"We have done well," he added, "with the stock, But this one, if he lives, will make a name." The bull-calf gambolled with his tail acock, Then shyly nosed towards them, scared but tame; His troublous eyes were sulky with blue flame. Softly he tip-toed, shying at a touch; He nosed, his breath came sweet, his pale tongue curled to clutch.
They rubbed his head, and Mary went her way, Counting the dreary time, the dreary beat Of dreary minutes dragging through the day; Time crawled across her life with leaden feet; There still remained a year before her sweet Would come to claim her; surely he would come; Meanwhile there was the year, her weakening father, home.
Home with its deadly round, with all its setting, Things, rooms, and fields and flowers to sting, to burn With memories of the love time past forgetting Ere absence made her very being yearn. "My love, be quick," she moaned, "return, return; Come when the three years end, oh, my dear soul, It's bitter, wanting you." The lonely nights took toll,
Putting a sadness where the beauty was, Taking a lustre from the hair; the days Saw each a sadder image in the glass. And when December came, fouling the ways, And ashless beech-logs made a Christmas blaze, Some talk of Michael came; a rumour ran, Someone had called him "wild" to some returning mail,
Who, travelling through that cattle-range, had heard Nothing more sure than this; but this he told At second-hand upon a cowboy's word. It struck on Mary's heart and turned her cold. That winter was an age which made her old. "But soon," she thought, "soon the third year will end; March, April, May, and June, then I shall see my friend.
"He promised he would come; he will not fail. Oh, Michael, my beloved man, come soon; Stay not to make a home for me, but sail. Love and the hour will put the world in tune. You in my life for always is the boon I ask from life--we two, together, lovers." So leaden time went by who eats things and discovers.
Then, in the winds of March, her father rode, Hunting the Welland country on Black Ned; The tenor cry gave tongue past Clencher's Lode, And on he galloped, giving the nag his head; Then, at the brook, he fell, was picked up dead. Hounds were whipped off; men muttered with one breath, "We knew that hard-mouthed brute would some day be his death."