I watch the sailing eagles
as they streak across the gold, and swoop up into the blue, and pass out of
sight. I watch the golden flush fade to gray, and then, the canyon slowly
fills with purple shadows. This hour of twilight is the silent and
melancholy one. Seldom is there any sound save the soft rush of the water
over the stones, and that seems to die away. For a moment, perhaps, I am
Hiawatha alone in his forest home, or a more primitive savage, feeling the
great, silent pulse of nature, happy in unconsciousness, like a beast of
the wild. But only for an instant do I ever catch this fleeting state. Next
I am Glenn Kilbourne of West Fork, doomed and haunted by memories of the
past. The great looming walls then become no longer blank. They are vast
pages of the history of my life, with its past and present, and, alas! its
future. Everything time does is written on the stones. And my stream seems
to murmur the sad and ceaseless flow of human life, with its music and its
misery.
Then, descending from the sublime to the humdrum and necessary, I heave a
sigh, and pull myself together, and go in to make biscuits and fry ham. But
I should not forget to tell you that before I do go in, very often my
looming, wonderful walls and crags weave in strange shadowy characters the
beautiful and unforgettable face of Carley Burch!
I append what little news Oak Creek affords.
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