Unhappy trait that in us lies! We doubt the verdict of our eyes; We doubt each faculty and sense, Yet credit sham and false pretence. We question Truth, and much prefer To list to Falsehood, than to her: And that, which most substantial seems, We doubt, yet place our faith in dreams. We doubt the pearl of purest white, We doubt the diamond clear and bright, And yet accept the base and flawed, Yes, revel in all forms of fraud. That moment's lack of confidence, The shadow of remote offence, Cost each the sweetest joys of life, Cost her a husband, me a wife. Ere yet that month its course had spent, In time's continuous descent, Her face had been forever hid Beneath the sod and coffin lid. Then slanderous tongues forgot their lies, And wagged in glowing eulogies. Though tears, the pearls of sorrow be, And many o'er her grave were shed, Mine was a tearless agony, A deeper, dry-eyed grief instead. That rumor, void of fact or proof, Too late betrayed the cloven hoof. Too late, alas! 'twas given me To recognize its falsity. Within a rural burial place, A rude, though quaint, necropolis, Where, through the growth of hemlock trees, Is borne the requiem of the breeze; Where stand the funeral pines as plumes, Above the scattered graves and tombs, And sigh, with drooping branches spread, In sylvan dirges for the dead; Beneath a fir tree's sombre shade, My last adieu to her was made. Close by the slab of graven stone, Which marks her place of silent rest, I knelt at midnight, and alone, Then rose and started for the West." * * * * * The wind in temporary lull, Had dwindled to a plaintive moan; As if in mournful monotone, Her cup of anguish being full, Sad nature's fountain-heads of bale Had overflowed with plaint and wail. In palpitating throbs of woe, It now arose and whirled the snow With triple energy renewed, Filling the dismal solitude With woeful shriekings of despair, As demon orgies in the air, And culminated in a roar More violent than aught before. * * * * * At length another timely lull Made human voices audible. As Uncle Jim resumed his seat, A voice cried out for Russian Pete. * * * * * III. THE PRISONER Of Russian Pete but little had been known, He liked to read and be so much alone; No more his close associates could tell, Save that he spoke the English language well. About this stranger with the clever tongue, An air of mystery and sadness clung. His name, so long and unpronounceable, Which none could frame, much less presume to spell, Waiving abridgment, partial or complete, Was, by the boys, transformed to "Russian Pete."