THE HIDDEN CABIN.

The rugged sides of Palomar are deep With canyons cleft, where raging floods have made Their downward path and held their course unchained. Beyond the eagle’s nest and rocky crag, Where giant arborvitaes throw their plumes Athwart the sky; and crystal waters cold And pure, come sparkling from a mountain spring; By bending boughs and tangled vines shut out From view, the hidden cabin stood; and there Today it stands, and there has stood unkept, In mystery wrapped, a hundred years or more Since its last tenant left it there alone. It stands where it was builded long ago; Yet not the same as in the days of old, For long disuse and winters’ storms and rain Have left their mark; but still enough remains To show that in the hands of him who built No joiner’s tools were held; divested of All metals with sharp edge save only axe And auger, which he plied with master hand To hew the timbers smooth, and cut and fit The doors and frames; and fitting, through these sent The auger’s teeth to clear the way for pins Of wood with which he made all fast and strong. A strange, pathetic story centers round This lonely spot; the story of a true And faithful soul who counted life best spent By those who strive to crucify the flesh, And emulate—as best poor mortal may— The life of Him who lived and died for love; For love of those who loved and hated Him.