Gov. Bob. Taylors Tales | Page 2

again
and again, as often hurled back headlong into the ocean's abyss, they
rolled, and surged, and writhed, and raged, till the affrighted earth
trembled at the uproar of the warring elements. I saw the awful majesty
and might of Jehovah flying on the wings of the tempest, planting his
footsteps on the trackless deep, veiled in darkness and in clouds. There
was a shifting of the bow; the storm died away in the distance, and the
morning broke in floods of glory. Then the violin revived and poured
out its sweetest soul. In its music I heard the rustle of a thousand joyous
wings, and a burst of song from a thousand joyous throats.
Mockingbirds and linnets thrilled the glad air with warblings; gold
finches, thrushes and bobolinks trilled their happiest tunes; and the
oriole sang a lullaby to her hanging cradle that rocked in the wind. I
heard the twitter of skimming swallows and the scattered covey's
piping call; I heard the robin's gay whistle, the croaking of crows, the
scolding of blue-jays, and the melancholy cooing of a dove. The
swaying tree-tops seemed vocal with bird-song while he played, and
the labyrinths of leafy shade echoed back the chorus. Then the violin
sounded the hunter's horn, and the deep-mouthed pack of fox hounds
opened loud and wild, far in the ringing woods, and it was like the
music of a hundred chiming bells. There was a tremor of the bow, and I

heard a flute play, and a harp, and a golden-mouthed cornet; I heard the
mirthful babble of happy voices, and peals of laughter ringing in the
swelling tide of pleasure. Then I saw a vision of snowy arms,
voluptuous forms, and light fantastic slippered feet, all whirling and
floating in the mazes of the misty dance. The flying fingers now tripped
upon the trembling strings like fairy-feet dancing on the nodding
violets, and the music glided into a still sweeter strain. The violin told a
story of human life. Two lovers strayed beneath the elms and oaks, and
down by the river side, where daffodils and pansies bend and smile to
rippling waves, and there, under the bloom of incense-breathing bowers,
under the soothing sound of humming bees and splashing waters, there,
the old, old story, so old and yet so new, conceived in heaven, first told
in Eden and then handed down through all the ages, was told over and
over again. Ah, those downward drooping eyes, that mantling blush,
that trembling hand in meek submission pressed, that heaving breast,
that fluttering heart, that whispered "yes," wherein a heaven lies--how
well they told of victory won and paradise regained! And then he
swung her in a grapevine swing. Young man, if you want to win her,
wander with her amid the elms and oaks, and swing her in a grapevine
swing.
"Swinging in the grapevine swing, Laughing where the wild birds sing;
I dream and sigh for the days gone by, Swinging in the grapevine
swing."
[Illustration: "SWINGING IN THE GRAPEVINE SWING."]
But swiftly the tides of music run, and swiftly speed the hours; Life's
pleasures end when scarce begun, e'en as the summer flowers.
The violin laughed like a child and my dream changed again. I saw a
cottage amid the elms and oaks and a little curly-head toddled at the
door; I saw a happy husband and father return from his labors in the
evening and kiss his happy wife and frolic with his baby. The purple
glow now faded from the Western skies; the flowers closed their petals
in the dewy slumbers of the night; every wing was folded in the bower;
every voice was hushed; the full-orbed moon poured silver from the
East, and God's eternal jewels flashed on the brow of night. The scene

changed again while the great master played, and at midnight's holy
hour, in the light of a lamp dimly burning, clad in his long, white
mother-hubbard, I saw the disconsolate victim of love's young dream
nervously walking the floor, in his bosom an aching heart, in his arms
the squalling baby. On the drowsy air, like the sad wails of a lost spirit,
fell his woeful voice singing:
[Illustration: (Sheet Music)]
With my la-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye ba-by, Danc-ing the ba-by ev-er so high;
with my La-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye ba-by Mam-ma will come to you bye
and bye.
It was a battle with king colic. But this ancient invader of the empire of
babyhood had sounded a precipitate retreat; the curly head had fallen
over on the paternal shoulder; the tear-stained little face was almost
calm in repose, when down went a naked heel square on an inverted
tack. Over went the work table; down came the work basket, scissors
and all; up went the heel with the