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About The west shore. (Portland, Or.) 1875-1891 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 23, 1890)
22 WEST SHORE. BY ELLA moOlNSON It U onljr little whit tin, detr, What it I rote ii while, t lilr if tweet dr. Light uithiitle blight. Bo tweet, to white, eo little Now, how oould inr one know, When it iu to null it beginning , How fttt little) white tint grow ! It it only t little while tin, detr, Idle tnd ewett tnd wrong ; Bat 0, it will grow tnd bltoken, Iotc, And flonrith yonr whole life long. Neter mind the tint thtt look ogly, dttr, Yon will thiink from them in fright : Thit umple long it to wtrn iron, lore, To beware of the lint that foot while. I think I am beginning to understand bow the Indiana must feel as civilization, pressing ever forward, pushes them with a strong band, step bjr step and inch by Inch from the placet they have so long loved and in which they have been happy far happier, Indeed, than any white man will ever be in the same placet, Civiliiation la encroaching upon my pleasures I had almost written righto she la taking away my forests. Mie hai no lingering tenderness for anything ; with a Arm, cruel band she takes everything my tall, illm fir trees, (welling with saps and shaking aplced sweetness through the air; the white, graceful alders that the birds so love; the spreading, whispering maples, with their blushing foliage; the cedars, the haiel trees, even my beloved dogwood, whose great, while eyes must look with dumb reproach at the hand that cuts them down. A year ago the forest was at my very door; now I have to go a mile or two to reach Its dim line; In another year I suppose I shall bave to go twice as far, and then all the trees, the luxuriant undergrowth, the broken logs and limbs leaning one against the other, all the tremulous climbing and falling vines all the living, breathing things tint speak to me In their own sweet lan guage each morning as I pats they will all be gone I Listen ! I hear the clear, cold ring of the woodman's tx beating against the strength of tome noble tree! The sound grows louder, clearer, keener with each step. It cuts through the sound of my horse's feet, through the roar of the wind in the tree topi, through the medley of bird voices that are fairly riotous with passionate glee this morning. 0, the pity of it! To tee God's lusty trees cut down like beasts of the plain, and to hear men whistling and singing at their cruel work I Suddenly the blows and the coarse rasping of the aawa craw and there comet a warning shout ; moment's silence, during which every bird In the forest is dumb and every leaf motionless, and my own heart stands still ; then a alow, crushing, crashing falling ; a tremulous, forceful brushing of tree tope, a rasping grating of limb on limb; a noise, at first like wind, which gradually rises and grows into a terrible, thundering, deafening roar then a second'! utter stillness now one heart-breaking crash and groan and It is all over; a noble monarch of the forest who, an hour ago reared hit proud head into the clouda, lies dead and bleeding on the ground, Never again will the vines twine about him, and the fernt presa broad palmt against him, and the saps rush along his swelling veins; never again will the bird tongs thrill him, and the cool winds ttill his pag. lions, and the bum, dropping softly through the twilight, tell hit rosary o'er and o'er. The whittling and singing have begun again, and the ax has cleft the quivering, helpless flesh of another tree bow he shivers, and yet how bravely he standi against it! Bah poor fool! What does it matter tint a true it dead? Let your breath come freely again, and the blood pules along your veint, and your heart throbs grow calm! Looienyour rein and let your rvatleae horse leap on bis way I Who are you that you should pity a tree that fallt? It not Itath beating at your ttrength, and weakening your elnewt, and drawing drop by drop, your life tap? In good time he will deal the final blow ; there will be an lnttant't silence, and then the birds will sing, and the flowers will bloom, and the whole dear world will be glad again ; for you are no more to the world of men than one tree it to the for.t. Women can not vote, or, rather, they may not; and, Indeed, many do not care or deelre to do to. The men kindly allow lit to retain our minds and our tonguoa, however, and as I take the liveliest kind of Interest In evert! of those Important mortals who do vote, I suppose I may at least oiler few iiifteationi in the very humblest manner begging their par don and lenience at the end of every sentence, of course. Men are exceed ingly earnest in their assertions that politic! is "corrupt" and shame less " and " disgraceful ; " but when you ask them the cause-in your very smallest voice, too-they look at you haughtily, amazed at your desire for information, and gruffly mumble something about " bribery," rings, " wire pulling," " schemes," and so on. Now, I am of the opinion women hold their rights in the palms of their hands-the hands that are "like pink, crinkly tissue paper," as Amelia Rives puts it-so all that I desire to tell you just now is what I consider the most shameless, the most corrupt, the most abominable thing connected with politics : It is the personal at tacks that are made upon men's private affairs and home life ! It is tome thing that has never come near me, for thank God! I have never bad even an intimate friend who was a politician ; but it it something that has filled me with horror at long as I can remember. Criticise with all your power and ttrength a man'e political life his administration of public affairs-tor that is of vital interest to the whole nation's welfare; but let hie private affaire, hit home life, alone, for they do not belong to you, but to himself and bis God. Let us see if we have enough law makers who love honor and justice and right sufficiently to make It at heinous a crime to at tack a man't private life, habits or convictions where they do not affect hit administration of public trusts as it it to "stuff ballot boxes" and " buy votes." The thistles are blooming, love. In a shaggy border around the low, green fields; across the pastures where the great trees bend in the sweet windt and cool-voiced streams flow through; along the yellow lanes where the cattle come slowly borne in the dim twilight with clanking hoofs and mild, patient eyes; in the neglected fallow field, in many of the rich places and in all of the waste placet, in great, feathery tufts of rich, royal purple, the thistles are blooming, love. See how the warm winds creep in among them and die of very love of them! How the sunlight trembles in little, broken flecks upon their swelling bosoms! How the happy rains drench them ! By and by their souls, like the dandelions, will float away in down ; but now they are lusty and swelling with vigor; here, down this hillside, they are like one undulating, purple sea. Come, let us go, band in band, at we used to do alwaya, down the quiet paths among them ah, kind heaven! My heart it so full of you, love, when I see this purple bloom, that I always forget you are dead. 0, love, love ! Your thistles a-bloom and you not here! Happiness it like the thistle-down which the children chase, open palmed, through the air, but can never seize; or like the lovely color that flits acrost a pure cheek and it gone ; or like a drop of dew that dimes like an opal on a green leaf and diet at the kiss of the sun; or like the beauti ful flower that blooms in our pathway and which we seize with eager hands, only to find, alas! its petals dropping away through our trembling hands. Love is a plant of such peculiar formation and nature that although the first breath of deception that touches it kills its roots, the poor pale petals, which are alone seen of the world, struggle on tenaciously and try pitifully to remain green, that no one may guess that the whole beautiful heart of the plant is dead. It is stated tint the unmarried women of Massachusetts have $29,000, 000 on deposit in the savings banks of that state. What a temptation for men who want wives to go to Massachusetts I And what a temptation for women who are unmarried to remain unmarried ! It is a bitter thing to be a plain and unattractive woman especially, as it is she who most passionately admires beauty in othert and cravee it for herself ; not for the empty vanity of It, but for the true pleasure that beauty gives, not only to its possessor, but to all the world. William Dean Howells believes the American short story to be the best in the world, and that we have become a nation of rare story-tellers. He ranks Mary K. Wilkins and Sarah Orne Jewett among the first of the realists. I bave observed Uiat the old threadbare advice about the " two bears " bear and forbear, of marriage it invariably given to the woman instead of the man, prose, Henry Ward Bsecher wis a man who thought In poetry and spoke in Men love to boast of the conquests they have not made.