Waukena may have stolen away through the solitudes of the dim forest, and yielded her tired heart unto the gods of her people, for she was never again seen in the river country. Her chastened soul may still wander in the shadowy vistas of the winter woods, when the sun sinks in aureoles of crimson beyond the lacery of the tall trees—that stand still and ghostly—their slender boles tinged with hues of red, like the lost arrow shafts of those who are gone. Sadly and thoughtfully we walked down the old trail that bordered the bayou. We sat for a long time on the moss covered bank and talked of the arrow and the destinies it had touched. The pearly disk of the full moon hung in the eastern sky. A faint mist veiled the surface of the softly lisping water. An owl swept low over the bayou into the gloom of the forest. The pond lilies had closed their chalices and sealed their fragrance for another day. Hosts of tiny wings were moving among the sedges. Fireflies gemmed the dark places and vanished, as human lives come out of the void, waver with transient glow, and are gone. There was a tender eloquence and witchery in the gentle murmurings of the night. Mystic voices were in the woods. Beyond the other shore the hoary form of the Father of the Vines seemed transfigured with a holy light. From somewhere in the gloom of the grotto came the plaintive notes of a whippoorwill. As one crying in the wilderness, Nebowie’s spirit was calling for her lost lover from among the embowered labyrinths. In the twilights of drowsy summers, the wild cadence still enchants the bayou. The moon still rides through the highways of the star strewn skies, and, with pensive luster, pictures the guardian of the trysting place of long ago. The shadows below the lofty forehead have deepened, and the great silent figure bends with the weight of the onward years. Out yonder, in the moonlit woods, With humble mien he stands, With the burden of the fruitage In his vine entangled hands; Where the hiding purpling clusters Are caught by silver beams, That revel in the meshes Of his leafy net of dreams. With the weariness of fulfillment, His tendril woven brow Is bowed before the mystery Of the eternal Why and How. III THE BRASS BOUND BOX Jerry Island was formed by one of the side currents of the river that wandered off through the woods and lowland and rejoined the main stream above the Big Marsh.