Volume 32 / Part 15 — SHAWANGUNK MOUNTAIN.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

Before the plough had scattered fields of grain And grassy orchards midst the oaken woods Of Shawangunk, upon the mountain's top Stood a wood-cutter's hut. Himself and wife Shared it alone. The spot was green and sweet. The earth was covered with a velvet sward, Grouped with low thickets, here and there a tree Rearing its dark rich foliage in the heavens. Pleasant the echoes of his fast plied axe, Merrily rattling through the mountain-woods, To those who sought the old surveyor's road For shade and coolness; and amidst the sounds Would boom deep heavy shocks of falling trees, Like growls of thunder in the noontide-hush, So that the eye would glance impulsively Up to the tree-tops, to discern the peak Of the ascending cloud. His forest-life, Though rude, was joyous. When the mellow charm Of sunset on the smiling mountains lay, The creaking of his high-piled cart would blend With song or whistle blithe, as, dipping down The road, he sought the village in the midst Of the green hollow. This slight mountain-road Went slanting to the summit, with blazed trunks On either side, and soft delicious grass Spreading its carpet; one faint track alone Telling that wheel had e'er its beauty scarred. Close to the hut it passed, then downward plunged, And sought the level of the opposite side. 'T was at the close of one cold winter day That down this road I trod. My weary steps, With efforts vain, had tracked, for hours, the deer, And now, with empty flask and rifle, swift, I journeyed homeward. Nature's great bright eye Low beaming in the west, still poured sweet light Upon the mountain. The pure snow, all round, In delicate rose-tints glowed. The hemlocks smiled, Speckled with gold. The oak's sear foliage, still Tight clinging to the boughs, was kindled up To warm rich brown. The myriad trunks and sprays Traced their black lines upon the soft snow-blush Beneath, until it seemed a tangled maze. Upon the mountain's top, a thread of smoke From the low cabin rose, as though a streak Of violet had been painted on the air. I heard the ring of the wood-cutter's axe, And, through an opening, saw his instrument Flashing into a walnut's giant stem, Whose upborne mass, in the fast lowering light, Seemed cut in copper. A broad wind-fall near Let down my eyes upon the hollow. White In snow it lay, with long and dusky lines Of fences crossing—groups of orchard-trees— Hay-barracks—barns and long low dwelling-roofs. Straight as an arrow ran the streak of road Athwart the hollow. As I looked, the eye In the red west sank lower, till half quenched Behind the upland, then a shred of light Glittered and vanished, and the sky was bare. Whilst gazing on this splendor, suddenly I heard a shriek. Shrill, ringing midst the woods In piercing clearness, through my ears it cut, And left a sense of deafness. Startled, round I gazed. Again the horrid sound thrilled past. I knew it then as the terrific cry Of the fierce, bloody panther. In our woods Naught fiercer, bloodier dwells, when roused by rage Or hunger. Oft our hunters had of late Marked the huge foot-prints of the ravenous beast, And heard his scream at midnight, but no eye As yet had seen him. With a nervous grasp Upon my useless weapon, and a weight Of helplessness, like lead, upon my soul, I started on my path. At every step I thought his tawny form and fierce green eye Would meet my sight, upon some limb o'erhead. But naught was seen. The village soon I reached, And gladly crossed the threshold of my home. The long, cold, breathless night came swiftly down. The clear, magnificent moon seemed not inlaid In the bright blue, but stood out bold, distinct, As though impending from the cloudless skies Glittering with frost. Upon the sparkling snow The rich light slept in such sweet purity As naught on earth can match. The hours sped on, The silver day still shone serene and clear, And twinkled on the crystals shooting round. Gazing once more upon the splendid scene, Before I sought the couch, my wandering eye Glanced at the mountain. There it grandly stood A giant mass of ivory. On the spot Where the steep slanting road the hollow joined, My sight a moment dwelt, for there I last Had swept around a quick and piercing gaze, In search of the gaunt monster whose keen cry Still echoed in my ears. Is that a spot Of shadow flickering in some transient breeze? No. O'er the hollow, gliding swift, it comes. Is it the ravenous panther, fierce for blood, Seeking the village? Closer as it speeds A clearer shape it shows—a human form— 'T is the wood-cutter's wife! She loudly shrieks, "My husband—lost—wake, wake!" the moonlight falls Upon her features swollen with tears. A band Of villagers was soon aroused, and forth We sallied toward the mountain. So intense The cold, the snow creaked shrilly at our tread, And the strewed diamonds on its surface flashed Back the keen moonlight. As we trod along, The wife in breathless haste, her story told, How, when the sunset fell, she watched to see Her husband's form swift speeding up the road, From the side-clearing, at that wonted hour, Toward his low roof. The sunset died, and night Sprang on the earth; the absent one came not. The moon moved up; the latch-string was not pulled For entrance in the cabin. Hours sped on. And still, upon the silvered snow, no form Her gaze rewarded. Once she heard afar A panther's shriek. Her fear to frenzy rose. To the side-clearing sped she; naught was there But solitude and moonlight. As she told Her tale I shuddered. In my ear again Rang the fierce shriek I heard as sunset glowed, And my flesh crept with horror. Up we trod Our mountain snow-path speedily. At length, To where the narrow opening in the woods Led from the road, we came. 'T was at this spot I stood, and watched the form and flashing axe Of him, the lost. We passed within. The moon Threw on the little clearing a full flood Of radiance. There the crusted wood-pile stood; There was the walnut with a ghastly notch Deep in its heart. A ledge of rock rose up Beside the wounded tree, and at its base A space of blackest hue proclaimed a chasm. No life was stirring on the brilliant waste; The trees rose like a wall on every side But where the ledge frowned darkly. As I checked My footsteps at the half-hewn walnut, drops Thick sprinkled round—the snow stamped down—an axe Lying upon the high wreathed roots, my gaze, As with a charm, arrested. From this spot Large prints and a broad furrow stretched along To the black chasm within the rocky ledge. We clustered round the mouth. A low, deep growl Came from the depths. Two orbs of flashing fire Glared in the darkness. Brace, the hunter, aimed His rifle just between the flaming spots, And fired. Fierce growls and gnashings loud of teeth Blent with the echoes, and then all was still. The spots were seen no more. A few had brought Splinters of pine for torches, and the flint Supplied the flame. With one hand grasping tight A hatchet keen, the other a bright torch, The dauntless hunter ventured, with slow steps, Within the cavern. Soon a shout we heard, And Brace appeared, with all his giant strength Dragging a lifeless panther. In again He passed, and then brought out a human form, Mangled and crushed. A shriek pealed wild and high, And, swooning, sank the wife upon the snow, Beside the dead. With silent, deep-felt awe We bore both to the hut. A sudden cloud Rose frowning from the north, and deep and fierce Howled the loosed tempest. From her death-like swoon, Roused by our care, the hapless wife poured out Her cries and wailings. Through the livelong night We heard her moans and screams and ravings wild, Blending with all those stern and awful tones That the scourged forest yields. But morning dawned, And brought the widowed and the broken heart The peace of death. Beside the lonely hut, Two graves were opened in the frozen snow, And silence then fell deeply on the spot. No more the smoke curled up. No more the axe Rang in the mountain; and a few short years Leveled the cabin with the forest-earth, Midst spreading bushes, fern and waving grass.