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It now was dew-fall; very still The night lay on the lonely hill, Down which our homeward steps we bent, And, silent, through great silence went, Save that the tireless crickets played Their long, monotonous serenade.
A young moon, at its narrowest, Curved sharp against the darkening west; And, momently, the beacon's star, Slow wheeling o'er its rock afar, From out the level darkness shot One instant and again was not.
And then my friend spake quietly The thought of both: "Yon crescent see! Like Islam's symbol-moon it gives Hints of the light whereby it lives Somewhat of goodness, something true From sun and spirit shining through All faiths, all worlds, as through the dark Of ocean shines the lighthouse spark, Attests the presence everywhere Of love and providential care.
The faith the old Norse heart confessed In one dear name,--the hopefulest And tenderest heard from mortal lips In pangs of birth or death, from ships Ice-bitten in the winter sea, Or lisped beside a mother's knee,-- The wiser world hath not outgrown, And the All-Father is our own!" NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON.
NAUHAUGHT, the Indian deacon, who of old Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds And the relentless smiting of the waves, Awoke one morning from a pleasant dream Of a good angel dropping in his hand A fair, broad gold-piece, in the name of God.
He rose and went forth with the early day Far inland, where the voices of the waves Mellowed and Mingled with the whispering leaves, As, through the tangle of the low, thick woods, He searched his traps.

Therein nor beast nor bird He found; though meanwhile in the reedy pools The otter plashed, and underneath the pines The partridge drummed: and as his thoughts went back To the sick wife and little child at home, What marvel that the poor man felt his faith Too weak to bear its burden,--like a rope That, strand by strand uncoiling, breaks above The hand that grasps it.

"Even now, O Lord! Send me," he prayed, "the angel of my dream! Nauhaught is very poor; he cannot wait." Even as he spake he heard at his bare feet A low, metallic clink, and, looking down, He saw a dainty purse with disks of gold Crowding its silken net.

Awhile he held The treasure up before his eyes, alone With his great need, feeling the wondrous coins Slide through his eager fingers, one by one.
So then the dream was true.