"Wid dat, suh, I pickt up my pairsol an' make my way out, but ez I went I hear um whoopin' an' hollerin'." "Well, they didn't pass the bill, did they?" I asked. "What? dat paper er Marse Tumlin's? Bless yo' soul, suh, dey run'd over one an'er tryin' ter pass it. Mr. Scott fit it like he fightin' fire, an' make out he wuz turribly ag'in it, but dat des make um wuss. Hamp say dat inginer'lly dem ar laws has ter wait an' hang fire; but dey tuck up dat un, an' shove it th'oo. Dey tuck mo' time in de 't'er een' er de Legislatur', whar ol' Alpory wuz at, but it went th'oo when it start. Dey don't have no sech gwines-on now, suh. Ef dey did, I 'speck I'd hatter come up an' jine de Legislatur' ag'in." Whereupon, Aunt Minervy Ann laughed heartily, and began to make her preparations for returning home. [Illustration] THE SILENT WAYFELLOW By Bliss Carman To-day when the birches are yellow, And red is the wayfaring tree, Sit down in the sun, my soul, And talk of yourself to me! Here where the old blue rocks Bask in the forest shine, Dappled with shade and lost In their reverie divine. How goodly and sage they are! Priests of the taciturn smile Rebuking our babble and haste, Yet loving us all the while. In the asters the wild gold bees Make a warm busy drone, Where our Mother at Autumn's door Sits warming her through to the bone. What is your afterthought When a red leaf rustles down, Or the chickadees from the hush Challenge a brief renown? When silence falls again Asleep on hill-side and crest, Resuming her ancient mood, Do you still say, "Life is best?" We have been friends so long, And yet not a single word Of yourself, your kith or kin Or home, have I ever heard. Nightly we sup and part, Daily you come to my door; Strange we should be such mates, Yet never have talked before. A cousin to downy-feather, And brother to shining-fin, Am I, of the breed of earth, And yet of an alien kin, Made from the dust of the road And a measure of silver rain, To follow you brave and glad, Unmindful of plaudit or pain. Dear to the mighty heart, Born of her finest mood, Great with the impulse of joy, With the rapture of life imbued, Radiant moments are yours, Glimmerings over the verge Of a country where one day Our forest trail shall emerge. When the road winds under a ledge, You keep the trudging pace, Till it mounts a shoulder of hill To the open sun and space. Ah, then you dance and go, Illumined spirit again, Child of the foreign tongue And the dark wilding strain!