. ‘‘I caught the next train north. In four days I was at the bedside of my faithful friend. 1 had my violin, lie smiled as he recognized me. In a weak voice he asked me to play for him. I began to play the ‘Indian’s Lament.' ilis features brightened and he seemed to be carried along with the music. s I played a mist crept into my eyes. I could see the old man through my tears. His eyes were closed, but the sad smile was on his lips . When I finished, his face had that peacefulness that comes to those that live lives of unexampled faithfulness, and when I laid my violin aside Meenatah had found rest. No tempest could ruffle the feathers of his war bonnet. No wild cry of hatred could waken his soul with an answering call to battle. “That was two weeks ago. To-morrow, I leave for Montreal to erect a memorial to my grandfather. To him life was a fitful dream. His sleep came with his waking. He probably did not know another God other than his (ireat Spirit. Hut, to-night 1 know that God in his mercy will know that his goul was faithful to the end. lie found his Great Spirit had prepared a glorious wigwam for him on the happy hunting grounds. Now, he is at rest. All is well. 1, too, am an Indian and I have had my lament. To-night I played for the last time ‘The Indian's Lament.' The Indian no longer laments. He is at rest. Then Mainst arose and in silence went into the next room. The place was deserted save for the few who sat gazing vacantly into the lire. After a few minutes, the soft sound of a violin was heard in the next room. Now soft and low the sound floated out into the silent air and filled all the room. Then came the wild cries of war! Then all was peace. Then came the Pave Itrrnlr-one

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ASTRAKA LITERARY S'OCIKTV

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reservation and the appeal of the Indian against the force that crushed his freedom. Next, in low strains came forth the Indian's Lament. How long did it last: No one knows. I'hc spell of the music pervaded all. Lonely and appealing came forth at last the Indian's wail. Then as the storm broke forth in redoubled fury, the listeners heard the sorrowful voice of the violin. They knew that Mainst had played, for the last time, the Indian's Lament. Frank Gi.aziek, IT. Good-bye Dear Hills Good-bye. hills, good-bye to you. In another da I leave you for A low. flat country far away. Ml my days I have lived with you In the morning on your warm, green sides I played, and rolled, and tumbled. tTider the blazing sun; t noon-day read in the shade of the tall trees on your brow. When evening came the warm light lingered on your broad slopes nd in the mackerel sky. as wide and arching as the wings of an angel; And I sat on the rocks and watched the ever-changing heavens: Watched the slow smoke rise in the distant valleys. I saw the first stars open their golden eyes in the dark. And I lay down to sleep all night in the little house under the poplars: All my days—and Oh! 1 leave tomorrow For a low, flat country far away. Good-bye, dear, fostering hills, good-bye! — M rc. hi-t liKicr.s, 'IT. Page iwenty-itco