Mary Hartwell Catherwood,
The Black Feather
“ Charle' shook the decorated cap at her. "I wear the black feather of my brigade. That means that I am the best man in it." His wife reared her head. She was like the wild sweet-brier roses which crowded alluvial strips of the island, fragrant and pink and bristling. "Yes, monsieur, that black feather—regard it. Me, I am sick of that black feather. You say I have concealments. I have. All winter I go lonely. The ice is massed on the lake; the snow is so deep, the wind is keener than a knife; I weep for my husband away in the wilderness, believing he thinks of me. ”
