would Nito-me -ma sing an evening hymn, or with a low and plaintive melody, strike into a little voluntary of her own:
Nothing so sweet beneath the stars:
Opens its blue eyes in the morning and closes its lids at night:
It has but a slender support to lean on,
For its strong prop has been taken away.
It climbs o'er a sorrowful ruin,
And its cup, it is filled with briny tears.
Wind round me, sweet Morning-Glory,
And bind up the stem which holds up thee."
At last the snows descended and lay in pyramidal layers on the pines and evergreens, and the air was nipping cold, but it entered not the barken inclosure, nor touched the little nymph at the foot of the oak. Gentle Dove was happy in those dark days. The snow-birds hopped about her abode, to receive crumbs from her humble table, and left their footprints all around. She had no book to read from, nor had she learned the art of reading, but Morning-Glory was an opening and expanding revelation, full of poetry and irradiated with hope. At night, when the winds howled, and, in sympathy with the uplifted head, the sides of the living house in which she dwelt were contorted and sent forth groans as if in pain, she made moccasins by the dim light of her lamp, with her feet near the hot embers, and so beguiled the weary time. She dared not wander during the wintry months, for the wolves were hungry, and their howlings could be heard for miles on the air. Beyond the forests the illimitable prairies were covered with a white mantle, and the Father of Waters was frozen-up.
When the natal day of the Lord came, Gentle Dove adorned her sanctuary with laurel and with green twigs, and out of doors built an altar of pure white snows, and wreathed it round with running vines, and placed thereon the dried-up votive chaplet, and she called it the Altar of Deliverance. It was not destitute of other offerings, for the trees dropped icicles, and covered it with crystal gems. At last the thaws began, and the green blades of grass peeped forth upon
