The First Settler's Story - continued

Here comes the final installment of the poem. It has a sad ending, and I hope that it will help us to always remember to speak kindly and gently.

The First Settler's Story -continued

And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded,

My thunderstorm had come, now 'twasn't needed.

And she, while I was sheltered, dry and warm,

Was somewhere in the clutches of that storm!

She, who when storm-frights found her at her best,

Had always hid her white face on my breast!

My dog, who'd skirmished round me all the day,

Now crouched and whimpering in a corner lay.

I dragged him by the collar to the wall,

I pressed his quivering muzzle to her shawl-

"Track her old boy, "I shouted, and he whined,

Matched eyes with me, as if to read my mind.

Then with a yell, went tearing through the wood,

I followed him as faithful as I could.

No pleasure trip was that, through flood and flame

We raced with death, we hunted noble game.

All night we dragged the woods without avail;

The ground got drenched; we could not keep the trail.

Three times again my cabin home I found,

Half hoping she might be there safe and sound.

But each time'twas an unavailing care,

My house had lost its soul - she was not there.

When climbing the wet trees next morning's sun

Laughed at the ruin that the night had done.

Bleeding and drenched, by toil and sorrow bent,

Back to what used to be my home I went.

But as I neared our little clearing ground;

Listen! I heard the cowbells' tingling sound.

The cabin door was just a bit ajar,

It gleamed upon my glad eyes like a star.

"Brave heart," I said, for such a fragile form,

She made them guide them homeward through the storm.

Such pangs of joy I never felt before;

"You've come!" I shouted, and rushed through the door.

Yes, she had come and gone again, she lay

With her young life crushed and wrenched away.

Lay the heart ruins of our home among

Not far from where I killed her with my tongue.

The raindrops glittered amid her hair, long strands.

The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands.

And amidst those tears, brave tears that one could trace

Upon that pale but sweetly resolute face,

I once again the mournful words could read,

I've tried to do my best, I have indeed.

And now I am almost done, my story's almost o'er,

Part of it never breathed the air before,

But where e'er this story's voice can reach,

This is the sermon I would have it preach;

Boys flying kites haul in their white winged birds;

You can't do that when you're flying words.

Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead,

But God himself can't kill them once they're said.

Careful with fire is good advice we know;

"Careful with words" is ten times doubly so.

You have my life grief! Don't think a minute

'Twas told to take up time! There's business in it.

It sheds advice; who e'er will take and live it,

Is welcome to the pain it takes to give it.

by Will Carlton