Page:The New England Magazine 1891, 5.1.djvu/106

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108

A BURIED CITY.

notion of yours can harm no one but yourself, and—if you really feel you are inspired in it—that you are led in that direction,—why—I don't see—so long as you keep it to yourself—we might let it rest as it is."

Mrs. Lathe said nothing. She only smiled. The Rev. Mr. Maynard returned the smile in a weak manner. Just then he sniffed the odor of steaming cabbage, which penetrated even to the sacred precincts of the parlor; and there was a hiss of boiling-over water, which called the widow to the kitchen.

"Excuse me—the cabbage is boiling over," she said. She returned in a few minutes with a beaming face. "Won't you step out and have a bit of boiled dish?" she asked.

The parson hesitated a moment, and then followed the widow into the kitchen.

"It's boiled dish without corned-beef," she announced almost gayly. "It seems funny, but it's real relishing. Somehow the thought of eating an animal now makes me sort of sick. I feel like a cannibal. I have the same dinners I would have with meat, but I leave the meat out; green peas and such things on lamb days, without the lamb—and so on."

They sat down, and the minister asked a fervent blessing. The widow ate more than usual, and so did the Rev. Mr. Maynard. While they ate, they could hear the cheerful clucking of the hens, who seemed aware of their renewed lease. of life and Billy whistled from his branch of the apple tree.

A BURIED CITY.

By Arthur L. Salmon.

DOWN, down, beneath the water's ebb and flow, A buried city lies with homes and towers;There, when the sun has set and winds are low, I rock and dream for hours:And softly floating on the dusky tide In listless twilight rest,I hear far chimes of buried belfries glide Along the water's breast.

At times, methinks, when from the quiet sky A cloudless moon in silver glory peers,Its streets and gabled houses meet mine eye, As in the by-gone years;The murmurings of many voices rise In solemn mystic strain,And vanished faces under brighter skies Return to smile again.

The voices of my childhood's happy days Come stealing upwards through the hush of night;And through the lonely, long-deserted ways, There streams a flood of light.But ah, it is a dream, when winds are low,— Too dear a dream to last;And mournfully the waters ebb and flow Above my buried past.