Plet: A Christmas Tale of the Wasatch by Alfred Lambourne - HTML preview

XIV.

ll stuff and nonsense! Never hear them? What!
 Their voices hear no more? Believe it not!
 How! Voice of Jo or Plet not hear again?
 Indeed! Pray whose voice was I hearing then?
 Whose voice was that—bright, joyous, full and clear—
 A voice that rang with every note of cheer!
 Whose voice, indeed, if not the voice of Jo?—
 And you'll concede I was the one to know.
 My dear boy's voice as lusty as of old,—
 Oh, no, he was not 'neath the graveyard mold!
 His voice I heard proclaim it was the morn,
 The sun was shining and the storm outworn—
 And then, ere I could drink my happy cup,
 Cut my thoughts short with orders to "get up!"

So all those things so dreadful were not true—
 'Twas but a nightmare I had just passed through:
 It was not fact our cabin had been struck,
 No end so sad had come to mar our luck!
 All false those hours upon the mountain side;
 Jo's body down the slopes I did not guide;
 He was not dead, nor Plet! It did but seem;
 All a mistake, then, nothing but a dream!

Thank God it was so! That the heaped-up snow
 Ourselves and cabin had not hurled below,
 That there was One of Mercy that did spare,
 Although ourselves had entered in the snare!
 Thank Heaven, again, 'twas but Jo's mournful word,
 To tragedy in my weak head transferred!

You know what governs in a Christmas Tale—
 That joyfully to end it must not fail,—
 So as this life page I was telling you,
 Such end of course I always kept in view.
 To take the actual from the false apart,
 You see it really needs but little art—
 Such rights as others take, I did but claim,
 If I have pleased you, then I've gained my aim.

Oh, all unlike our trip upon the slope,
 To that one of my dream bereft of hope!
 The wintry sun had driven back the night,
 All glistening lay the snow beneath his light.
 As we sped downwards in unbounded zeal
 Our snow-shoes sent the spray from off our heel,
 The mountain hare, behind some bank cowered low,
 We sent in scurry wild across the snow.
 You never then had truly guessed my years,
 That I was mad with gladness plain appears!
 Jo's hot young blood in me seemed to have place,
 And merrily with him I kept the race.
 To see them stand together, O, what joy—
 Plet all in smiles beside my darling boy;
 To hear the music of her gentle voice
 Made every fiber in my heart rejoice.
 They looked like pair upon some antique vase,
 My Jo all strength, and she all sweetest grace.
 And when I thought, instead of grave and shroud,
 It was the bridal feast, I laughed aloud!

And what a feast it was, too, when it came;
 In that high camp you'll find it still has fame!
 From lonely spots the guests came far and wide,
 And Plet, indeed, was lovely as a bride.
 You'll guess, of course, as best man I stood there,
 And heard "Good Wishes" heaped upon the pair.
 For that flushed look of pride who could blame Jo—
 As on Plet's lips he did the kiss bestow?
 I think we might as well own up as not—
 That single life is but a dreary lot!
 I'll bother you no more about our claim,
 Or what the mine itself in time became—
 The miner often will too much expect,
 Yet our first guess was far below correct.
 'Tis business here has caused me to sojourn
 Until the pair from wedding trip return.
 Of course they make their home in that same west
 That gave Jo wealth and brought a love the best;
 And I?—Yes, I am for the mountains, too;
 Strange how their magic will a man pursue!
 Yes, they will follow whereso'er you go,
 As they who love them once will always know.
 Another word,—to tell you all complete—
 I feel again an itching in my feet;
 "The Miner's Fever!" Give it once a hold,
 It comes to stay, and burns in young and old:

Shall I go to the Wasatch?—Why, of course!
 To keep away requires the greater force.
 And yet "Our Home" I almost dread to see—
 Where metal's found there comes a stern decree—
 The varied beauties of the mountain wild
 To serve our greed are for the time defiled;
 Each sturdy worker smites and cannot spare,
 He follows law and makes deep havoc there.

And in the mining camp each blast I hear,
 But echoes of those others will appear—
 Those that above the snowy heights were borne,
 To celebrate the happy Christmas Morn,
 Those blasts by which his joy the miner tells,
 And which we used in lieu of Wedding Bells!