No hint of his strength failing,
but a favour asked, and with it a service for a woman.
The stern set lines about the man's mouth quivered for a moment, then set
again as he sacrificed his wishes to a woman's need, and relinquishing
the spade, turned away; and as we drove down to the house in the chief's
buggy - the buggy that a few minutes before had borne our sick traveller
along that last stage of his earthly journey - he said gently, almost
apologetically: "I should have reckoned on this knocking you out a bit,
missus." Always others, never self, with the bush-folk.
Then, this service rendered for the man who had done what he could for
his comrade, his strong, unflinching heart turned back to its labour of
love, and, all else being done, found relief for itself in softening and
smoothing the rough outline of the newly piled mound, and as the man
toiled, Mother Nature went on with her work, silently and sweetly healing
the scar on her bosom, hiding her pain from the world, as she shrouded in
starry crimson the burial place of her brave, enduring son - a service to
be renewed from day to day until the mosses and grasses grew again.
But there were still other services for the mate to render and as the
bush-folk stood aside, none daring to trespass here, a rough wooden
railing rose about the grave.
