Image provided by: University of Oregon Libraries; Eugene, OR
About The west shore. (Portland, Or.) 1875-1891 | View Entire Issue (Jan. 1, 1889)
THE WEST SHORE. 10 he had visited on the previous evening, he found Loonie'g husband stretched, lifeless, upon the floor, with a bullet wound in his temple that had been in stantly fatal. " He is dead," said Dr. Kirke, as he withdrew his hand from the pulseless heart that never again would know the tumultuous throbbings of either love or ambition. On the table he found a letter addressed to himself. It ran as follows Once again, Allan Kirke, I leave my dear girl in your care, though now something whisKrs to me that she is far more yours than mine. Well, so he it. You deserve her; I do not. The mills of the gods have ground me exceeding Hmall. I have nothing to hope for, and nothing to remember that is not agony. Not heaven itself upon the past has power; What has been, has been, and I have had my hour. My will is in the hands of N & G , attorneys at law who will at once place themselves in communication with my Melbourne lawyers. I leave to Leonie the money that wrecked me. Ask her not to scorn it, for I have ventured to hope that when it has passed through her pure hands, the curse may be lifted from it and from my soul. Aetbur Desmond. So Leonie was freed without the law's interven tion, and the visit to Aberdeen, three months later, was that sweetest of all voyages a wedding journey. Carrie Blake Morgan. NOT IN VAIN. The world is full of beauteous things Yy man's eye never seen ; Far from the paths his feet have pressed, Are vales of living green Tall, graceful trees and palmy ferns, With blossoms all between. I'nscen through tropic solitudes Flit gorgeous insect wings, And many a bird is all unheard And hidden when it sings. And in the deep seas lie concealed Such strange and wondrous things. Why all these forms of leaf and flower, These tints of sunset skies? Why all these birds and bursting buds, And autumn's crimson dyes? Of all the earth, mankind alone Has understanding eyes. I'nscen, what is the rose's blush? I'nheard, what is the song? What cares the bee for brilliant tints In flowers he hums among? What cares the deer tacause the brook With music Hows along. Wasted, these things that heaven has made? It never can lie so. Methinks that (Jod himself looks down, Fach little bird to know, And loves to see the bursting buds, And watch the violets grow. And may not each wee bird's song be An anthorn to the skies? May not iod plant, just fur himself, The wind-flower's starry eyes, And love to feel a tender care For bright-winged butterflies? I- Valeria Wilson.