With heart underneath it, to dust. So tell her.
And in proof that I tell her the truth, and did tell it
The night when we met, and I told her I loved her,
Give her this, the watch that I wore on the evening
We met, and the evening we parted. Let her open
And see. With her eyes let her see that I loved her.
So say and no more."

Thus I spake. Word for word as he told me I spake.
I gave her the watch, and I said no word further.
I had done as I pledged, I had said as he charged me,
So I stopped and stood waiting for word of dismissal.
But she said not a word, nor made she a sign.
The watch she took from me, touched the spring and it opened,
And there, 'twixt the glass and the gold, withered and faded,
Lay a leaf of Red Rose. One leaf, and--no more.

For a moment she stood; stood, and gazed at the leaf,
Her face grew as white as her gown, and she trembled
And shook like a white swan in dying, then she cried,
"My God, I have killed him, my lover!"
And down on the floor, on the skins at her feet
She dropped as one stricken by bullet or lightning.

It was only last month that we two, in trailing,
Trailed a hundred good miles across to the rapids.
For we wanted to see before going northward
If evil had come to the grave of our comrade.
But the grave lay untouched, by beast or by human.
The grass on the mound was well rooted and growthful.
At the foot of the grave the rose-tree I planted
Was as high as my head. And the leaves of the roses
Lay as thick as red snow-flakes on the mound that was under.
And we knew that on breast, as he slept, was her picture.
So we felt, as we gazed, it was well with Jack Whitcomb.

But often at night, when alone in my cabin,
I hear the low murmur of far northern rapids.
And often I see the great house and its splendor,
And wonder if death has helped the proud woman
To lay off her grief and escape from her sorrow.
And blazed a line through the dark Valley of Shadow,
And brought her in peace to the edge of the clearing,
Where I know she would see Jack Whitcomb stand, waiting.

So I say it again, and I say it with knowledge,
That the woods have their sorrows as well as the cities.
And he knows but little of this great northern forest
Who thinks there's naught in it save trees, lakes, and mountains.

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