The base thought from him: “Nauhaught, be a man!
Starve, if need be; but, while you live, look out
From honest eyes on all men, unashamed.
God help me! I am deacon of the church,
A baptized, praying Indian! Should I do
This secret meanness, even the barken knots
Of the old trees would turn to eyes to see it,
The birds would tell of it, and all the leaves
Whisper above me: ‘Nauhaught is a thief!’
The sun would know it, and the stars that hide
Behind his light would watch me, and at night
Follow me with their sharp, accusing eyes.
Yea, thou, God, seest me!” Then Nauhaught drew
Closer his belt of leather, dulling thus
The pain of hunger, and walked bravely back
To the brown fishing-hamlet by the sea;
And, pausing at the inn-door, cheerily asked:
“Who hath lost aught to-day?”
“I,” said a voice;
“Ten golden pieces, in a silken purse,
My daughter’s handiwork.” He looked, and lo!
One stood before him in a coat of frieze,
And the glazed hat of a seafaring man,
Shrewd-faced, broad-shouldered, with no trace of wings.
Marvelling, he dropped within the stranger’s hand
The silken web, and turned to go his way.
But the man said: “A tithe at least is yours;
Take it in God’s name as an honest man.”
And as the deacon’s dusky fingers closed
Over the golden gift, “Yea, in God’s name
I take it, with a poor man’s thanks,” he said.
So down the street that, like a river of sand,
Ran, white in sunshine, to the summer sea,
He sought his home, singing and praising God;
And when his neighbors in their careless way
Spoke of the owner of the silken purse—
A Wellfleet skipper, known in every port
That the Cape opens in its sandy wall—
He answered, with a wise smile, to himself:
“I saw the angel where they see a man.”
THE SISTERS
Annie and Rhoda, sisters twain,
Woke in the night to the sound of rain,
The rush of wind, the ramp and roar
Of great waves climbing a rocky shore.
Annie rose up in her bed-gown white,
And looked out into the storm and night.
“Hush, and hearken!” she cried in fear,
“Hearest thou nothing, sister dear?”
“I hear the sea, and the plash of rain,
And roar of the northeast hurricane.
“Get thee back to the bed so warm,
No good comes of watching a storm.
“What is it to thee, I fain would know,
That waves are roaring and wild winds blow?
“No lover of thine ’s afloat to miss
The harbor-lights on a night like this.”
“But I heard a voice cry out my name,
Up from the sea on the wind it came!
“Twice and thrice have I heard it call,
And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!”
On her pillow the sister tossed her head.
“Hall of the Heron is safe,” she said.
“In the tautest schooner that ever swam
He rides at anchor in Annisquam.
“And, if in peril from swamping sea
Or lee shore rocks, would he call on thee?”
But the girl heard only the wind and tide,
And wringing her small white hands she cried:
“O sister Rhoda, there ’s something wrong;
I hear it again, so loud and long.
