The Indian Springs

I KNOW a shady hollow 'neath the pines, Rich floored with velvet moss and trailing vines, Where grouping ferns grow lusty, tall, and green, With sipping from the bowl o'er which they lean; And crimson berries on the margin cling, Like drops of blood about the Indian spring.

On this same spot these many years ago A graceful figure knelt and, bending low, Wrist-deep in moss, one hand curved to a cup, The water to her scarlet lips dipped up. A heron's wing drooped from her dusky hair, Which draped her rich-hued cheeks and shoulders bare.

Swift, stealthy footsteps took her by surprise; She started, flushed, and met his eager eyes,— A noble figure, young and lithe and tall, With one proud eagle feather crowning all. A pause, a word, and lo! the heron's wing Brushed with the eagle's there above the spring.

Two cruel eyes gleamed from the piny shade, Fixed on the bended heads of man and maid; Sudden, a gray goose feather with a twang Of hate and envy from the darkness sprang. One shrilling cry—the heron wing was fled; Low lay the eagle plume; the spring ran red.

The years have gone; new mosses veil the ground, New ferns, new vines:—but here the spring I found, And here the gray goose shalt its story told,— A heart of flint 'neath moss and years of mold And vines to which the blood-red berries cling, I found an arrow by the Indian spring.