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Page 58 text:
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will not change. He has made them and they, like Him, can never fail can never die. JOANNA MITCHELL To Miss Sarah Porter's Portrait A painting on the wall--alone, Silent and still, and yet the strength Of wrestling waves and wild winds' weight Come forth from those mild eyes. The length Of all the years, and time, and space Will ne'er with mist or dust erase The living power of such a facel The depth of turbulence is calm, And deep beneath that will and force, Love pouring forth to every hearty For all this power forms the source Of life. Her dreams have grown Through strength and love into her own, Hers to be now, through time unknown. We pass beneath it constantly Each day, and see those eyes So clear that dominate the room. At last we find, and learn to prize, Her strength to live, and love, and do, Her depth to dream, but much more, too, Her trust that made her dreams come true. T ELSPETH HERBERT Peace The quiet of a thousand years Was known in that brief timeg The hush of softly falling snow Upon the forest pine. Yet not a silence cold or strange Of hate and fear and dread, But soothing, dreamless, peace-bound sleep, The beauty of the dead. JANET BROWN
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Page 57 text:
“
Return The old man stood motionless in the long, tangled grass on the top of the hill. Silently, he looked down into the valley at the broad curving river. He gazed long at the water, with an expression of peace and almost relief on his mild, wrinkled face, as though he had half-expected the river to disappear before he could see it again. Then he roused himself, and began to walk on through the tangled weeds. Soon he came to a place where the brush seemed not so thick and, scattered through it, large stones were visible. One or two of these were long, and fluted. They looked as though they might once have been parts of the columns of a portico. The old man walked past the stones, and farther on to a little slope. A shrub with red Howers-bell-shaped-was growing here, its branches matted and twisted. The old man stopped. He looked as though he might have liked to pick one of the lovely flowers, but instead he only looked at them, long and thoughtfully, as though each were a face which he had waited for a long time to see. Then, as one very familiar with this place, he stepped carefully down several broken stone steps, almost hidden by the moss and grass. Here, seemingly growing out of the weeds, stood an arched gate- way, straight and tall, decorated with delicate tracery. It stood strangely alone, on this wild, uninhabited hill. It bore no relation, with its rehned artistic pattern, to these tangled clumps of wild grass. Only the red bell llowers seemed to belong with itg they had the same unusual beauty. The old man stopped under the gateway: then he turned, and raised his eyes to the slope which he had just passed, where the white stones lay. He did not look at the grass, blowing in the wind, or at the sky above the hill. He seemed to see something which was not there, which only he could see, as he gazed sadly ahead. His eyes seemed to follow the form of some- thing in his mind, the memory of something which had once been on the slope-a house perhaps Qhis house, it might have been!-tall and white, standing on this high hill, looking down into the valley. The pieces of column, lying on the grass-had they not been a part of the tall white porticoP The lawn, where now grew weeds, might have been smooth and green, with a path leading from the big front door, with a lovely glass fanlight over it, down to the gate, the delicate iron gate, with the bell- flower shrub growing beside it. Had the old man stood here before, perhaps, many times? Had he gazed ahead, as he did now-but seeing his house in reality, instead of in his memory? And had he often turned again, as he did now, to look down between the hills, where the river was winding, and then up, across to where the hilltop's haze melted into the sky? But in those days, when the house had really stood on the hill, had he ever looked at the valley with this expression of tired bitterness? Had he wanted to shout to the hills, and beg of them: Oh, please, never change, stay and never change! He knew now that life's futility had taught him one thing. That which man makes, and loves, must change like him, and die at last. But the world, which is God's, the hills, and the trees, and the sky
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