LINDA'S SONG.

A little bird flew

To the top of a tree:

The sky it was blue,

And the bird sang to me.

So tender and true was the strain

The singer, I hoped, would remain;

O little bird, stay and prolong

The rapture the grief of that song!

A little thought came,

Came out of my heart;

It whispered a name

That made me to start:

And the rose-colored breath of my sigh

Flushed the earth and the sea and the sky.

Delay, little thought! O, delay,

And gladden my life with thy ray!

“Such singing lured Ulysses to the rocks!”

Old Lothian said, applauding. “Charles, look out,

Or, ere we reck of it, this reckless siren

Will have us all a wreck on Norman's Woe.

See to your oars!— Where are we drifting, man?”

“Who would not drift on such a night as this?”

Said Charles; “all's right.” Then, heading for the Cove,

Slowly and steadily the rowers pulled.

But, when the moon shone crescent in the west,

And the faint outline of the part obscured

Thread-like curved visible from horn to horn,—

And Jupiter, supreme among the orbs,

And Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth,

And the great concave opened like a flower,

Unfolding firmaments and galaxies,

Sparkling with separate stars, or snowy white

With undistinguishable suns beyond,—

They paused and rested on their oars again,

And looked around,— in adoration looked.

For, gazing on the inconceivable,

They felt God is, though inconceivable;—

And, while they mutely worshipped, suddenly

A change came over Linda's countenance,

And her glazed mortal eyes were functionless;

For there, before her in the boat, stood two

Unbidden, not unwelcome passengers,

Her father and her mother....

“Why, Miss Linda,

Wake! Are you sleeping? What has been the matter?

Here we've been waiting for you full five minutes.

And I have called, and Mr. Lothian

He too has called, and yet you make no answer!”

“Rachel! What is it? There! Excuse me all,

If I seemed impolite. Now, then, I'm ready.

A strong pull shall it be? So! Let her dart!”

And in ten minutes they were at the landing

And on their homeward way; and, as they parted,

The spoils were shared, and the old man accepted

One of the baskets, and all cried, “Good night!”

The morning sea-fog like an incense rose

Up to the sun and perished in his beam;

The sky's blue promise brightened through the veil.

With her unopened sketch-book in her hand,

Linda stood on the summit looking down

On Norman's Woe, and felt upon her brow

The cooling haze that foiled the August heat.

Near her knelt Rachel, hunting curiously

For the fine purple algæ of the clefts.

Good cause had Linda for a cheerful heart;

For had she not that day received by mail

A copy of “The Prospect of the Flowers,” —

Published in chromo, and these words from Diggin?

“Your future is assured: my bait is swallowed,

Bait, hook, and sinker, all; now let our fish

Have line enough and time enough for play,

And we will land him safely by and by.

A good fat fish he is, and thinks he's cunning.

Enclosed you'll find a hundred-dollar bill;

Please send me a receipt. Keep very quiet.”

Yet Linda was not altogether happy.

Why was it that Charles Lothian had called

Once, and once only, after their adventure?

Called just to ask her, How she found herself?

And, Did she overtask herself in rowing?

How happened it, in all her walks and rambles,

They rarely met, or, if they met, a bow

Formal and cold was all the interview?

While thus she mused, she started at a cry:

“Ah! here's our siren, cumbent on the rocks!

Where should a siren be, if not on rocks?”

Old Lothian's voice! He came with rod and line

To try an angler's luck. Behind him stepped

Charles, who stood still, as if arrested, when

He noticed Linda.

Then, as if relenting

In some resolve, he jumped from rock to rock

To where she leaned; and, greeting her, inquired:

“Have you been sketching?” — “No, for indolence

Is now my occupation.” — “Here's a book;

May I not look at it?” — “You may.” — “Is this

An album?” — “‘ Tis my sketch-book.” — “Do you mean

These are your sketches, and original?”

“Ay, truly, mine; from nature every one.”

“But here we have high art! No amateur

Could color flower like that.” — “Ah! there you touch me;

For I'm no amateur in painting flowers,—

I get my living by it.” — “I could praise

That sea-view also,— what a depth of sky!

That beach,— that schooner flying from a squall,—

If I'm a judge, here's something more than skill!”

Then the discourse slid off to woman's rights;

For Lothian held a newspaper which told

Of some convention, the report of which

Might raise a smile. One of the lady speakers,

It seems, would give her sex the privilege

Of taking the initiative in wooing,

If so disposed!

“Indeed, why not?” cried Linda.

“Indeed, you almost take my breath away

With your Why not, Miss Percival! Why not?”

“Yes, I repeat,— if so disposed, why not?

For why should woman any more than man

Play the dissembler, with so much at stake?

I know the ready taunt that here will rise:

‘ Already none too backward are our girls

In husband-seeking.’ Seeking in what way?

Seeking by stratagem and management,—

Not by frank, honest means! What food for mirth

‘ Twould give to shallow men to see a woman

Court the relation, intertwined with all

Of purest happiness that she may crave,—

The ties of wife and mother! O, what pointing,

Sneering, and joking! And yet why should care

Thoughtful and pure and wisely provident,

That Nature's sacred prompting shall not fail,

Be one thing for a man, and quite another

For her, the woman? Why this flimsy mask?

This playing of a part, put on to suit,

Not the heart's need, but Fashion custom-bound?

Feigning we must be sought, and never seek?

Now, through these social hindrances and bars,

The bold, perhaps the intriguing, carry off

Prizes the true and modest ought to win.

And so we hear it coarsely said of husbands,

‘ Better a poor one far, than none at all!’

A thought ignoble, and which no true woman

Should harbor for a moment. Give her freedom,

Freedom to seek, and she'll not harbor it!

Because if woman, equally with man,

Were privileged thus, she would discriminate

Much more than now, and fewer sordid unions

Would be the sure result. For what if man

Were chained to singleness until some woman

Might seek his hand in marriage, would he be

Likely as now to make a wise election?

Would he not say,‘ Time flies; my chances lessen

And I must plainly take what I can get?’

True, there are mercenary men enough,

Seeking rich dowries; they'd find fewer dupes,

Were women free as men to seek and choose,

Banish the senseless inequality,

And you make marriage less a vulgar game

In which one tries to circumvent the other.

Oh! all this morbid ribaldry of men,

And all this passive imbecility,

And superstitious inactivity,

Dissimulation and improvidence,

False shame and lazy prejudice of women,

Where the great miracle of sex concerns us,

And Candor should be innocently wise,

And Knowledge should be reverently free,—

Is against nature,— helps to hide the way

Out of the social horrors that confound us,

And launches thousands into paths impure,

Shutting them out from holy parentage.”

“I hold,” said Charles, “the question is not one

Of reasoning, but of simple sentiment.

As it would shock me, should a woman speak

In virile baritone, so would I shudder

To hear a grave proposal marriageward

In alto or soprano.”

“‘ Twould depend!

Depend on love,” said Linda; “love potential,

Or present.” — “Nay,‘ twould frighten love!” cried Charles,—

“Kill it outright.” — “Then would it not be love!

What! would you love a woman less because

She durst avow her love, before the cue

Had been imparted by your lordly lips?

Rare love would that be truly which could freeze

Because the truth came candid from her heart,

And in advance of the proprieties!”

“But may the woman I could love,” cried Charles,

“Forbear at least the rash experiment!”

“I doubt,” said Linda, “if you know your heart;

For hearts look to the substance, not the form.

Why should not woman seek her happiness

With brow as unabashed as man may wear

In seeking his? Ah! lack of candor here

Works more regrets, for woman and for man,

Than we can reckon. Let but woman feel

That in the social scheme she's not a cipher,

The remedy, be sure, is not far off.”

“To me it seems,” said Lothian, “that you war

Against our natural instincts: have they not

Settled the point, even as the world has done?”

Said Linda: “Instincts differ; they may be

Results of shallow prejudice or custom.

The Turk will tell you that polygamy

Is instinct; and the savage who stalks on

In dirty painted grandeur, while his squaw

Carries the burdens, might reply that instinct

Regulates that. So instinct proves too much.

Queens and great heiresses are privileged

To intimate their matrimonial choice,—

Simply because superiority

In power or riches gives an apt excuse:

Let a plurality of women have

The wealth and power, and you might see reversed

What now you call an instinct. When a higher

Civilization shall make woman less

Dependent for protection and support

On man's caprice or pleasure, there may be

A higher sort of woman; one who shall

Feel that her lot is more in her own hands,

And she, like man, a free controlling force,

Not a mere pensioner on paternal bounty

Until some sultan throws the handkerchief.”

A cry of triumph from the fisherman,

Exuberant at having caught a bass,

Here ended the discussion, leaving Linda

With the last word. Charles went to chat with Rachel;

And Linda, summoned by vociferations

From the excited, the transported captor,

Descended to inspect the amazing fish.

“A beauty, is it not, Miss Percival?

A rare one, too, for this part of the coast!

‘ Twill be a study how to have it cooked.

Now sit here, in the shadow of this rock.

Your father's name was Albert Percival?

So I supposed. I've often heard my wife

Speak of him as of one she knew was wronged

Most foully in his wrestle with the law.

Have you not met with Harriet Percival?”

“Once only, and our interview was brief.

Is she not married?” — “No, nor like to be,

Although her fortune is a pretty one,

Even for these times,— two millions, I believe;

All which her mother may inherit soon;

For Harriet is an invalid, but hoards

Her income quite as thriftily as if

She looked for progeny and length of days.

The mother, as you may not be aware,

Has married an aspiring gentleman

Who means to build a palace on the Hudson,

And Harriet's money hence is greatly needed.”

The mist now cleared, and the sun shone in power,

So that the heat soon drove them to the woods.

The senior took his capture home for dinner;

Rachel strolled, picking berries by the brook;

And, under lofty pines, sat Charles and Linda,

And talked discursively, till Linda's thoughts,

Inclining now to memory, now to hope,

Vibrating from the future to the past,

Took, in a silent mood, this rhythmic form.