Part 8 (1/2)

He smiled. ”I have merely copied it. I saw the poem for the first time an hour or so ago at Mr. Audubon's. It is new and has never been printed. It was written by the young English poet, John Keats, to his brother George Keats, who is a partner of Mr. Audubon in the mill on the river. Mr. Keats and his wife are here now, the guests of Mr. Audubon.

The poem came in a letter which has just been received. I have copied a part of it, and a few words from the letter, also. Mr. George Keats was kind enough to allow me, and I thought you would like to see them. I hadn't time to copy the entire poem, though it isn't very long.”

”It was very kind,” said Ruth. ”I am so glad to see it. May I read it now? This is what the letter says,” reading it aloud, so that David also might hear. ”If I had a prayer to make for any great good ... it should be that one of your children should be the first American poet?”

”The first English hand across the sea!” said Paul Colbert.

Ruth read on from this letter of John Keats to his brother: ”I have a mind to make a prophecy. They say that prophecies work out their own fulfilment.” And then she read as much of ”A Prophecy” as the doctor had copied.

”Though, the rushes that will make Its cradle are by the lake-- Though the linen that will be Its swathe is on the cotton tree-- Though the woollen that will keep It warm is on the silly sheep-- Listen, starlight, listen, listen, Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, And hear my lullaby!

Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee!

Midst the quiet all around thee!

Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee!

And thy mother sweet is nigh thee.

Child, I know thee! Child no more, But a poet ever-more!

See, see, the lyre, the lyre!

In a flame of fire Upon the little cradle's top Flaring, flaring, flaring, Past the eyesight's bearing.

Wake it from its sleep, And see if it can keep Its eyes upon the blaze-- Amaze, amaze!

It stares, it stares, it stares, It dares what none dares!

It lifts its little hand into the flame Unharmed and on the strings Paddles a little tune and sings, With dumb endeavor sweetly-- Bard thou art completely; Little child, O' the western wild....”

Ruth looked at Paul with s.h.i.+ning eyes. ”I thank you again for thinking that I would like this,” she said.

”A little chap whom I saw last night made me feel like making a prophecy that he would be the first Kentucky astronomer,” said Paul, with a smile. ”He was hardly more than a baby, not much over two years old--a toddling curly-head. Yet there he stood by the roadside, looking up at the heavens, as solemn as you please. And he said that 'man couldn't make moons.' I didn't hear him say this, but his brother repeated what he said.”

”Yes, I know. You mean' little Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel. His people live near here, over on Highland Creek. His father came there from Virginia.

He intended to bore for salt water, meaning to make salt. But he found more interest in the wild multiflora roses that bloom all around the Lick, and the bones of unknown animals buried fifty feet beneath the surface of the earth--though the bones were not found just there--but farther off at another Lick.”

”Then Master Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel is the true son of his father,”

smiled Paul Colbert. ”Neither seems commonplace enough to be content with what everyday people find between heaven and earth.”

He said this idly, as we all speak to one another when casting about for mutual interests before really knowing each other. Thus the talk drifted for a few moments, with a shy word now and then from David. And presently a chance reference to the epidemic brought a new light into the doctor's eyes, and a new earnestness into his voice.

”The fathers and mothers of the country are much alarmed for their children,” he said. ”But there is far more need to be alarmed for themselves. The Cold Plague attacks the strong rather than the weak. But all the people, young and old, everywhere through the wilderness, are almost frantic with terror. They fear infection from every newcomer.

There was a panic throughout this vicinity a few days ago, over the landing of a flatboat, and the coming ash.o.r.e of the unfortunates who were on it. They were in a most pitiful plight. I hope never to see a sadder sight than that poverty-stricken little family. But they were not suffering from any disease more contagious than want; they were only cold, wet, tired, hungry, and disheartened. The poor mother was sitting on the damp sand near the water's edge, with her little ones around her, when I found them. They were merely stopping to rest on their way from another portion of the state, to the wild country on the other side of the river.”

”We saw them, too, poor things,” said Ruth, quickly, with pity in her soft eyes. ”Father Orin and Toby came by to tell us, and David and I went at once to do what we could. I can't forget how the mother looked.

She was young, but had such a sad, haggard face, with such a prominent forehead, and such steady gray eyes. She held a strange looking little child on her lap. She said that her name was Nancy Lincoln, and she called the baby 'Abe.' He couldn't have been more than two years of age, but he looked up at Father Orin, and from his face to ours, like some troubled little old man.”

”Yes, Father Orin and Toby were first to the rescue, as they always are.

I can't imagine when those two sleep, and I am sure they never rest when awake.”

And then, seeing her interest and sympathy, he went on to tell of three little ones, orphaned by the plague, and left alone and utterly helpless, in a cabin on the Wilderness Road. As he spoke, he remembered with a pang of self-reproach, that Father Orin was with them now and waiting for him. He rose suddenly, saying that he must go, but a slight noise at the door caused him to pause and turn. It was William Pressley coming in, and Ruth went forward to meet him, and introduced him to the doctor, who sat down again for a few moments. The two young men then talked with one another as strangers do, of the current topics of the day and the country, speaking mostly of the Shawnee danger--the one subject then most earnestly and universally discussed throughout the wilderness. The nearest approach to a personal tone was in William Pressley's formal expression of thanks. Paul Colbert put these aside as formally as they were offered, and in a moment more he got up to take leave. Yet in that brief s.p.a.ce the two men had begun to dislike each other.