"Indeed!" cried Mr. P. "Going to leave here--this lake; this swamp; this
firefly lamp? To leave this spot, rendered sacred to your woes by the
poem of the gifted MOORE--"
"No more!" cried she. "I'm tired of hearing everybody that comes to this
pond a-singin' that doleful song."
"That is to say," said Mr. P., with a smile, "if your canoe is birch,
_you_ are Sycamore."
"That's so," she gravely grunted.
"But tell me," said Mr. P., "where in the world can you be going?"
At this the maiden took a straw, and ramming it down the chimney of her
lamp, stirred up the flies until they glittered like dollar jewelry.
Then she chanted, in plaintive, tones, the following legend:
"Three women came, one moonlight night,
And tempted me away.
They said, 'No longer on this lake,
Good maiden, must you stay.
We're SUSAN A. and ANNA D.,
And LUCY S. also,
And what a lone female can do
We want the world to know.
No better instance can we give,
Oh, Indian maid! than you,
How woman can, year after year.
Pages:
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72