The Lost Child

Here is a story written by William Hatfield
about Wilfred Vining.
The Night the Owl Screamed

This is an poem that was written right after
the death of Wilfred Vining in Cooper Maine

THE TALE OF WILFRED VINING

- THE LOST CHILD -

A sad event occurred of late	And there on high and rugged bluff
That every heartstring shocks.	What a blow to hearts it dwelt,
Tis little Wilfred Vining's fate	The first sad trophy of the search
Among the rugged rocks.	The baby's little belt.
You'll seek for sadder things in vain	With lines close drawn they hurried on
Than what I now relate.	For this was certain ground.
In chronicles of Eastern Maine	And in a score of minutes more
Of any day or date.	The little child was found.

‘Twas Friday April Twenty-ninth	Age found only part of him
A day we all bewail	The crude material part.
That Wyman Vining left his home	Berefit of the light of the glowing soul
To get his daily mail.	And the throb of pulsing heart.
His little son of four short years	They took him to his stricken home
Trudged by him blithe as may	He'd sought with spirit brave.
Until they passed some men who clear	The pressed their kisses on his lips
Brush from the country way.	And laid him in the grave.

Being well acquainted with the men	But what he suffered, what he feared
Young Wilfred stopped to play.	No man may ever say
His father thinking it so well	Until we hear the trumpet call
Went on and let him stay.	On the great judgment day.
And when returning from the post	He wandered through the birchen wood,
Inquiring for his child	He wandered past the lake.
He found had started home alone	All cold and hungry and alone
Across the lonely wild.	O God, for pity's sake!

But when the father reached his home	Still on and on over cliff and crag
And did not find his son,	Though strength was falling fast
Great anguish rent the parents' hearts	The little hero met his fate
And the great search begun	And fought it to the last.
They searched the woods from Vining's pond	At last his little bleeding limbs
The rocky Cathance shore.	No longer bear his weight.
They searcher the woods and pastureland	He stumbles, falls and yields at last
And searched them o'er and o'er	To cruel pitiles fate.

The neighbors joined, the search went on	He wandered on till darkness fell
Till the sun had sank from sight,	Seeking for home in vain.
And then with lanterns flashing wide	They laid him down in a rocky dell
Went shouting through the night.	Never to rise again.
But that he'd strayed beyond the pond	The young moon pale and slender
Was that none would believe.	Looked down upon the scene.
His little limbs were far to week	The stars they shown in splendor
But children's limbs deceive.	All nature was serene.

O what a tiny speck to find	He drew his cap down o'er his eyes
In the mighty woods of Maine!	O mercy let us weep!
For six long day’s A hundred men	In the darkness alone
Made search, but searched in vain.	While the cold winds moan

On the seventh day,

The baby fell asleep.

The sixth of May,	No line of anguish on his brow,
The search was carried beyond	No tear upon his cheek.
The little lake where the ledges break	He yielded up to Holy God
To the south of Vining pond.	His spirit fair and meek.

Where seamed and scarred were ledges bared	Be comforted, O ye bereaved
By the sweep of the mighty flow	Through you were sorely tried
In its grinding roll from the frozen pole	Your little son is now with God.
In the ages long ago.	He stands by Jesus' side.
And there revealed a primal field	He died all pure and innocent.
Where rocks rent shivered and flung	He yielded up his soul.
Gave full attest to the fierce unrest	As pure and spotless as the snow
In the heart of the Earth when young.	That covers the friged soul.

Nineteen hundred years and ten

Have passed in ceaseless flow

Since Jesus gave his life for men

And left this world of woe.

And many years shall join the past

Ere we forget this child

For the town of Cooper's

Plunged in grief

For the baby lost in the wild.