Out of the Past — page 71: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

68 Out of the Past. Bleak struck the winds of December, black hung the clouds o’er her head, With the coming of life to remember and the dread of not winning their bread. For the hovering wings of Death’s angel stretch from heaven to earth o’er the crags. Day after day passed, she singing through paths of the echoing forest, And night upon night heard the ringing of bells in the cavernous west, Where the souls of the forest take refuge with Death in the hour of their rest. Strong were the arms that she loved, tender the heart of - Craig Badeau, Till the blight crept along his great body and hope for his life flickered low, And the babe in its cradle of fir boughs crooned soft to the oncoming woe. Still, through the shadowy byways, the mother passed oft with a song; Till the brown on her brow turned to silver and the babe grew to maidenhood strong, Took her way in the world for its silver and passed, God knows where, in the throng. And the mother with tearless eyes waits there, afar in the slumbering hills, For the crooning that laughed in its cradle, for the soul | that to love is now dead. Hushed are the winds o’er her loving and still wait Death’s wings o’er the crag.” ECONMICEOOOKS