36. FEEBLE GREW HER AGED FOOTSTEPS.

Tis ever thus when hope is gone,

Feeble grow the lagging foot-steps

And slow the hands that carry on,

Waiting for the final shadow.

Only then her footsteps faltered,

Only then she seemed discouraged,

Still she labored for her children,

Cooking woodchuck in the cabin,

Boiling squirrels in the kettle,

And the fearless woodland pussy,

Broiled above the glowing embers,

Browned and ready for their supper;

Pounded corn in ancient mortar,

In the cabin in the forest,

Caring for the many children,

Indian children of the Light House,

Tokens of her father's anger

And her own unyielding answer.

Feeble grew her aged footsteps,

Toiling there beside the river.

Gone her youth and all her beauty,

Gone her joyous smiles and laughter,

Snowy white her tangled tresses.

Now her thoughts kept turning backward

To the distant days of childhood,

To the happy days with mother.

Clearly still she thought of father,

Say her children's children's children,

And his bitter words of anger,

Giving her no word of kindness,

When she humbly sought his blessing,

On the union she had chosen,

Yet her spirit lived unbroken,

But the weary years were many,

Saddened by the bitter quarrel,

“But” she whispered very slowly,

‘ Though the years again roll backward,

Filling life with youth and beauty,

Bringing crowds of wealth suitors,

Never would I wed for money,

Where my heart refused to follow.”

“Better toil through life in freedom

Than be bought by suitor's money

Like a lowly slave at auction.”