I need not say more. My life it was ended. It wasn't worth living;--I am made in that fashion. So I came to the woods. Where else when in trouble Can man go and find what he needs, consolation? Go you down to her house, in the city, John Norton, To the house where she lives, and give her this message. Word for word let her hear it,--say where you left me. There's gold in that box to pay your expenses. Word for word as I tell you, nor say a word further." Then he bade us good-by, and marched away bravely, As a man on a trail that is somewhat uncertain. And under the pines on the bank of the rapids We buried the man whom the woods called--Jack Whitcomb, And the picture he loved we placed on his bosom. * * * * * I went down to her house in the city. A cabin Of stone, brown as tamarack bark, trimmed with olive. It was high as a pine that stands on a mountain. The door was as wide as the mouth of a cavern. At the door stood a man rigged up like a soldier; His face was as solemn as judgment to sinners; He looked at me some, and I looked him all over, Then he suddenly bowed like a half-breed with manners, And told me to enter, and he would call Madame. The room was as large as a town house where settlers Hold meetings to vote themselves office and wages. The walls were like caves in far Arizona. All covered with pictures of houses and battles; Of ships blown onward by gales in mid-ocean; Of children with wings, pretty queer-looking creatures; Of men and of women, and some were half-naked. But the floor was of oak, which gleamed like a polish; And with mats thick as moss, and with skins it was covered, So I felt quite at home, as there I stood looking, And noting the size and signs of the cabin. Then, all of a sudden, there came a soft rustle, Like the rustle of leaves when the wind blows in autumn. And down the wide stairway across the great hall, To the door of the room in which I was standing, Stately and swift, came a woman and entered. Tall as the tallest. Made firmly, knit firmly Both in form and in limb, but full and well rounded; Dark of eye, dark of face, with hair like a raven, Like the girls of Nevada, where live the old races, Whose blood is as fire, and whose skin is of olive, Whose mouths are as sweet as a fig when it ripens. Arms bare to the shoulders. Neck and bosom uncovered. Her gown of white satin gleamed and flowed downward And round her in folds of soft, creamy whiteness. No ring on her hand, nor in ear. Not a circle Of gold round her throat. One armlet of silver, And one at her wrist loosely clasped, small and slender. So she entered and stood, and looked me all over.