Then will yet my Mother yield A pillow in her greenest field; Nor the June flowers scorn to cover The clay of their departed lover.'” “That is beautiful,” Mrs. Bogardus murmured hastily. “Even I can understand that.” Moya thanked her with a glance. “And what did the infallible John say?” Christine inquired. “John looked at me and smiled, as at a babbling infant”-- “Good for John!” “Christine, be still!” “John looked at me and smiled,” Moya repeated steadily. Nothing could have stopped her now. She only hoped for some further scattering mention of that “certain member” who had set them all at odds and spoiled what should have been an hour's pure happiness. “'You'll get the pillow all right,' he said. 'It might not be a green one, nor I wouldn't bank much on the flowers; but you'll be tired enough to sleep without rocking about the time you trust to Nature's tuckin' you in and puttin' victuals in your mouth. I never _see_ nature till I came out here. I'd seen pretty woods and views, that a young lady could take down with her paints; but how are you going to paint that?'--he waved his tallow-stick towards the night outside. 'Ears can't reach the bottom of that stillness. That's creation before God ever thought of man. Long as I've been in the woods, I never get over the feeling that there's _something behind me_. If you go towards the trees, they come to meet you; if you go backwards, they go back; but you can't sit down and sit still without they'll come a-creeping up and creeping up, and crowding in'-- “He stirred his 'dope' awhile, and then he struck another note. 'I've wintered alone in these mountains,' he said, 'and I've seen snowslides pounce out of a clear sky--a puff and a flash and a roar; an' trees four foot across snappin' like kindlin' wood--not because it hit 'em; only the breath of it struck them; and maybe a man lying dead somewheres under his cabin timbers. That's no mother's love-tap. Pillows and flowers ain't in it. But it's good poetry,' he added condescendingly.