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TIIK PATTER OF I.ITTI.E FKET.
Up with the sun at morning.
Away to the garden he hies,
To see if tlit 5 sleeping blossoms
Have begun to open their eves :
Running a race with the wind.
His step as light and fleet.
Under my window I hear
The patter of liitle feet.
tnon to the brook he wanders,
fn swift and noiseless flight.
Splashing the sparkling ripples
Like a fairy water-sprite,
No sand under fabled river
Has gleams like his golden hair :
No pearly sea-shell is fairer
Than his slender ankles bare :
Nor the rosiest stem of coral
Tliat blushes in ocean's bed.
Is sweet as the flush that follows
Onv darling's airy tread.
Prom a broad window my neighbor
Looks down on our little cot,
\ml watches the -'poor mail's blessing
1 cannot envy his lot :
He has pictures, bonks and music.
Bright fountains, and noble trees,
flowers that blossom iu vases.
Birds from beyond the seas :
But never does childish lauglitei
His homeward footsteps greet :
His stately halls ne'er echo
fn the tread of innocent feet.
I bis child is our • speaking picture,"
\ birdling that chatters and sings.
Sometimes a sleeping cherub.
(Our other one has wings :>
His heart is a charmed casket.
Pull of all that's cunning and sweet.
\nd no harp strings hold such music
ts follows his twinkling i'eet.
When the glory sunset opens
The highway by angels trod.
And seems to unbar the city
Whose builder and maker is God,
( lose to the crystal portal,
I set- by the gates of pearl
Tin eyes of our other angel—
A sinless little girl.
And 1 ask to be taught and directed
To guide his footsteps aright.
Si I that I be accounted worthy
To walk in the sandals of light ;
And hear, amid songs of welcome,
From messengers trusty and fleet,
()u the starry floor of Heaven
The patter of little feet.
FREAR FARM.
A gray horse and a yellow wheeled chaise
stood under the poplars which shaded a
brown farm-house.
" Marg'ret !"
Mrs. Frear's voire went ringing tip the
stairway to the east chamber.
" Yes, 'in."
It was a eheeryH'oice that replied, and a
trim little figure which came tripping down
after the voice.
"Aunt Mary has come, and I want you
to go and shell the pease for dinner while 1
visit with her."
" Yes, 'in," again, as the worthy Mrs.
Frear took her basket of mending, walked
briskly down the path,and climbed toa seat
behind her sister.
You see she was a cripple, this Aunt
Mary,anil in her weekly visits never thought
of alighting from the chaise in which she
came. Consequently that vehicle had stow
ed away in its old chinks more general in
formation than ever crammed tiie cranium
of any mortal carriage since the flood. It
was, in fact, a perfect moving encyclopedia
of birth, marriages, and deaths, past, pres
ent, and prospective, for the little town of
Heathe.
In it they were seated, this June morning,
two white-haired women ; their hacks were
turned to the sun, while Dobbin cropped
the lilac twigs, munching them after a sol
emn, reflective fashion, quite cognizant the
while of the movement of tongues behind
him.
Within doors a tidy kitchen,great squares
of sunlight lying out on the nnpainted
floor, and Margaret humming a slow song
to herself over the basket of pease.
" Guess who !" rang out a merry voice
behind her, and two brown hands drew her
backward blindfold.
" Anson ! But what will father say?"
Nothing to me, I imagine 1 left him
down in the two-acre lot with Parson Sykes.
I'liey'd just begun with original sin, and
they've got to get through the decrees
yet, to say nothing of the probable fate of
the heathen world. They're safe enough for
the next two hours,'' said the young - man
thr owing his straw-hat upon the floor.
A broad-shouldered, straight-limbed fel
low was Alison Boise, and so tall that, as
he stood there in the low kitchen, his curls
just missed brushing the cross-beam over
head.
But mother?" again suggested the girl.
Oh, I knew what would become of her
when I saw Aunt Mary's Dobbin coming up
the hill. The v're having a rich time out
there. Ihe aid my name just as 1 leaped
oyer the fence. So now, if you please, I'll
sit down, though you haven't asked me to,
and shell pease as propitiation, or penance,
"i' whatever you choose to call it, for my
transgression." He drew up a low chair,
and sat down beside her.
" But,Anson," she still remonstrated,"l'm
a 'raid this isn't right."
G! course you are, aud of course I
now 'tisn t ! But I know of something
tnats worse : and that is for your father to
E. O. UOODRICII, PnbHsilirr.
VOLUME XXV.
insist upon separating us when he knows
how fond we are of each other, and for no
reason under heaven than that I'm an orph
an and poor. I say it's a burning shame,
begging your pardon, Margaret." And the
young man's face flushed indignantly. Mar
garet said nothing and he went on :
" However,it's the last time I shall trouble i
him, or cross your scruples again for the j
present."
" The last time?" Margaret pressed one j
of the pods with her thumb, and looked up j
inquiringly.
" Yes. the very last time ! I'm going j
away— going to California." The flush had j
gone out of his face, and instead was a j
look of fierce determination.
" California !" The pod was opened, and j
a sound dozen pease rolled across the kiteh- j
en floor. California was a long way off to |
her, little girl, sitting in that Vermont farm i
house.
" But, Anson isn't it a dreadful wicked
place ? Ain't they heathens,and cannibals,
and bad as the Hottentots 'most ?"
" Don't know I'm sure, Maggie. I only
know that there's gold,and that it's a great j
country out there. Oh, you ought to hear ;
Jim Bartlette talk. You'd think 'twas j
mighty slow work getting a living oil" these ,
rocks," he said.
" I know —but, Anson, seems to me j
'twould be better to stay in a Christain j
country," said she, hesitatingly.
" I declare, Margaret, you're well-nigh as !
bad as Uncle John. He says I'd better,
steal a horse, and get sent down to Wind
sor to making scythe swaths." Anson j
laughed his old merry laugh. Margaret re-\
numbered it. ft was years before she
heard that laugh again.
Then there was a pause. The cat dozed j
upon the settle, and the tea-kittle sang up
on the hearth.
" And when will you ever come back,,
Anson ?" asked the girl.
" When I can bring something with
which to make a home of my own," he said; j
and then there was another silence.
The pease were shelled and Margaret was
sitting with her two hands folded upon the
top of the basket. Anson sat gazing at
her with a hungry look in his eyes. That
little figure in its brown dress, the small
head with its heavy coil of hair at the back,
the long-lashed downcast eyes —he took
them all in with a look. How many nights
in the years that came after did he see in
the darkness that little figure parting the j
shadows come and go before him.
• Here's something I found for you,' lie,
said at length, lying in her hand a small
gold cross. " You'll wear it sometimes.and j
remember me, 1 know."
She diil not move. Only her fingers were :
like ice as he touched them, and her face |
was pale.
" I must go now." lie said, rising.
Margaret stood up leaning against the ;
deal table. She raised her eyes now, and j
Anson stood looking down into them—those ■
clear, brown eyes—and holding her two j
hands in his.
" Don't you think you can wait for me, j
little girl ?" he said. " It'll be a long while. !
We shall be old man and woman by that j
time perhaps," trying tosmil". " Will you j
wait for me until I Come back ?"
"I will wait for you forever !" The words j
were low and her lips were very white.
" Bles you, child ! But, please Heaven, j
you sha'n't have to wait as long as that ;"
and he drew her closer to him.
" Good-bye, and God bless you Marga
ret !"
She felt ins arm drawn tightly round her,
knew that his lips touched her cheek, and
then she sank down upon the floor, her face
buried in the cushions of the old chair.
"Why, Marg'ret, what air ye doin'?"
cried good old Mrs. Frear. "Here 'tis
twelve o'clock this blessed minute, and the
fire all out ! What will yer father say?"
Mrs. Frear had begun a vigorous attack
upou the cooking-stove, but stopped short
as Margaret, rising wearily, stood before
her with blanched, bewildered face.
'■ Why what ails the child ! Bless me,
she looks as ef she'd had a stroke!" A stroke,
indeed, but not exactly of the kind to which
her mother referred.
Margaret passed her hand across her
eyes heavily, as with an effort. " It's noth
ing," she said. " I must have been a little
faint. That's all."
" All ? enough, I should think. You just I
come into my room and lie down on my j
bed, and I'll make you a bowl of sage tea. |
Mercy to me ! 1 hope 'tisn't the black-1
tongue. Your Aunt Mary told me that was j
prevailin' in Burnet. Just let me look o' |
yer tongue ;" and the good woman bustled j
about,bringing blankets aud brewing herbs i
in her solicitude for her child, quite oblivi- j
ous of dinner and all other minor consider
ations
And Margaret buried her eyes in the j
snowy pillows, while Anson, all his world- j
ly effects packed in one valise, took his way 1
on foot to the next stage-town. And the |
next week a tall man stood upon the ship's
deck and w itched the blue New England
hills grow dim. and a little figure, in its
brown dress, sat still in the Vermont farm
house and worked on as before—only her
cheek was a trifle whiter, and instead of
her old song there was silence.
i'en years ! Long to look forward—to
look back, only the brief dream of a sum
mer night. But time enough to create
many new joys, to forget many old ones.—
Had Margaret Frear forgotten ? Why we
will see.
The same tidy kitchen ; the same old
chair, and seated therein a pale woman in
mourning dress. She had sat down in the
kitchen ; she could not stay in the sitting
room to-day. They had carried out from
there yesterday a coffin—her mother's: and
in that place between the windows, where
the table was standing now, it had stood.—
She seemed to see the black pall there yet.
There was a knocking at the inner door,
followed by the entrance of a tall woman
in a dark gingham gown. It was Mrs.
Kittredge. She lived next door, which next
door was a good half mile away ; but they
were all called in lieathe near neighbors.
"I told my husband," she said, laying
down her sun-bonnet—"l told him Marg'ret,
that I'd just come over and sit down 'long
with you a spell. I know 't must be lone
. some like."
"I am very glad to see you," said Mar
garet ; and she rose, shaking the cushions
! of her rocking-chair, and setting it out for
her visitor.
" No, no ; you just keep your sittin'.—
You're tired. I'll fetch a chair for myself
TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., FEBRUARY 9, 1865.
out of the keepin'-room." And Mrs. Kit
tredge opened the door softly into that
room.
" Perhaps it would be pleasanter to sit
in the sitting-room," feebly suggested Mar
garet.
" No, I know just how 'tis. 'Twas just
;so to our house after gran'fther died. For
' a week we couldn't none of us bear to go
j into his room. Seemed as ef 'twas chilly
| somehow, like a vault." The good woman
\ took olf her spectacles and wiped them
with the corner of her black silk apron. —
i She had gray hair, and years of labor had
I left their record in wrinkles upon her face
j That face with its large features, could ncv
|er have been beautiful even in its best es
| tate ; but over many a sick bed, over many
I a sad and sorrowing soul, it had shone as
| the face of an angel.
" It seems as though 1 must see your
I mother round somewheres," she said, and
the spectacles grew dim again. " It's go
ing on thirty year now that we've lived
'long side of each other, and a sight o' com
fort we've had together ; a sighto' comfort,
j Marg'ret," she repeated, "an' we never took
j nothing but comfort together, the Lord be
j thanked, and that's more'n most neighbors
can say."
j The old clock ticked in the corner, and
! the two sat silent for a little. Mrs. Kittre
| dge was knitting very fast. The tears
! would keep coming, and she was choking
J them down under that string of gold beads
; about her neck. She had come over pur
posely to "cheer up" Margaret, and here
j she was crying herself. She has never
j heard, good momaii that she is, what some
One has said : " Be not consistent, but sim
| ply true and so consistency and truth are
having a sore battle of it. The former con
quers, however, and she says :
" Well, Marg'ret, she was a good mother
, to you; and now 't she's gone, you'd ought
;to be grateful that she was spared so
long."
" 1 know it, Mrs. Kittredge, but it is very
hard to be grateful always and Margar
et's lip begins to tremble.
" Bless your dear soul ! 1 know it's hard;
but, as my bus) and says, " We'd ought to
thank the Lord that it's as well with us as
it is."
Very homely consolation this, but never
theless, all the more, possibly, it went down
into the orphaned, solitary girl. A dry soil,
which all day long - had scorched under a
I burning sun, receiving at night the cooling
j rain and the dews of heaven, it was like
| this, Margaret thought, the low spoken
| comfort of an honest soul.
" 1 suppose you'll sell the place, most
! likely?" said Mrs. Kittredge, presently. "It
| was well enough," she said to herself, "for
Margaret to begin to think of those things,
"fwould take up her mind "
I Sell the old place ! Margaret had never
| thought of such a thing before. And yet.
why not ? She could not manage tiie farm
; herself. Besides, it was all she had—its
j value might be more available in some oth
ler form. So she replied, quietly enough :
" I don't know that there will be any oth
i er way."
j " Yes; I was tell in' him" —(for good Mrs.
j Kittredge there seemed to be but one sub-
I stantive possible to this personal pronoun)
j — "I was telliu' him this mornin' that there'd
be enough that would be glad to buy the
j Frear Farm. It's under good
and the buildn's all in good repair. There's
Squire Varnum now, he'd be glad to take
the ten-acre lot'long side o'his rnowin'; and
lor the rest on't, there's my brother Hall
lookin' round for a farm for Zimri. He's
layin' out to be married this fall, you
know."
" Oh, I'm sure there would le no difficul
ty in disposing of it," said Margaret, for
the sake of making some reply. Her
thoughts were too busy just then for her
to talk.
It was sudden this plan of selling the
homestead. A little like taking the ground
from beneath her feet, it seemed to her, and
she hardly knew what would become of her
afterward. Mrs. Kittredge's thought must
have been nearly in the same place, for she
asked,
"And what are you intendin' to do, Mar
g'ret?"
" Indeed I hardly had thought yet, Mrs.
Kittredge. Perhaps I might take a room
somewhere, and board myself, and teach
i the district school," she said.
" Now that sounds sensible ; and as for
j a room you're welcome to come to our
| house."
"Thank you," said Margaret, and Mrs.
Kittredge went on :
" 1 can't help thinkin',Marg'ret, how 'most
I any girl situated as you are would be think
| in' o' get-in' married, and bavin' a home o'
j their own. But that ain't your way." This
I was said in a deprecatory tone, and Mrs.
| Kittredge gave Margaret's face a searching
look. The face told no tales which she
could read. There was only a little twiteli
| ing about the mouth ; so the good woman,
shuffling a little* in her chair, and knitting
withja speed perfectly incredible, proceeded,
as she would have said, to "free her mind:"
" Now. Marg'ret, I suppose vo i'll think
j like enough't I'm meddlin' with what don't
; concern me ; but 1 must tell you 't we al
ways wondered, my husband and I, that
' you couldn't a seen yer way clear to take
; up with .Squire Varnum's offers."
Margaret's white face reddened. Mrs.
i Kittredge noted it, and took courage.
" He's a professor, and, so fur's I know, a
consistent man. Be sure he's a good deal
I i older 'n you, but after a woman's twenty
i , five that don't signify And mebbc his
■ children, eight of'm, might be an object
- tion with some folks. But you're good-tcm
i pered. You'd get along well enough. An'
I then, another thing, whoever goes there 'll
■ have enough to do with, for the Squire's
worth property, an' there ain't a mean
streak about the man. "fain't too late to
think on't now. The Square, he said as
II much to him the other day. Hadn't you
. better now, Marg'ret?"
" Mrs. Kittredge !"
Six cousecvtive stitches were let down
upon Mrs. Kittredge's stocking that instant,
so startled was she by the tone in which
her name was spoken. Margaret was sit
ting forward in her chair, a bright red spot
burned upon either cheek, and her eyes had
a little flashing light in them.
" Mrs Kittredge, you must never speak
to me about this again—this, or any thing
like it." And she began counting her
stitches in a quick, nervous wy.
" Well, well, child, I won't then, I'm sure.
I only want ye to do what's for yer own
REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM AXT qFARTER.
gooil about it. You won't think hard o'
me for speakin' out ?" she added apologeti
cally.
" Hard of you ! Indeed I won't," re
plied Margaret ; anil then, comprehending
suddenly that she might have wounded her
good old friend by her quick manner, the
girl left her chair and crossed over her,and
smoothing the woman's gray hair, said, " 1
should he an ingrate to lay up any thing
against the best friend I have in the whole
world."
" No, no, dear heart; then Ave won't say
another Avoid. But here, 'tis four o'clock,
and I must go. And, Marg'ret, supposing
you just walk along with me, and sit down
an' have a cup o' tea with my husband an'
me. Mebbe 'twould do you good to talk
over matters with him. You know your
mother was in the habit o' consultin' him
about her affairs."
And the two walked out under a gray
sky and over the short brown grass ; and
when Margaret came back it was settled
that the old homestead should be sold.
It was the night before the sale. It had
been with Margaret a busy day. Her room
at Mrs Kittredge's had been taken, and
furnished with articles from the old house,
many of which she had carried carefully
with her own hands. And now, in the gath
ering dusk of the summer night, she closed
the door, locking it behind her, and sat
down upon the gray stone.
How quiet the night was ! Only the
croaking of frogs in the marshes, and the
shrill notes of the whip-poor-will,weird and
far oil', borne by the night wind across the
lowland. An oderof inignounctte came up
from the little flower bolder at her feet.—
That border—who would tend it now ? And
the oiler mignonnette—how it carried her
hack to that morning, ten years before,
when Anson went away ! She remember
ed that a spray of it was in her dress that
day. She had never snielled mignonnette
■once without living the parting over again. |
Ten years ! And Margaret, sitting alone
in the gloaming, half wondered if she were !
the same girl that she was then. She look- j
eil at her hands folded on her knee. How
thin they were ! They used to be round '
and plump, she remembered. But what- j
ever else they had lost they had kept the i
firm pressure of Anson's good-bv. They had !
always seemed, they always would seem, a j
little better to her. remembering that.
Ten years ! She had promised to wait |
for him forever. It seemed likely now that
she would. It was so long to wait Would
he never come hack to claim her promise?
If he were alive. But what if he Avas dead?
They all supposed he was. Perhaps he
AVHS. Every one she loved had died. Why
not this one ? And if he were dead was
her promise binding ? Something outside
of herself seemed to suggest this. She
looked away through the darkness. A
bright light glanced from among the ma
ples on the hill. It came from the bow-
Avindow of Squire Varnum's library. Mar
garet watched it a moment, thinking then
of her own little room at Mrs. Kittredge's.
It was a contrast certainly. A word of hers
would place her under the cheery lamplight
of that library, with all those old books
looking down, arid Squire Varnum's genial
face looking across at her. Should she
speak that word. But between her and
any such answer there came heroAvn voice
of old, "promising to "Wait forever."--
And she remembered too well Anson's
"Please Heaven, you shall never have to
Avait so long," to forget it now. And so
she would trust God. Wait and hope still,
though it should be hoping against hope.
And then the shadows deepened, and the
flames of sunset burned to ashes down the
west, and the figure of the lonely girl was
lost in the gjoom of the porch.
She started suddenly. Something brush
ed against her foot. Only trie cat; she
had forgotten her until that moment.
" Come pussy," she said. " You shall go
too;"and taking the;old creature in her arms
she went down the walk, the creaking gate
sAvung behind her, as she passed out into
the night.
" The Frear Farm to be sold to-day,"they
said. An auction Avas an event to the
dwellers in this quiet land of farms. Eajy
in the afternoon the old vendue-master Avas
upon the stand, shouting and gesticulating
in away which woiild have done justice to
a more hotly contested sale. There were,
in fact, but tAvo competitors for the farm,
Squire Varnum and Deacon Ilall. The lat
ter had just risen twenty-five dollars above
the price set by his opponent.
"The Deacon's got it now," said a voice
in the crowd, but just then there appeared
a IICAV figure upon the scene.
On the street, in front of the house, just
under the poplars, a wagon had stopped,
and a tall man, bronzed and brown-bearded,
stood erect in it, looking down upon the
crowd with a keen, steady eye.
"Twenty-five hundred dollars !" shouted
the auctioneer, " I'm offered twenty-five
hundred dollars for Frear Farm ! Who
bids again? Going, gentlemen! Too
cheap by half. Going !"
Every ear awaited tin - final "Gone,"when
a voice sung out, deep aud clear as a bell,
" Twenty-six hundred dollars !"
The astonished fanners faced admit to a
man, and scanned the ncAV-eomer.
" Twenty-six hundred and twenty-five !"
vociferated Deacon Hall, beholding his sup
plied possession suddenly taking to itself
wings.
" Twenty seven hundred !" shouted the
stranger, leaping from his wagon Avith.a
bound, and striding through the crowd. He
reached the stand just as the hammer came
down.
" Gone for twenty-seven hundred to—.
What name, Sir?" and the vendue-master
turned to the stranger.
" My fellow-townsman ought to do me the
honor to remember that, Sir," he replied,
with a merry twinkle in his eyes.
"By all the powers ! I believe it's Anson
Boise !" exclaimed the old man, taking the
! stranger by the arm, and turning him
; towards the light.
" The same, Sir ;" anil Anson extended
his hand cordially.
" Well done, boy, and AVCII grown too !
Why, what a giant you are ! Slight a ben
| one o' the sons of Auak the Seriptur tells
! about," said Deacon Hall, looking up at
him.
" And so you've come back to settle down
among iiu. That's right, that's right ;"
anil they pressed round to shake bauds with
him.
"Where's your Avife, Ausou?'" asked
one. *
' Haven't found her yet," was the laugh
ing rejoinder.
But he did find her.
Margaret, sitting alone in the dusk,heard
a step coming down the walk. "The auc
tioneer," she said Well, she was ready
for him. She had been schooling herself all
day. She would be brave and not falter
when he told her that the old homestead
was gone. To whom ? she Avondered ; and
then the light before her eyes was darken
ed,anil then rang out again the merry chal
lenge.
"Guess who comes now !"
Poor Margaret, she had been ready for
tiie auctioneer—ready for almost any thing,
she th >ught, but not for this. So she gave
a little cry, and would haA r e fallen to the
floor. Then you know what happened ;
how Anson took her up in hifc strong arms
anil carried her to the air, and how Mrs.
Kittredge ran for AA'ater and the "camfire
bottle ;" and the household generally was
thrown in a state of confusion.
"Poor little creetur, 'twas all so sudden !"
said Mrs. Kittredge. soothingly, as she
bathed Margaret's white face. "But she'll
come out out in a minute."
And Auson held the light form so easily,
as though it had been a child ; and when
Margaret came to herself again, there he
Avas, looking down at her with the same
old look in his eyes.
"I've waited for you," she said, and she
smiled a little, bright, happy smile.
"She's had a hard time of it,poor thing !"
said Mrs. Kittredge, stooping to take off
her spectacles and wipe them. Anson
turned his head aside. There AVHS a mist
before his eves just then.
And so it came to pass on Sunday even
ing that the minister walked over to Frear
Farm, and there was a quiet little Avedding
in the old parlor. And now, while lam
telling you this. I can just catch the gleam
of their lamp through the lilac bushes ;
and I know that within lliere is love, and
plenty and peace.
THE PERIL OF MARTHA WARREN.
\ STORY 111 THE AMONUOSI.T K lIIVEJI.
" Good bye, Martha. God help you! I
shall he back in three days, at the farthest."
The hardy White Mountain pioneer, Mark
Warren, kissed his young Avife, held his tAvo
year old boy to his breast fm - a moment,and
then shouldering the sack of corn which
Avas to be converted into meal at the rude
mill, forty miles away, trudged off through
the wilderness
Martha Warren stood at the door of the
log cabin, gazing out after the retreating
form of her husband. An angle of the
dense shrubbery bid him from A'iew, but
still she did not return to the solitary kitch
en. It looked so dark and lonesome there,
she shrank from entering ; or perhaps the
(•rand sublimity of the view spread out be
fore her, held her attention and thrilled her
soul with that unexplained something that
Ave all feel when standing thus face to face
Avith the works of His fingers.
The finest and most satisfactory view of
the White Mountains, is that which pre
sents itself from what is now the town of
Bethlehem, on the road to Littleton and
Fraueonia. Mount Washington, the king
among princes, is there seen in his proper
place—the centre of the rock-ribbed range,
towering, bald, blue and unapproachable.
F'ar up in the wild clearing, close by the
turbid Avaters of the Amonoosuck, was the
cottage situated —a place Avild and eyrie
enough for the nest of an eagle, but dear
to the heart of Martha Warren, as the home
Avhere she had spent the happy days of her
young wifehood. When she had turned
from many a patrician suitor, in the fair old
toAvn of Portsmouth, to join her fortunes
Avite those of the young settler, it was Avith
the full and perfect understanding of the
trials that lay before. She would Avalk in
no paths of roses for years to come ; much
of life must be spent in the eternal solitudes,
where silence was broken only by the winds
of the forest, the shriek of the river over
the sharp rocks, or the distant IIOAVI of the
red-mouthed wolf afar in the wilderness.
The necessary absence of her husband
she dreaded .most It Avas so v ery gloomy
to close up her doors at night and sit down
by her lonely fireside, with the conscious
ness that there was no human being nearer
to her than the settlement at Lord's Hill,
ten miles away through the pathless woods.
There was little to fear from Indians, al
though a number of scattered tribes yet
roamed over these primevalluuitin > grounds.
They were mostly disposed to be friendly,
and Mrs. \\ arren's kind heart naturally
prompted her to many acts of friendship to
wards them, and an Indian never forgets a
benefit
The purple mist cleared away from the
scarred forehead of the dominant old moun
tain, the yellow sun, peered over the rocky
wall, and Martha turned away to the per
formance of her simple domestic duties.—
The day was a long one, hut it was toward
evening, and the gloaming comes much |
sooner in these solituteds than in any other
j places. The sunlight faded out of the un
i glazed windows, though it would illumine
i the distant mountains for some time yet,
; and Martha went out in the scanty garden
| to inhale the odor of the sweet pinks on
I the one meagre root she had brought from
her • >li 1 home.
I The spicy perfume carried her hack in
memory to those days away in the past,
spent with, kind friends and cheered by
bright young hopes. But though the
thought of home and kindred made her sad,
not for a moment did she regret the fate she
i had chosen.
j Absorbed in thought, she had not ob
| served the absence of Charlie, her little
| boy ; now she saw with vague uneasiness
I that he had been playing, and was not to
jbe seen. She called his name, but only
| echo and the roar of the swollen river re
| plied.
She flew back to the house, the faint hope
remaining that he might have returned
thither for his pet kitten ; but no, the kit
ton was mewing at the window, but no
sign of Charlie.
W itli frantic haste she searched the
clearing, but without success. Her next
thought was the river ! black as night,save
where it flickered with spots of snow-white
foam—it flowed ou hut a few rods below
her She hurried down to the brink, call
ing out, "Charlie ! Charlie !"
The child's small voice at some little dis
tance replied. She followed the sound, and
to her horror saw her boy—his golden hair
pet* A-iniiim., in Advance.
and rosy cheeks (deary defined against the |
purple twilight sky—standing on the very j
edge of the huge, drenched rock, some ten j
feet from the shore, but in the sweeping |
current of the river !
This rock, called by the settlers " pul
pit," was a good situation for casting fish
ing lines, and Mark Warren had bridged
the narrow chasm between it and the shore
with a couple of hewn logs.
Allured by* some flaming clusters of fire
weed growing on the side of the Pulpit,
Charley had crossed over, and now stood
there regardless of danger, laughingly hold
ing out the floral treasures to his mother.
Marthy flew over the frail bridge, and the
next minute held her child in her arms.—
Joyful because she had found him uninjured
and mentally resolving that the logs should
be removed to prevent further accident. She
turned to retrace her steps, but the sight
that met her eyes froze her with horror to
the spot.
Confronting her on the bridge, not six
feet distant stood an enormous wolf, gaunt
and bony with hunger, his eyes blazing like
live coals through mirk and gloom, his hot,
fetid breath scorching the very air she:
breathed.
A low growl of intense satisfaction stir- ]
red the air, answered by the growl of fifty
more of his kind, belonging to the pack ; in j
another moment they would be upon her ! I
Without an instant's thought of the con- j
sequences, Martha obeyed her first impulse, ;
and struck the log with her foot, exerting !
all her mad strength in the blow. The frail
fabric tottered, the soft earth gave way,
there was a breath of awful suspense, and
then the bridge went down with a dull
plunge into the waters beneath ! The sharp
claws of the wolf had abeady fixed oil
the scant vegetation of the rock, and he
held there a moment, struggling with a fe
rocious strength to gain a foothold ; the
next he slid down into the chasm, uttering
a wild howl of disappointed rage.
Martha sank on her knees and ottered up
a fervent prayer of thanksgiving for heres
-1 cape ; but simultaneously* with the heart
felt " amen " there came a dread recollec
tion. The bridge formed the only connec
ting link between the Pulpit and the main i
land, and that was severed ! True, she i
was not more than twenty feet distant from ;
the shore of the river, but she might as
well have been thousands of miles out in
the ocean. The water was deep, and it ran
with almost inconceivable rapidity, forty or
fifty* feet below her. over rocks so sharp
and jagged that it made her shiver to look j
over the brink.
Her only hope was in her husband.—
Should he return at the expected time, they
might still be alive ; but if accident he j
should be detained beyond that time ! She j
closed her eyes, and besought God for pro-'
tectiou and help.
Gold and hungry, and drenched by the !
mist of the river, Charlie began to cry for j
home. She could bear anything better than j
that. She took off her own garments to j
fold around him, and held him to her breast j
and sang him the sweet cradle songs which j
had so often soothed him.
But the fierce howls of the wolves, and i
the sullen thunders of the river, filled his !
little heart with terror, and all the long !
dark night through, lie clung to her neck, j
sleeplessly crying to go home to papa.
Day dawned at last, the pale sun swim-;
ining through a sickly sky, the pallid fore
cast of a storm. Weak and faint from bun-;
ger, and suffering intensely from cold—for |
summer is no bearer of tropical smiles in i
that inhospitable clime—Martha paced back
and forth the narrow limits of the rock.— j
Noon came—the faint sun declined—it was i
night again. A cold fog sank down ove: j
the mountain, followed by a drizzling rain, |
which before morning changed to a perfect j
deluge. The river rose fearfully, foaming |
milk-white down the gorge, filling the air !
with a thundering roar, like the peal of an j
imprisoned earthquake.
The day that followed was 110 better— j
only gray rain, and ashen white mist—not j
a ray of sunshine.
A new fear rose in the heart of Martha j
Warren. The turbulence of the stream j
must have swept away the bridge over j
which her husband would cross on his re
turn, and he would be detained—for days, j
may be for weeks.
She gave up all for lost. Strongly and !
fearfully was she tempted to fold her child ;
in her arms and plunge into the cauldron '
beneath, and thus end all her fear and doubt.
It would be better, she thought, than to j
suffer that slow, painful death of starva- i
tion. But something held her back —God's J
curse was on those who do self-murder.
Towards night a lost robin, beaten about
by the storm, stopped to rest a moment on
the rock , Martha seized upon him and rent
him in twain, with almost savage glee, for
her child to devour raw—she, who three ,
days before would have wept at the sight
of a wounded sparrow.
Another night and day—like the other,
only more intensely agonizing. Martha
Warren was sullenly indifferent now ; suff
ering had passed every nobler feeling.—
Charlie bad moaned for supper —too weak
and spent to sit up, he was lying on the
rock his head in her lap,his great eyes fixed
1 on her face
She tore open a vein in her arm with her
; scissors, and made him drink the blood !
1 Anything, she said to herself, to calm the
1 wild, wistful yearning of his eyes.
The boy raised—he sat up, and peered
through the darkness.
"Mamma," he said, "papais corning ! 1
felt him touch me ?"
She wept at the mockery, and drew the
! child frantically to her bosom.
The night was fair—lit up by a new
moon.
Overcome by deadly exhaustion, against
which she couid make no resistance, Mar
; tha fell into an uneasy slumber, which, to
ward midnight, was broken by a startling
! cry. She sprang to her feet and gazed
I around her.
No ! her eyes did not deceive her—there
jon the shore stood the stalwart form of her
| husband, and he was calling her name with
I the energy of despair. She could only cry
J out, " Oh, Mark ! Mark !" and fell sense
les° to the earth.
When sht; woke to consciousness, she was
, lying on her own bed in the cottage, sup
j ported by her husband's afm.
It was no dream. She and her darling
boy were safe, and he had come back.
Many weeks passed before she grew stout
j again, but Mark tended her as a mother
I would an infant, and by the time the au
; tumn frosts fell) she WAS th< blithe Martlm
Warren of old.
At the time of the freshet,the bridge over
i the Amonoosuck had indeed been swept
i away, but Mark, impelled by an uncontrol-
I lable fear—almost presentiment —had cros
sed the river at the risk of his life, on a
log raft, and reached home only to find it
vacant.
I The descendants of Mark Warren and
; his wife still dwell among the fertile val
| lej'S of Amonoosuck, and the old men still
J tell their grandchildren the story of Martha
j Warren and her child.
HOW STORMS ARE MADE, AND HOW WE
MAY ALL BE WEATHERWISE
NUMBER 37.
The constant succession of storm and
sunshine existing between the Rocky moun
tains and the Atlantic seaboard, is a sub
ject of much interest to all persons engaged
in agricultural pursuits. A few hints, and
the statement of a few facts, may afford
some light,and remove many existing errors
in reference to the atmospheric changes,
commonly called the weather. All the
changes which take place in the? animal and
vegetable kingdoms result, in connection
with the atmosphere, under the direct or
indirect agency of the sunlight. Rain is
one of these results. The action of the
sunlight produces the great atmospheric
currents which exist in different sections of
the globe. The trade winds pass from the
tropical regions over the Carribeansea and
the Gulf of Mexico into higher latitudes,
moving within the tropics from southeast
to northwest, and after passing the tropics
from soutnwest to northeast, and in higher
intitudes from west to east ; so that there
exists a constant current over the eastern
portion of the North American continent,
sweeping around over the western portion
of the eastern continent, and thence bark
within the tropics.
At some point within this vast aerial
whirlpool there is always existing a storm
the warm air from the southwest commin
gling with the colder air of higher latitudes
condense and forms clouds and storms. In
the progress of these currents the action of
the sunlight produces a vacuin, which is
the actual cause of the storm. The exis
tence of this vacnm is indicated by the fall
| of the mercury in the barometer but more
i certainly by the wind. * So soon as the vn
■ cum begins to exist, the air from all sides
; tresses in to restore the equilibrium Tin
i combining of these currents condense tin
vapor, clouds exist, and the ordinary plien
I omena of the storm. When the equilibrium
is restored the storm ceases. The wind is
invariably blowing towards the approach
ing, or following the receding storm. Tin
direct motion of the storm is usuully from
southwest to northeast, but it has also ,-t
laterial movement from the northwest, ami
| to the southeasi, and this results from tin
j greater pressure of the northwest current,
it acting 011 the outer margin of the arc of
the circle. The wind from the cast, south
east, and south indicates tin- coming storm,
and sometimes tin- northeast wind. Tin
southwest wind, west, north west, ami
north wind indicate a receding storm. It
ordinarly requires from 24 to 33 hours foi a
storm to pass from Cairo to Now York.
soon as the equilibrum of the atmosphere
is restored, the storm ceases; so that a
storm at Cario might cease before it would
reach-New York.
The intensity of the cold after any given
storm depends upon two facts. If anothei
storm is approaching from the southwest
so as to counterbalance the receding storm,
the cold will not be intense. If the lateral
motion of the storm should be greater than
the direct motion, the cold will be very in
tense over the path of thai storm. This
was the case of the great storm of Decem
ber 31, 1863 ; in its laterial movement, ii
reached Atlanta, Georgia, before the direct
movement reached Philadelphia ; hence it
was colder at Memphis, Nashville, and At
lauta, than at Montreal.
I have stated these facts from very mam
observations, sonte of which I may givt
you, if these remarks are thought worthy
of your notice. If the daily press would
give the state of the weather every morn
ing, as it exists in the Southwest and
West, the farmer, with the aid of the bar
ometer, and noteing the course of the wind,
would :aot have to look for the weather in
the almanac or the moon.
WASTE or AMI MTIOX. —How much ammu
nition is wasted in battle, and how many
muskets in the hands of incompetent <>i
cowardly men are actually useless, the fol
lowing official report of the condition of
the small arms picked up on the fit-Id of
Gettysburg strikingly illustrates. The
statement has been published before, but
we give it again as one of the strongest
arguments in favor of a change to breech
loading guns. With breech-loaders it
would be impossible to get in more than
one charge at a time, and a man could tell
at a glance whether his piece was dis
charged or not :
Of the whole number received (27,574
we found at least 24,000 of these loaded .
about one-half of these contained two loads
each, one-fourth from three to fen loads
each, and the balance one load each. In
many of these guns from two to six balls
have been found, with only one charge of
powder, lu some the balls have been found
at the bottom of the bore, with the charge
of powder on top of the ball. In some as
many as six paper regulation calibre 5s
cartridges have been found, the cartridges
having been put in the guns without being
torn or broken. Twenty-three loads wen
found in one Springfield rifle-musket, each
load in regular order. Twenty-two balls
and sixty-two buckshot, with a eoriespon
ding quantity of powder, all mixed up tu
-1 gethor.were found in one percussion smooth
i bore musket. lib many of the sniooth-bor.
guns, model of 1*42, rebel make, we have
| found a wad of loose paper between the
: powder and ball, and another wad of the
same kind on top of the ball, the ball hav
| ing been put into the gun naked. About
six thousand of the arms were found load
' ed with Johnson A Row's cartridges : many
| of these cartridges were * about half-way
down in the barrels of the guns, and in
many eases the ball end of the cartridge
had been put into the gun first. These car
tridges were found mostly in the Enfield
f rifle musket.
AN* eminent divine preached one Sunday
morning from the text, " Ye are the chil
dreu of the devil," and in the afternoon, by
funny coincidence, from the words, " Chil
dren, obey your parents."
" It's all stuff," as the lady said to her
husband, who was complaining of dyspej
sia after a public dinner.
" Will you have it rare, or well done '!"
said an Englishman to an Irishmah, as la
was cutting a slice of roast beef.
" I love it well done iver since 1 am in
I this country, " replied Pat, "for it was rare
enough we used to ate in Ireland."
| WERE a second deluge to occur the best
place to retreat to would, of course, be
i Neiv-arlc.
V ERBI'M Sxr.—Time is never in a hurry,
but never idles.