Nebraska [pp. 274]

Nebraska.
this one and that making each a different
suggestion, while the poor wife lifted his
head on her lap and gently loosened the collar and cravat to give free passage to the
struggling, stertorous breath. In a few moments a physician who lived close at hand
appeared, and rapidly examined the now
unconscious man.
"I can do nothing for him," said he presently to the minister. "He has ruptured a
blood vessel at the base of the brain, and death
will only be a question of a few moments."
A low wail came from poor Mercy, as she
bent still lower over that face that should
never more light up at word or look of hers,
while she tried in vain to pierce those deaf
ears with whispered words of tenderness.
The doctor l)ointed to a faint purple tinge
beginning at the back of the neck, and now
passing swiftly toward the front, in confirmation of his statement. "It is best not to try to
move him. It would do no good," he add ed; so they dispatched a messenger to the
Morse farm to bring the poor parents and
brothers to watch the end of that young life.
But before they could arrive, that life had
fled, and the poor body, now at rest, was
lying in the darkened parlor of the old parsonage; while in another room of the pastor's dwelling lay the wife, passing from one
swoon to another with the feebleness of a
mind and body exhausted by sore suffering.
From the long illness that succeeded her
trouble, Mercy rallied only at the sound of
a little voice that wailed forth a call for her
to return to life and usefulness.
She lived, but went not back to the farm
again. That farm was taken by one of her
brothers-in-law, who would by and by bring
home a helpmeet in his new ambitions. So
she remained for the present in the peaceful home of the minister, whose kind-hearted
wife gave her many a useful suggestion as to
the care of the little, tender bit of human
kind God had committed to her charge.
Sybil Russell Bogue.
/
NEBRASKA.
THE long train rushes westward through the night,
The deep-breathed pulsings soothe to sleep; but late
Half rousing, from our window, lone and great
We see the New World rolled before our sight.
The solemn brightness of the moon's still light
Reveals the snow-swep)t plains on stretching straight;
The vastness sinks us first as with a weight,
Then raises to strange premonition bright.
For lo! along the south the foot-hills rise;
Here sloping low, there high with bowldered tops,
Far circling now, now sweeping boldly near,
They ever seem beneath their windy skies
To run a phantom race that never stops,
Till in far mountain heights they disappear.
Dell Doweler Ringeling.
274
[Mar.