PART SECOND.
Jo was pure-minded. He possessed a force
That kept him always from the low and coarse;
If ugly vice and sin upon him frowned,
With head erect he firmly held his ground.
When siren Pleasure spread her silken net
He was not caught, nor made a conscience debt.
They found he was not of their kind—those men,
Who sought the brothel, drink-shop, gambling-den.
No goody-goody—it was known at length
His action came from courage and from strength,
And those who make a test were sure to find
His virtues were not of the meaner kind,
They came from purity and clean desires.
Not lack of passions strong, nor manly fires.
'Twas on a bright and noble summer day,
When fast the winter snow-drifts ebbed away;
The cloudless sky was like a crystal dome,
When Plet and father stood within "Our Home."
All nature blended in one vast, grand hymn
What time their nags came o'er the hollow's rim.
We saw them coming from our perch on high—
How quick the love-light sprang in poor Jo's eye!—
We hastened downward, Jo well on before,
And met them ere they reached the cabin door.
Their nags were hitched beneath a mighty spruce—
One grizzled, storm-worn arm stretched out for use—
And then—Oh! great, indeed, was Plet's delight,
When first she gazed upon the Babel height!
No less the gloom, the aged savageness,
Impressed her fancy than the gorgeous dress,
Brief summer lends to that high altitude
Between the fierce assaults of winter rude.
The solitude upon her senses wrought,
Each novel sight some exclamation brought!
We showed her "Dead Man's Corner," where was found
A hapless miner dead and wrapped around
With the same chilly shroud as on the day,
The ridge he tried—by snow was swept away.
Yet this—although it brought a pretty sigh—
But for a moment put her gay mood by.
The wonders of "Our Home" the girl beguiled
And made her buoyant as a happy child.
Then came a banquet. After that steep ride—
Plet's skill equestrienne none in camp denied—
What better than a tempting dish of fruit,—
So true the wild our mood did try and suit.
The visit to "Our Home" was timely sure,
Those strawberries were fit for epicure.
Among the creviced rocks the plants were spread,
The just ripe berries hanging rich and red;
And these were gathered. At their friendly board,
In every cheer and rich abundance stored,
We often sat. So now we gave our mite,
Their many pleasant favors to requite.
And yet to our desires how poor and mean,
How all inadequate the gift did seem.
And then came out—they seemed to think it sport—
Our two tin plates, it was our only sort.
But Plet's deft fingers quick transition made,
With fresh green leaves in starry pattern laid—
And while she praised the wild fruit's luscious taste
We thought how she our rustic dwelling graced.
The life of the prospector—lonely 'tis!
No venture free from daily hazard his,
But one of steady, hard, and daring toil
He must meet danger, nor from care recoil;
To unforeseen and sudden risks exposed,
No cease from vigil keen his labors knows.
And sudden wealth of all his thoughts the theme,
He works, too, in a sort of waking dream.
Thus the impressions he from nature drew
Results in good and manly impulse true.
Ah! one thing seemed to me exceeding plain—
The sequel showed my fear was not in vain—
That Fate had set for this young pair a trap!
Why, any townish, high-bred, polished chap
Had thought himself in fortune all the while
Could he have shared that day and Plet's sweet smile;
And weighing this—depend upon't 'twas so,—
Think what it was for lonely, honest Jo!
His blue eyes sparkled, one could easy trace
The happy thoughts upon his sunburnt face.
Did it mean joy, or would it bring regret—
Might Jo rue sometimes that he e'er saw Plet?
That he had nobly served them, that is true,
They kept the thought nor gratitude outgrew;
He'd striven hard their lives to save, and still—
No matter how full strong his hope or will,
How rich his manly love might prove or pure—
This fact remained, my Jo was very poor.
What right had he to think of such a mate,
One far above him in this world's estate?
But he was worthy of her, free from blame,
Though Fortune played the lad a niggard game!
In spite of every drawback, this I knew,
And hoped the jade would sometime play him true;
For poor or no poor, I could only feel
The chance was good if she but turned her wheel.
Now there's a picture I can ne'er forget;
After these years I seem to see it yet:
The figures you can guess were Plet and Jo,
With background made of rocks, and lake, and snow;
The girl half leaned upon a granite block,
Her roguish smile my poor Jo seemed to mock,
Part pity, part enjoyment, I believe—
What silly stuff I did in my head weave—
And Jo, in timid and in bashful way—
'Twas like a scene I once saw in a play,
Offered a bunch of flowers. And his face,
As he bent forward, not without grace,
Glowed with confusion and with passion new
As his strong heart and his strong brain were true.
I'd better stop; I grow nonsensical.—
A monster ledge served both for pedestal,
Jo in his earth-stained garments, heavy boot,
Plet in her jaunty hat and riding suit.
Did I admire them so? Why so it seems,
And even an old man has his need of dreams.
A charming picture—so I think, at least,
That couple standing where the wave released
Fell down the mossy rocks in sparkling foam,
The wild flowers growing from the moist, rich loam,
And from the sun and pines mosaic shed
O'er Plet's fair form and Jo's uncovered head.
A landscape setting, beautiful and grand!
The purple epilobiums in Jo's hand—
Frail, tender blossoms, delicate and sweet,
How strange to see them in that wild retreat!—
Were fitting emblems, in their sudden birth,
To soft enwrap and gladden the cold earth,
Of that sweet office a true love fulfils,
Whose wondrous budding all the being thrills—
Of that enchantment grown between those two,
The fond desire their hearts together drew!
V.
After that day to Jo there came a change,—
Not that I thought the fact so very strange—
For love had come, oh! that was plain to see,
And from the first I felt 'twas a decree.
I knew Jo found a heart that Plet had lost,
And only feared their love might be ill-crossed.
Perhaps the boy was not without his hopes
The eve that Plet returned adown the slopes.
Now he abstracted grew and walked alone,
To fits of silent reverie was prone.
That he had been a talker don't constrain,
Jo never was a glib-tongued rattle-brain.
For hours in silence to his work he'd stick,
Wielding the heavy hammer or the pick;
And I'll confess that I myself kept still.
No time to talk much, holding to the drill.
But at those times that we'd a moment quit,
And pass a word to cheer us up a bit,
I noticed that his speech was but to ask
Concerning work—some detail of our task.
And evenings, too, as moody as a churl
He'd sit and watch his pipe-smoke upward curl.
Sometimes his gaze on vacancy he'd fix,—
And well I knew the young god played his tricks,—
And if I spoke, some thought wished to impart,
'Twas all unheard, or answered with a start.
What all this meant—who could mistake the sign?
'Twas plain to see as three times three are nine.
So at our claim we kept; he worked as though
A wealth must come, whether it would or no.
A new life dwelt within my partner's breast—
If my prayers answered, then 'twas surely blessed—
But in that present 'twas a torture, too.
His question was—what course can I pursue?
Were not his hopes but built upon the sand—
Could one so poor expect to gain Plet's hand?
And constantly this thought his brain did seize—
Had not sweet Plet been used to every ease?
This truth stared out—a common miner he,—
Alas! for him, a rich man's daughter she!
So his dark moods I clearly understood,
Persistent thought that all would end in good.
Pretending not to see, I smoked my pipe,
And thought, I'll live to see the time grow ripe.
In proper time I knew that Jo would speak,
As in the twilight I would watch him seek—
To him I guess 'twas fairest of all bowers—
The spot where he had offered Plet the flowers.
Oft when eve's shadows deepened into nights,
He'll look adown the slopes and watch the lights
That we could see within the distant camp,
Hoping, I knew, to see one special lamp—
Which hope was more than frequent not in vain—
The one that burned behind Plet's window pane.
Yes, he had grown as fond as any dove;
Beyond a doubt, poor Jo was deep in love!
Hurrah! hurrah! And true beyond a doubt!
Hurrah! hurrah! Had we not cause to shout?
She turned her wheel, the changeful, fickle witch;
Yes, beyond doubt, we too had "struck it rich!"
The blind lead we had followed many a day,
Suddenly widened to the best of "pay."
'Twas purest carbonates. We had enough,
Thousands were ours in the black, gritty "stuff!"
How did it serve us? You are bound to ask,
How did we take that climax to our task?
'Twas hard to answer. As I said before,
Jo looked at wealth as though he'd force the door.
But when he saw the end so near him lie,
He dazed appeared and heaved a heavy sigh.
Jo seemed as one just woke from sleep, and—well
As though a burden from his shoulders fell.
And unto me it came as a surprise;
We stood and stared with dry and eager eyes.
A pan of dirt we picked and carried where
Our brows could feel a touch of cool, fresh air.
I felt my temples throb, my eyeballs burn,
My blood alternate ice or fire turn;
I well remember how we held our breath,
Talked hushed and low as in a house of death.
And then we shouted—shouted long and loud,
Shouted as though with brazen lungs endowed;
Shouted until each voice was weak and hoarse,
Until the wild bird fluttered in his course;
Shouted until our friends in gray and tan—
Across the rocks the fat ground squirrels ran;
Until, as though he'd like to join the game,
An answering echo from "Old Babel" came.
Nor was that all, I'm half ashamed to tell
The things we did beneath that sudden spell—
For then we danced; yes, danced and danced again,
'Till I from weariness to rest was fain!
Had any seen us they had thought us mad,
And frenzy sure possessed myself and lad,
For I worn out, then Joe he danced alone,
His yellow ringlets to the free winds thrown.
With eyes aglow, all filled with sparkling fire,
He danced as though his limbs would never tire;
In weird fantastic measure and wild tread
He waved the precious dirt around my head;
It seemed one could in his wild antics trace
A likeness to some genie of the place.
A wild delirium o'er our senses came
In which the sunshine looked like silver flame;
The rocks, the flashing wavelets, silver seemed;
Each far-off cloud a silver palace gleamed.
Transmuted all to our excited ken—
Yes, silver, silver; all things silver then!
How suddenly for us the world was changed;
For us who every field of want had ranged,
Who through long months had fought the stubborn rock,
Met summer tempests, borne the winter's shock.
Now the long struggle, the grim fight was o'er,
Privations hard would be our lot no more.
No weary toiling up or down the slope,
Or weary hours in cold and damp to grope.
What figures that strike meant, we hardly knew,
We were among the very lucky few!
Then came reaction—to myself I mean—
For more or less my life had failure been.
What truly, after all, the strike to me!
Such as it was you can at once foresee—
A life of toil replaced by one of ease,
Such things of life as can an old man please.
You see I'd grown to be a sort of sage,
Had weighed full carefully the wants of age.
And can a sudden flood of wealth atone
For years of crabbed single life alone?
With Jo 'twas different. My plans were few,
With him life lay before—so much to do.
'Twere hard to tell what busy thoughts he kept,
What dreams that night came to him as he slept,
What schemes and plans he up-built prodigal—
Of course providing that he slept at all,
And that was doubtful. Perhaps I knew,
Or thought they were the same as those that drew
His feet toward the mossy torrent head,
The same as made him watch for pale light shed,
Toward the ridge from out the mining camp,
And see a message in a far-off lamp:
The same for many a day his brain beset,
For Jo's unuttered thoughts were all of Plet!
VII.
But on the course of love I will not dwell,
Or many an episode I'd have to tell.
'Tis hope and courage to the lover bring
A boldness strong as is the eagle's wing.
And Jo waxed bold, you know the reason why,
He had a cause his hope to justify;
Love progressed fast as ship with wind and tide,
Ere the snow flew Plet was a promised bride.
"Marry in haste and slow repent you say—
Courtships too quick are somewhat the same way?"
I thought not so, 'twas no ill-mated pair,
The father of Jo's worth was well aware:
Before the day on which our good luck came,
I knew his thoughts of Jo were just the same
As when the fickle maid began to smile—
In mining parlance, when we'd made our "pile."
A pair of good discerning eyes he had,
That looked quite through the soul of my poor lad;
He'd seen the worth behind rough garb and lot,
And what he'd seen a friendship true begot,
A generous heart within his bosom burned,
And friendship soon to admiration turned.
While Plet—I'll try my words not to repeat—
Had danced along love's path with willing feet,
The flamed barb was not a whit more slow
To reach her heart than it had been with Jo;
And thus before a year had slipped away,
The smitten pair had named a wedding day.
But ten months more was added to his life,
And Jo saw coming—Fortune and a wife.
What comfort 'twas to be no longer poor—
To know a wife of his need not endure
Such trial as oft he saw some miner's mate
In patient silence bear from morn 'til late.
Oh! Jo, I thought, was sure of happiness,
And haven fair and safe from storm and stress;
For thought of other ending I was loth,
My prayers for them were—May God bless you both!
A few short weeks our lives might be the same,
Of course we'd not deserted yet our claim,
'Twas necessary we remain until
Such time as would our obligations fill,
And while the drill was sent or the pick drove,
Like lusty weeds our expectations throve.
Then still and tranquil grew the autumn days;
Through hazy veils the trees began to blaze;
The mountain summits seemed to sleep and dream;
Of tawny richness was each lessened stream;
Transparent amber on the birches crept;
Orange and madder o'er the dwarf oaks swept:
Upon the maples, in ravine or dell,
A myriad shades of rose-carnation fell;
The aspen groves, a wonder to behold,
Strewed the dark rocks with leaves of paly gold;
Wherever bunch of height—fond foliage grew,
Each frosty night had set some splendid hue,
And far above, beyond the somber pines,
The wasted snow yet gleamed in argent lines;
On every slope and steep, afar and near,
A seal was set that marked a dying year;
The mountains glowed in endless, gorgeous dyes,
With pomp of woods and glory of the skies.