Near to the bank of the river, o’ershadowed
by oaks, from whose branches
Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,
Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at
Yule-tide,
Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman.
A garden
Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,
Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself
was of timbers
Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together.
Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns
supported,
Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious
veranda,
Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around
it.
At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the
garden,
Stationed the dove-cots were, as love’s perpetual
symbol,
Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions
of rivals.
Silence reigned o’er the place. The line
of shadow and sunshine
Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself
was in shadow,
And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding
Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke
rose.
In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran
a pathway
Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the
limitless prairie,
Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.
Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy
canvas
Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm
in the tropics,
Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of
grapevines.
Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of
the prairie,
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,
Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of
deerskin.
Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish
sombrero
Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look
of its master.
Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that
were grazing
Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness
That uprose from the river, and spread itself over
the landscape.
Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and
expanding
Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that
resounded
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air
of the evening.
Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of
the cattle
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of
ocean.
Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed
o’er the prairie,
And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the
distance.
Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through
the gate of the garden
Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing
to meet him.
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement,
and forward
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;
When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the
blacksmith.
Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the
garden.
There in an arbor of roses with endless question and
answer
Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their
friendly embraces,
Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and
thoughtful.
Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts
and misgivings
Stole o’er the maiden’s heart; and Basil,
somewhat embarrassed,
Broke the silence and said, “If you came by
the Atchafalaya,
How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel’s
boat on the bayous?”
Over Evangeline’s face at the words of Basil
a shade passed.
Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous
accent,
“Gone? is Gabriel gone?” and, concealing
her face on his shoulder,
All her o’erburdened heart gave way, and she
wept and lamented.
Then the good Basil said,—and his voice
grew blithe as he said it,—
“Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day
he departed.
Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and
my horses.
Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled,
his spirit
Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.
Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,
Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,
He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,
Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me,
and sent him
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the
Spaniards.
Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark
Mountains,
Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping
the beaver.
Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive
lover;
He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams
are against him.
Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of
the morning
We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his
prison.”
Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks
of the river,
Borne aloft on his comrades’ arms, came Michael
the fiddler.
Long under Basil’s roof had he lived like a
god on Olympus,
Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.
Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.
“Long live Michael,” they cried, “our
brave Acadian minstrel!”
As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and
straightway
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting
the old man
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil,
enraptured,
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,
Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and
daughters.
Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant
blacksmith,
All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal
demeanor;
Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil
and the climate,
And of the prairie; whose numberless herds were his
who would take them;
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would
go and do likewise.
Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy
veranda,
Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper
of Basil
Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted
together.
Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.
All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape
with silver,
Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but
within doors,
Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in
the glimmering lamplight.
Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table,
the herdsman
Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless
profusion.
Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches
tobacco,
Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled
as they listened:—
“Welcome once more, my friends, who long have
been friendless and homeless,
Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance
than the old one!
Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the
rivers;
Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer.
Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as
a keel through the water.
All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom;
and grass grows
More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.
Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed
in the prairies;
Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests
of timber
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into
houses.
After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow
with harvests,
No King George of England shall drive you away from
your homesteads,
Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your
farms and your cattle.”
Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from
his nostrils,
While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on
the table,
So that the guests all started; and Father Felician,
astounded,
Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to
his nostrils.
But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder
and gayer:—
“Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware
of the fever!
For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate,
Cured by wearing a spider hung round one’s neck
in a nutshell!”
Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps
approaching
Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy
veranda.
It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters,
Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the
Herdsman.
Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors:
Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before
were as strangers,
Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to
each other,
Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.
But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding
From the accordant strings of Michael’s melodious
fiddle,
Broke up all further speech. Away, like children
delighted,
All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves
to the maddening
Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to
the music,
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering
garments.
Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest
and the herdsman
Sat, conversing together of past and present and future;
While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within
her
Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the
music
Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible
sadness
Came o’er her heart, and unseen she stole forth
into the garden.
Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall
of the forest,
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon.
On the river
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous
gleam of the moonlight,
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and
devious spirit.
Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of
the garden
Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers
and confessions
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent
Carthusian.
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows
and night-dews,
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the
magical moonlight
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longing;
As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade
of the oak-trees,
Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless
prairie.
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite
numbers.
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the
heavens,
Shone on the eyes of man who had ceased to marvel
and worship,
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of
that temple,
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “Upharsin.”
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and
the fire-flies,
Wandered alone, and she cried, “O Gabriel!
O my beloved!
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold
thee?
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not
reach me?
Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the
prairie!
Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands
around me!
Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,
Thou hast lain down to rest and to dream of me in
thy slumbers!
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded
about thee?”
Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill
sounded
Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring
thickets,
Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into
silence.
“Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular
caverns of darkness:
And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-morrow!”
Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers
of the garden
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed
his tresses
With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases
of crystal.
“Farewell!” said the priest, as he stood
at the shadowy threshold;
“See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from
his fasting and famine,
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom
was coming.”
“Farewell!” answered the maiden, and,
smiling, with Basil descended
Down to the river’s brink, where the boatmen
already were waiting.
Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine,
and gladness,
Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding
before them,
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the
desert.
Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded,
Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest
or river,
Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague
and uncertain
Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and
desolate Country;
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes,
Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the
garrulous landlord,
That on the day before, with horses and guides and
companions,
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the
prairies.
