Godey's Lady's Book And Magazine 1879-12: Vol 99 Iss 594

The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive

Page 1

GODEY’S Aady’s Book and Stlagazine, VOLUME XCIX. No. 594. PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER, 1879. [Written expressly for Godey's Lady's Book.| A ROSEBUD GARDEN OF GIRLS.* BY MARIAN C. L. REEVES AND EMILY READ, Authors of ‘‘ Ingremisco,’’ “‘ Wearithorne,’’ “‘ Old Martin Boscawen’s Jest,’’ “ Aytoun,”’ etc., etc. CHAPTER XX. (ConrTINUED.) Presently, through the hush, is heard the wak- ing of the morning breeze among the far-off pines. Slowly through the mists the skies begin to flush, the floating clouds throw their golden linings eastward, the golden portals of the east unfold, and the fiery chariot passes through, The whole heavens are aglow in gold and crimson clouds, that flare upon the rising wind, anc wave to and fro, like gorgeous draperies of the sun’s triumphal march through the heavens; the bright folds hanging voluminous upon the mountain tops, and flinging down reflected glory on the lake below. Across it, a blood-red streak lies like a band on Mount Pilate, standing up distinct and isolated in its gloom against the skies, and one thinks of the legendary grave somewhere hidden din the mountain’s recesses—the grave of the blood-stained soul whom neither the water which he vainly defiled in the judgment-hall, nor that of the lake where tradition holds he sought to find repose, could purify. Lake Zurich glim- mers faint as moonlight within the northern hori- zon; the Rossberg stands up red and seared as though but lately scarred by its stupendous slide of earth ; Mythen is veiled in amber vapors; and vaguer still retreat the mountains in Uri, until they are blending with the shadows in the valley of the Reuss. Yet farther off, there is a white cloud gleam of snowy Alps. A dozen watery mirrors, framed by crags or woods, flash back the splendor of the heavens. And the trembling mists retreating to the valleys, like phantom forms of water-sprite or Undine, waver toand fro, and flee before the sun. *All rights reserved But all this is when the sun has fairly risen; while he still is in the act, from a group standing somewhat apart, there goes up a low, half-sup- pressed matin-song of greeting, as the first golden shaft shoots above the horizon, Such a clear, sweet voice; it makes a sensation among the scattered sight-seers, half hushed though it is. There is a low, quickly-checked murmur of admiration, a stir as if turning to see the singer—who is out of view, however, seated on a rock in the midst of her own party. There is one among the more distant hearers who does not, indeed, join in the murmur of ad- miration at the first notes of that voice, but who has given a start of surprise, and a more search- ing glance around, And presently the gleam of recognition grows steadier in his eyes, although they have seen nothing familiar in the group which moment by moment becomes clearer to him, as the gray dawn glows into full sunrise. It is a group not unlike some others there; a comfortable English mamma, with her two or three daughters, fresh-looking, but with toilets rather hasty than becoming, in the early morn- ing light; a man or two, for whom the watcher had just now no attention to spare, and, a thought withdrawn from them, a girlish figure all in black, standing gazing out eagerly over the valleys, her clear profile and the yellow hair under the black shawl thrown carelessly over the head and held by one hand under the chin, every instant more and more distinct in the waxing light. The girl’s deep mourning dress seems a blur upon the bright- ness of the day, and the wistful face— But it is wistful no longer; it takes back, all in a moment, the sunny look which one can see is habitual, to it. For just then, one of her party stoops to make a request of the unseen singer, who with the wild “tra la la” of Kiicken’s Happy Hunter, breaks the spell she had cast round her’with her matin song, that through its ; waking gladness had a plaintive thrill.