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Canadian Wild Flowers by Helen M. (Helen Mar) Johnson
page 113 of 235 (48%)
He gaily turned, and cried, "Another glass!"
The glass was drained, and yet another filled,--
And still the pleader cried, "Come, father, come."

"The night is cold," one thoughtless comrade said
"And you have far to walk; here, drink, my boy."
The child pushed back the tempter's hand, a glow
Of indignation mantling cheek and brow,--
"My mother says there's poison in the cup,
And I will never drink," he firmly said.
The father gave him an approving smile,
Patted his rounded cheek, and stroked his curls,
Then heaved a sigh--while o'er his manly face,
Which had been handsome ere the fatal wine
Disfigured it, a mournful shadow crept
And darkened all his soul. "Come, father, come:"
This time he listened, clasped the little hand,
And they went forth together in the storm.

The wind blew fiercely from the north and east,
And called its forces from the neighboring hills;
They heard the summons, eager to obey,
And swept along in one continuous roar.
They caught the snow new-fallen from the earth
And wove a sheet with which to blind the eyes
Of those two wanderers on the frozen waste.
Then night came on; dark night came suddenly,
And hid within its bosom bush and tree,
And all that stood as waymarks to their home.
The little winding path they trod that morn
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