Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 21.djvu/11

1868.] How through each pass and hollow streamed

The purpling lights of heaven,—

Rivers of gold-mist flowing down

From far celestial fountains,—

The shorn sun dropping, large and low,

Behind the wall of mountains!

We drove before the farm-house door,

The farmer called to Mary;

Bare-armed, with Juno's step, she came,

White-aproned, from her dairy.

Her air, her smile, her motions, told

Of womanly completeness;

A music as of household songs

Was in her voice of sweetness;—

An inborn grace that nothing lacked

Of culture or appliance,—

The warmth of genial courtesy,

The calm of self-reliance.

Before her queenly womanhood

How dared our landlord utter

The paltry errand of his need

To buy her fresh-churned butter?

She led the way with housewife pride,

Her goodly store disclosing,

Full tenderly the golden balls

With snow-white hands disposing.

Then, while across the darkening hills

We watched the changeful glory

Of sunset, on our homeward way,

The landlord told her story.

From school and ball and rout she came,

The city's fair, pale daughter,

To drink the wine of mountain air

Beside the Bearcamp Water.

Her step grew firmer on the hills

That watch our homesteads over;

On cheek and lip, from summer fields,

She caught the bloom of clover.

For health comes sparkling in the streams

From cool Chocorua stealing,

There's iron in our Northern winds,

Our pines are trees of healing.