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MARCHING HOME.
• The orders for the return of our troops have
ulv gone forth and the columns are beginning
1,1 move."
\V. are marching home at last,
Now the cruel war is past,
And the time of peace draws near :
We are marching home at last,
NOW the cruel war is past,
To the homes our hearts hold dear.
With our banners stained and torn.
That through uiauy a tight were borne.
Where death rained thick and fast,
Now our glorious work is done,
Now the Union cause is won,
We are marching home at last.
Marching home to those we love,
See the veteran columns move,
Hear the drums and shrill lifes play.
Hear our voices raised in song
\s we proudly march along
On our homeward way!
With our trusty arms we come,
I o the sound- of file and drum,
Now the cruel war is past ;
Light of heart and glad are we,
Having served the cause, to be
.Marching home at last.
All day long we march till night,
TLN n beside the camp-fire's light,
t'mlerneath the starry dome,
It is sweet to close our eyes,
While the night-wind softly sighs,
On our march toward home ;
AMI in sleep to dream we hear
Friendly voices sounding near,
Bidding welcome as we come,
1 ill at length the morning breaks,
And the happy dreamer wakes.
To tin beating of the drum.
I'lien once more upon the way,
March we on at dawn of day,
Now the cruel war is past ;
Light at heart and glad are we,
; laving proved the Right, to be
Marching home at last.
Sad*.
MISS PRECIOSA'S PRINCIPLES,
iu the must precise of country villages,
ia i' • primmest mansion ever built, dwelt
tin- must precise maiden ever horn, Miss
I'rt i in.sa Lockwood. Even in that serious
I. \\ ii, where laughter was reckoned one of
tin smaller sins, and the family in whose
dwelling lights were seen burning after ten
•'cluck were considered dissapated, there
was a current juke regarding Lockwood
1 uttage, which giddy girls had dubbed
The \ unnery," and some even went so
far us to call Miss Preeiosa the " Lady Su
[ici'iur."
Certainly convent walls never closed
themselves more grimly against mankind,
gentle and simple, old and young. What
• a many an excellent spinster has been an
affectation was genuine with Miss Pre-
Ci<
Lung ago a pretty little cousin, who had
been her confident and companion, had be
cuutc acquainted with a rascal with a hand
some face and a serpent's soul, and had
eloped with him. They heard of her wear
ing velvet and diamonds, but no wedding
ring, and driving about New Orleans in a
handsome carriage, wondered at and ad
. mired tor her beauty and shunned for her
; 'in Ami, at last, after a long silence
1 ahoid her doings, a faded thing in rags
came creeping at night to Miss Preciosa's
cottage, begging for God's sake that she
w mid let her in to die. Miss Preeiosa did
(he reverse of what most women do. She
gave a sister's hand to the poor victim —
nursed her until she died, and buried her
lucent ly, and thenceforth shut her spinster
uiie to man. She was barely twenty
seven, and lar from plain, but she argued
ihus: Something in a stove-pipe hat and
•"iots has wrought this ill—all who wear
those habiliments must be tabooed.
She kept her resolution. Prom the poor
house she selected a small servant-maid,
not yet old enough to think of "followers."
As cook she kept a hideous old female, too
far advanced in years to remember them,
lite milk was brought by a German wo
man The butcher's wife, by request,
fought in the joints. Even a woman cut
t'ae grass in the garden when it was too
mug, and if man approached the gates an
ant Deborah, the cook was sent forth to
parly with and obstruct his approach.
Having thus made things safe, Miss Pre*
■ansa went to New York and brought home
dead sister's daughter, who had hitherto
' ceu iniinurred in u boarding-school, and
- a arrangements were complete.
Miss Lockwood took her niece to church,
ds" to weekly meetings. They spent after*
funis out with widow ladies with no grown
up-nuns, or with spinsters who resided in
S"litary state.
La- old laity kept an Argus eye upon her
"'filing niece, and bold indeed would
ave been the man who dared to address
Her.
L j r her part, Miss Bella Bloom was an
anii-hypocrite. She had learned that at
here ingenuity is exhaus
' * iu deceiving the authorities, and doing
.'.'"•D's exactly what is most forbidden.—
fin Uh Kirn came to Lockwood Cottage
1" fleetly competent to hoodwink her aunt,
did it. Preeiosa blessed her stars
I,lt hi-r nieee waa well principled. She
.''i llu '"- She wondered how any young
I ' """hi walk and talk and ho sociable
| l: "lid marry them And when she
'"gut that stie lived in a home where
| ■' > could not intrude, how thankful she
Aunt Preeiosa could never guess.
E. O. CiOODBICH, Publisher.
VOLUME XX Y.
And all the while Bella was dialing in
wardly at her restraint, envying girls who
had pleasant little flirtations at will, and
keeping up a private correspondence with
a certain " Dear George," who sent his let
ters under cover to the butcher's wife, who
| brought them in with the beef and mutton,
and said, "Bless ye, nature will be nature
for all old maids ; and I was a gal myself
oust afore Cleaver courted me."
Dear George was desperate. He could
not live without seeing his Bella, lie wrote
bitter things about spinster aunts. He al
luded feelingly to those rendezvous in the
back garden of the seminary, with Miss
Clover standing sentry at the gate on the
look-out for a governess and enemy. The
first opportunity he was coming to Plain
acres, and intended to see his Bella or die.
Was he not twenty-three and she seventeen?
Were they to waste their lives at a spin
i ster's bidding ? No.
Miss Preeiosa, with her Argus-eyed
watchfulness, sat calmly hour by hour two
inches from the locked drawer of a cabinet
which contained the gentleman's letters,
; and dined from meats which had been the
means of conveying them across the thres
i hold, inculcating her principles into the
minds of lur neiee and handmaiden, the
latter of whom grinned behind her lady's
chair without reseive. Charity Pratt, hav
ing grown to besixteen, also had her se
-1 cret. It was the apothecary's boy who, in
his own peculiar fashion, had expressed ad
! miration at church by staring,
i A few days after, Dr. Green, the bach
i elor minister, called at the cottage. I)e
--: borah went out to huff and snap, and was
; subdued by the big eyes. She came in.
" Miss," said she, " the clergyman is out
| there."
" Where ?" gasped Preeiosa.
"In the garden, Miss, wantin' you."
"Me ! You said, of course, 1 was out?"
" No, Miss. Every body receives their
! pastor."
Bo the pastor was ushered in. He con
versed of church affairs. Miss Preeiosa
: answered by polite monosylables. Bella
: smiled and stitched. Deborah sat 011 a
hall chair 011 guard. Finally the best spec
imen of that bad creature, man, was got
i out of the house safely, and the ladies
I looked at each other as those might who
i had been closeted with a polar bear and
j escaped unharmed.
| " He's gone, aunty, " said the hypocrite.
" Thank goodness !" said sincere Pre
eiosa. " 1 thought I should have fainted.
Never let it happen again, Deborah. Re
member I'm always engaged.
; "But he seems a nice, well-spoken,good
j behaved kind of a gentleman, " said Debo
rah. " And a clergyman. "
"So he does," said Preeiosa. "But ap
perances are deciteful, I once knew a
clergyman—"
" Yes, Miss."
" A Doctor of Divinity, Bella—"
" Yes, aunt."
" Ah ! who— who—"
"Well?"
" Who kitted a young lady of his congre
gation in her father's garden."
" Oh ! aunt !"
"He afterwards married her. But T
never could visit her or like him."
" Bless you, 110," said Deborah. " Now
the best thing you can do is to have a cup
of strong green tea and something nourish
ing to keep your sperits up. Cleaver's wife
has just fetched oysters in. " (Private sig
nal to Bella.)
" lias she ? Oh,l so love oysters ! "cried
Bella, and ran to get dear George's last.
It was a brief one, and in it George vow
ed to appear at the cottage when they least
expected him and demand his betrothed.
That evening, at dusk, Miss Preeiosa
walked iu the garden alone. She was
thinking of a pair of romantic big eyes, of
a soft voice and a softer hand which she
had been surprised into allowing to shake
hers.
" It's a pity men are so wicked ! " said
she, and sighed. Although she was near
thirty she looked very pretty as she walked
in the moonlight, forgetting to put 011 prim
airs and graces and to stiffen herself. Her
figure was much like her niece Bella's, so
much so that some one 011 the other side of
the convent-like wall, with eyes upon a lev
el with its upper stones,fancied it was that
young lady. Under this belief he clamber
ed up, stood at the top, and whispered,
" My dearest look up, your best beloved
is here ; behold your George ! "
And Preeiosa, lifted her eyes, beheld a
man on her wall, flung her hands in the air,
and uttered a shriek like that of an enraged
peacock.
The gentleman discovered his mistake,
endeavored to retreat, stumbled and fell
headlong among flower pots and boxes,and
lay there quite motionless.
The shriek and the clatter aroused the
house. Deborah, Bella, and Charity Pratt
rushed to the scene, and found a gentleman
in a sad plight, bloody and senseless, and
Miss Preeiosa half dead with terror.
Bella, recognized dear George, fainted in
| good earnest. Preeiosa, encouraged by
numbers, addressed the prostrate youth,
" Get up,young man,and go ; your wick
edness has been perhaps sufficiently pun
ished. Please go. "
" lie can t ; he's dead, " said Deborah.
Uh, what a sudden judgement ! You're
| sure he's dead ? "
Yes, Miss."
" Then take him into the house and call
the doctor. "
They laid him on the bed and medical
; aid came ; the poor fellow had broken a
leg.
" He'd get well. Oh yes. but lie couldn't
lie moved."
Miss Preeiosa could not murder a fellow
creature, and she acquiesced.
" He can't run oft' with the spoons until
his leg is better," said Deborah.
" He isn't able to elope with any one,"
; said Miss Preeiosa; "and we should be
, gentle with the erring. Who shall we find
to nurse him.
"Old Todds is competent, Miss," said
Deborah.
" Yes. Do send for that old person," said
j the lady.
And old Todds came, lie of course dwelt
in the house. The doctor came every day.
The apothecary's hoy invaded the hall with
medicines ; and finally, when the young
man came to his senses, he desired earnest
ly to see his friend Dr. Green.
"Our clergyman his friend," said Pre
eiosa. "He must have been misled then ;
j surely his general conduct must be proper.
TO WANDA, BRADFORD POINTY, I'A., MAY 25, 1865.
. Perhaps this is the first time he ever looked
over a wall to make love to a lady. By all
means send for I)r. Green.
Thus the nunnery was a nunnery 110 more.
Two men under the roof. Three visiting it
daily ! What was the world coming to ?
Miss Preeiosa darred not think. Bella was
locked in her own room in the most deco
rous manner while her aunt was in the
house, but when she was absent Deborah
and Charity sympathized and abetted, and
she read and talked deliciously to dear
George, lying 011 his back with his hand
some face so pale, and his spirits so low,
poor fellow !
Troubles always come together. Thnt
evening Miss Preeiosa received information
! that legal a flairs connected with her prop
[ erty, which was considerable, demanded
her presence in New York and left the es
tablishment, which never before so much
needed its Lady Superior. She returned
after three days toward evening, no one
expecting her. "1 shall give them a pleas-
I ant surprise," she thought, and slipped in
the kitchen-way. There a candle burned,
and 011 one chair sal two people—Cliairity
Pratt anu the drugist's boy. He had his
arm about her waist.
Miss Preeiosa grasped the door frame
and shook from head to foot. "I'll go to
Deborah,"she said. "She can speak to that
misguided girl better than I." She falter
ed forward. Deborah was in the back area
scouring tea-knives. Beside her stood old
Todds. the nurse. They were talking.
"Since my old woman died," said Todds,
"I hain't seen nobody scour like you—and
the pies you does make."
"They ain't better than other folks," said
Deborah, grimly coquettish.
"They air," said Todds; and, to Miss
Preciosa's horror, he followed up the com
pliment by asking for a kiss.
Miss Preeiosa struggled with hysterics
and tied parlorward. Alas ! a liuinnur of
sweet voices. She peeped in. Through
the window swept the fragrance of honey
suckle. Moonlight mingled with that of
the shaded lamp. Bella leaned over an
easy-chair in which reclined George Love
boy. This time Preeiosa was petrefied.
" Dearest Bella,"said George.
" My own," said llolla.
" How happy w;e are !"
" Uh, to happy!"
"And when shall we be together again ?
You know I must go. YAur aunt won't
have me here, Bella. I must tell her.—
Why are you afraid of her?"
"She's to prim and good, dear soul," said
Bella.
"Ah! you don't love me as I do you."
"George!"
"You don't. Would I let an aunt stand
between us ?"
"Oh, George, you know I've told you
that nothing could change me. Why, if
you had staid lame, and had to walk 011
crutches all your life, it would have made
110 difference, though I fell iu love with you
for your walk. 1 don't deny it."
"And I," said George, "would have al
most been content had fate willed that I
should be a cripple to have been so cher
ished, to have reposed 011 so faithful a bos
om."
"Uh, oh, oh, !" from the doorway checked
the speech. Those last awful words had
well-nigh killed Miss Preeiosa Lockwood.
Hysterics supervened, and in their midst a
gentleman was announced. The Rev. Pe
ter Green.
"Show him in," said Preeiosa. "I need
counsel. Perhaps he may give it." And
for the first time iu her life she hailed the
entrance of "a man."
Mr. Loveboy left the room as stealthily
and speedily as possible. Miss Bella fol
lowed him. Cliairity was in the pantry
hiding her head, and Deborah returned to
the cellar.
Alone the Lady Superior received the
Rev. Peter Green. She faltered and blush
ed.
"You are, 1 persume, already aware of
the fact that I am much disturbed in mind,"
she said.
"Yes, Madam. That is perceptible."
"You are my spiritual adviser, Sir. To
you, though a man, I turn for advice," and
she-shed a tear or two. "My own house
hold has turned against me " And she told
him all.
The llev. Peter made big eyes at her,
and broke the truth gently.
"My dear Madam, you do not know that
old Jonathan Todds and your faithful De
borah intend to unite their fortunes in the
bands of holy wedlock next Sabath?"
"Know it! Uh the old, old sinners! Are
they in their dotage!"
'•'Or that Cliairity Pratt, who seems a
likely' sort of girl, has promised to give her
hand to Zeddock Saltz on Thursday?"
"Oh, Doctor Green! What do I hear?"
"The truth, Madam. Can you hear more?"
"I hope so."
"Then it is time that you should be in
formed that Miss Bella Bloom and Mr.
George Loveboy have been engaged a year.
They have corresponded regularly. It was
to see her he climed the garden wall and j
met with his accident Don't give way,
Madam—don't."
"You're very kind," said Miss Preeiosa ;
"but it is awful! What would you advise?"
"1 should say: Allow Todds and Deborah
to marry next Sunday."
"Yes, Sir."
"And Cliairity and Zeddock on the day
they have fixed. And I should sanction
the betrothal of your niece and Mr. Love
boy, and allow me to unite them at some
appointed day before the altar."
"My own niece!" said Miss Preeiosa.
"Uh! my own niece!"
"Do you so seriously object to weddings?"
asked the pastor.
"N-no," said Preeiosa. "It's this awful
courting I dislike."
"1 agree with you," said the pastor
"I have resolved, when 1 marry, to come
to the point at once. Miss Preeiosa, the
Parsonage needs a mistress. 1 know of
110 lady 1 admire and esteem as I do you.
Will you make me happy? will you be my
wife?"
Preeiosa said nothing. Her cheeks burn
ed ; her lids drooped. He came a little
closer. He made bigger eyes at her than
ever. At last his lips approached and
touched her cheek, and still she said noth
ing.
In such a case "speech is silver, but si
lence is gold."
Deborah was married 011 Sunday, being
her fortieth birthday. Charity on Tuesday.
Miss Bloom gave her hand to George Love
REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER.
buy in a month ; and on the same day a
brother clergyman united Freciosa and the
Rev. Peter Green. And the Nunnery was
broken up forever.
REMEMBER ME.— There are not two other
words in the language that can recall a
more fruitful train of past remembrances
of friendship than these. Look through
your library, and when yon cast your eyes
upon a volume that contains the name of
an old 'companion, it will see, Hnnemher
me. Have you an ancient album, the re
pository of mementos of early affection ?
Turn over its leaves, stained by the finger
of time—sit down and ponder upon the
names enrolled on them—each speak, each
says Remember me. Go into the crowded
churchyard, among the marble tombs, read
the simple and brief inscriptions that per
petuate the memory of departed ones ; they
too have a voice that speaks to the heart
of the living, aud says, Remember me.—
Walk in the scenes of early rambles ; the
well-known paths of the winning streams,
the overspread trees, the green and gently
sloping banks, recall the dreams of juve
nile pleasure, and the recollections of youth
ful companions ; they too bear the treas
ured injunction, Remember me. And this
is all that is left of the wide circle of our
earthly friends. Scattered by fortune, or
called away by death, or thrown without
our rank by the changes of circumstances
or .of character—in time we find ourselves
left alone with the recollection of what they
were.
THE MAN OE INTEGRITY.— We love to gaze
upon some beautiful planet in the heavens,
and watch its course every night as in ma
jesty it travels on among the stars. We
are filled with admiration ; and like our
selves thousands are gazing on the same
I planet, filled with inexpressable emotions.
Like a planet in a dark sky is a man uf
| unbending integrity. We look upon him
; with the same feeling of love and admira
tion, as we watch his daily course among
his fellow men. In troubled times his light
I goes not out, though it may burn feebly.
He still exerts the same glorious influence,
and hundreds gaze upon him with delight.
No seats of honor dazzle him, no wealth se
duces him. He pushes straight onward iu
the path of duty. The fear of God is con
tinually before him, aud he feels the impor
tance of every moment's work to lead man
kind tu the fountain of truth and purity.
Behold the man thus filled with true love to
God and his fellow creatures ! Every act
tells nobly for the cause, justice and hu
manity. Every deed is a living epistle to
the truth.
Would you share in his glory? Labor
in the same field. Would you lessen the
toils of humanity, and assist immortal be
ings to reach the skies ? Imitate his ex
ample, and walk iu the same virtuous path.
THE EFFECT OF VIRTUE.— It is a peculiar
effect of virtue to make a man's chief hap
piness arise from himself aud his own com
duct. A had man is wholly the creature of
the world. He hangs upon favor, lives by
its smiles, and is happy or miserable, in
proportion to his success. But as to a vir
tuous man, success in worldly undertakings
is but a secondary object. To discharge
his own part with integrity and honor, is
his chief aim. If he has done properly
what was incumbent on him to do, his miml
is at rest ; to Providence he leaves the
event, His witness is in heaven, and his
record is on high, satisfied with the appro
bation of God, and the testimony of a good
conscious, he enjoys himself, aud despises
the triumphs of guilt. In proportion as
such manly principles rule your heart, you
will become independent of the world, and
will forbear complaining of its discourage
ments. It is the imperfection of your vir
tue which occasions you to he weary in
well doing. It is because your heart re
mains divided between God and the world,
that you are so often discontented—partly
seeking your happiness from something
that is repugnant to your duty. Study to
be more consistent in principle, and more
uniform in practice, and your peace will be
more unbroken.
MEDITATION. — Go to the grave of buried
love and meditate. There settle accounts
witii thy concience fur every past benefit
unrequitted—every past endearment unre
garded, of that departed being who can
never—never —never return to be soothed
by thy contrition! If thou art a child and
hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a
furrow to the silvered brow of an affection
ate parent ; il thou art a husband, and hast
ever caused the fond bosom that ventured
its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt
oue moment of thy kindness or truth ; if
thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged
in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that
generously confided in thee ; if thou art a
lover, and hast ever given one unmerited
pang to that true heart which now lies cold
beneath thy feet—then be sure that every
unkind look every ungracious word, every
ungentle action, will come thronging back
upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully
at thy soul —then be sure that you will lie
down sorrowing and repentant on the grave,
and utter the unheard-groan, and pour the
unavailing tear —more deep, more bitter,
because unheard and unavailing.— BWt
ington Irving.
THE CHANCES OF LIFE. — There are many
griefs in this world, but many good and
pleasant things also. We might be happy
if we would; hut we are too selfish; as ii
the world was made for us alone. How
much happier should we be, were we to la
bor more earnestly to promote each other's
happiness. God has blest us with a house
! which is not dark There is sunshine ev
| erywhere—in the sky, upon the earth—
there would be in most hearts if we would
! look aroud us. The storms die away, aud
the bright sun shines out. Summer drops
her tinted curtain upon the earth, which is
very beautiful,even when autumn breathes
her changing breath upon it. God reigns
in Heaven. Murmur not at a creation so
beautiful, who can live happier than we (
Un one occasion, at a rehersal,
Weber said to the performers, " I am very
sorry yen take so much trouble."
" No, not at all," was the reply.
" Yes," he added, " but I say yes—dat is
for why you take de trouble to sing so
many notes that are not in de book ?"
ONE OF MANY.
1 AM sitting by the open window and
looking out upon the orchard, where the
trees stand laden with apple-blooms, whose
delicate perfume floats in this twilight ad
just as it did four years ago to-night.
There is nothing changed about this edd
place as I look upon its picture now.—
There stands the stone-curbed well, over
which the long sweep hangs, with its dan
gling bucket, moss-covered, and dripping
water monotonously—just as ever. There
is Carlo's kennel, and Carlo himself
is lying there, with his nose upon his out
stretched paws, and his eyes closed lazily;
precisely thus he lay as I looked out of this
window four years ago this hour. I can
hear Kate and Bess and Dick and Duke
stamping with their iron hoofs in their sta
bles in the old red barn; and over the top
of that same tree that bears the golden
sweets peeps the wooden weather-cock
on the roof of the hay-shed. The doves
have been flying in and out of their cots
over the wide door for the past hour; and
the sAvallows, not yet gone to sleep, are
squeaking and chattering in the eaves
overhead. There dangles the swing under
the oak. Yonder comes Philip whistling
up the road. He has changed no more in
i these four years than if he were an image,
instead of being, as he is, a middleaged
serving-man. Every thing my eye rests
on is just the same—-just the same. I
wish it were not. How ••■mi the world go
on so unchanged?
It seems as if 1 had been dreaming, here
by the window iu the sun of the warm May
afternoon, and had just awakened in the
falling twilight. Was it ray wedding-night
this night four years ago?
Y r es. There, on the bed within this room,
my hoy is sleeping. Here on iny fin
ger is my wedding-ring, and I kiss it, and
it is as cold to my lips as his forehead was.
Here are my Widow's mourning garments.
lam twenty-two. I was eighteen when
Frank drew me to his heart, here in this
very room, aud called me his darling, his
brown-eyed bride. Uh, how I loved him!
You ladies who live in cities, and whose
lives are crowded with events—who have
loved and unloved one man after another—
whose hearts were older at eighteen than
mine is this day, even after all of its deep
joy and sorrow—you cannot know how I
loved iny husband.
He was the only man I ever loved re
member—the only one. My father was so
stern with me that him I never dared to
love. My mother died when I was little,
and uiy father kept me always under his
eye, permitting me no such pleasure as
those that country girls generally have,and
books were my best companions. There
were balls at the tavern at the cross-roads
in winter, luvt 1 never went to them. There
were picnic parties in the woods in summer,
and husking-becs in autum, and other mer
ry-makings of which 1 sometimes heard,
but which I never saw. Almost my only
knowledge of life outside iny own home
was gathered from the glimpses 1 got of
the neigboi-people on Sundays at the little
church where all the farmers on Moreton
Heights met to worship, and still do. It
was there I first saw Frank—when I was
a little curly-headed girl, and he was a
blue-eyed boy five years mv senior. There
I saw all I ever saw of him, till I was six
teen, and he was home for the college va
cation. I met him then, one afternoon as
I was coining home from a neighbor's house
and he walked along by my side. I loved
him that hour with my whole soul; and du
ring the two years following I learned to
find my sweetest happiness in his smile,
the thrilling touch of his hand, the soft
words of love he spoke to me; and at last
to sink in the tremor of unutterable happi
ness upon his breast when he asked me to
be his wife.
Can you wonder, then, that the wedding
night on which he made me his was daz
zling in its brilliancy to my eyes? 1 was
almost intoxicated with the novelty and
the joy of that scene. The great rooms of
Squire Moreton's house were like those of
a palace compared to the humbler home
where I had been reared, and it was there
we were married, for Frank wished it so.
The crowding guests, the gleaming lights,
the marriage ceremony, the congratulations,
the whispered joy of my husband as he
beut over me, and the odor of the apple
blooms, pervading all, seemed like a beau
tiful dream then, seem like a dream now,
with the orchard's perfume alone remain
ing.
Do you believe me exaggerating when I
say that I would have yielded up my life
unmurmuring for my husband's sake ? If
you do, it only shows that you have no
conception of a love like that I bore for
Frank It was wrong to love a man so,
perhaps; but oh, I was so happy! He was
my all, remember. On him I lavished the
long-hoarded affection of a nature whose
depths no mortal being had looked into be
fore him. My heart would leap with glad
ness at the sound of his voice at a distance
I knew his footstep so well that I would
go far beyond the gate to meet him when
he was coming up the road. His kiss was
heaven to my lips, and the fond glance of
his blue eye would thrill my being to the
core. %
You may wonder that I consented to
part with Frank when I loved him so. It
was because I loved him as I did that I
could not oppose him when he told me, his
face all glowing with enthusiasm, that he
wanted to raise a compauy for the war.—
Then he talked so eloquently about it, his
eye shone with such a lustre, and his voice
had such cheer in it, as he spoke of going
forth with his comrads to fight in defense
of the dear old flag how could I put in my
selfish protest?
But I clung to his neck with silent fear
in the darkness of night, when he lay fast
asleep; I pictured his loved form lying
wounded aud bloody on the battle-field, and
1 hid my face on my pillow, and pressed
his dear cheek with my hand, softly, so as
not to wake him, while I wept as if my
heart would break. But in the daytime I
never let him know. I tried my best to
cheer him, for I knew it was the old patri
otic fire that burned in his manly breast,
and no tears of mine should quench it. I
was always proud of Frank; he was the
prince of men to me; but now I was proud
er of him than ever before.
I was but the bride of a summer when he
marched away. The harvest was ripe, and
: the leaves were browning. He kissed me
I again and again as we stood under the
per Annum, in Advance.
porch by the door, and i smiled a cheerful
smile of adieu to him, and struggled to hide
from him the quivering of in} - lips. Then
he walked briskly away down the garden
path, passed out the gate, and waved his
gilded cap to me from the road; and when
he was so far Way that he could not see
me weep I leaned against a pillar and gazed
long after him through the blinding rain of
unavailing tears.
I used to get such cheering letters from
my hero! He found so many amusing
things to write about in his new life, and
seemed to relish so well the novelty and
hardihood of the camp! lie would describe
to me the minutist particulars of his sur
roundings, tell me what he ate and how,
where he slept and how, and drew for me
such photographs of the scenes in which
he moved, that I soon quite lost my foolish
habit of picturing him lying bleeding on
cold battle-fields, alone with the watching
stars and the long night. Instead of this
I soon began to share his dissatisfaction at
having nothing to do through the long win
ter, and I looked forward to the spring
with his longing vision, and learned to glo
ry in my husband's strength as lie himself
did, and to feel certain that all perils must
yield before the power of his arm. Our
boy was born that winter too, and in him
! I found an object on which to pour out the
j love of my heart, and a companion to make
! the time pass away.
The spring came, and in the battle of
| Fair Oaks my husband was taken prisoner.
They shut him up in that fearful prison in
| Richmond, and murdered him by inches.—
! Long, long months rolled away. My boy
| grew till lie could run about the house
and play with Carlo in the yard; and
every day he seemed to grow more and
more like his father as he was when he
went away, with his fresh, round cheeks
red with bloom, and his merry blue eye and
ringing laugh.
Last October they brought my husband
home. Oh, what a pitiful semblance of the
man who waved his gilded cap to me from
the road as I stood in the porch that Sep
tember morning so long ago! They left
him alone in the parlor to wait for me, for
I had fainted at sight of him from the win
dow—my darling Frank—this skeleton
with shrunken limbs and ghastly, fallen
| cheek and dull eyes! Could it be he ?
Only when 1 entered the parlor where
he sat, and beheld the clustering black hair
that shaded his white forehead could I see
aught of the man I had married in that May
night when the odor of the apple-blooms
was in the air. He looked on me so piti
fully, and raised his wan hands as if to
embrace me. I flew to his breast, and kiss
ed liis white cheek and colorless lips with
despair in my heart, for I knew he had
" come home to die."
"Is this my husband ?" I murmured, in
a tone of awe, as I looked upon the strange,
strange face.
" This is what they have left you of him,"
said he, smiling faintly ; and I hid my face
in his bosom,
" Where is my boy ?" he whispered,
smoothing my hair with his bony hand.
I went for little Frank, and held him up
while his father wrapped him in his arms.
The little fellow looked into the white and
bearded face with a straight, earnest gaze,
and then his eyes filled with tears and his
lip began to quiver ; but it was with pity,
not with childish fear, for he put up his lit
tle hand to his father's mouth caressingly,
and said, " Papa sick !"
Next day the doctor came. He sat an
hour with Frank ; prescribed cheerfulness,
quiet, and generous food ; instructed me
in the duties of my new office as nurse, for
I would have no other ; pressed Frank's
hand cordially, and left the room. I fol
lowed him to the door.
" How long can he live ?" I asked.
The doctor shook his head.
" All will depend on the care you take of
him, Mrs. Moreton, With such care as 1
know you will give him, he may survive a
month, or even two. But I could not pro
mise him a week of life, lie has had a
hard time. Damn the villains ! They'd
be torn to pieces like carrion if I had my
way with 'em !"
When I went back to Frank he asked
me what the doctor said.
" Don't conceal any thing from me, dear
wife," said he. " There is 110 need. I have
been 011 familiar terms with death for many
months. lam ready to go."
Then I told him, and he smiled. There
was a peculiar light in his eyes as he turn
ed them 011 me, and said,
" Mary, I shall live till spring."
It was October then. So many months
of life yet ? It seemed like a priceless
boon. Nearly half a year to live? Oh
what a world of love should be crowded
into that time ! And I believed him, too.
I don't know why, but I did.
The winter rolled by slowly, and he did
not die. Sometimes I would feel a wild I
hope that he might recover, and he would !
see it shining in my eyes, and would smile j
and shake his head in answer to the un-!
spoken thought
"In the spriug," he said, very often— j
" in the spring I shall die."
The spring came too soon. The robins '
began to sing in the sunshine—the starling
came to his old nest in the apple-tree by
the well. Sometimes Frank would bid me ;
open the window, so that he could hear the
plaintive note of the bluebirds and the
twitter of the sparrows under the eaves.—
Wrapped in heavy shawls, and sitting in
his great arm-chair, he would gaze out the
window with his dreamy blue eyes til! he j
seemed to fox-get that I was there.
" They are getting ready," he would
murmur. " I shall hear from thern soon." j
I thought he was talking of the angels j
" What do you see out there, Captain |
Frank ?" asked Doctor Thomas, one such
day, as he entered the room.
" I am looking southward !" whispered
Frank. " There will be good news from
the front very soon. That is what lam
waiting for."
Then we understood him. The window
looks toward the south, and commands a
view of the road leading to the village,
ten miles away. And it was there he aat
when he died.
You must know that here on the Heights
we get the news but once a week. We
are on no high-road where travelers pass.
The half-dozen farmers who live on the
Heights with us, like us, go to the village
011 Saturdays, the common market-day.—
Then we get the weekly newspaper which
I is issued in the village 011 Friday morning,
and contains all the events of the week
that is past.
Frank slept none on Thursday night, and
Friday morning early he asked that Philip
be sent to the village for the Republican.
It was afternoon when Philip returned.
Frank sat by the open window, gazing
earnestly down the road. It was a beauti
ful day. The air was as balmy as June,
and the birds were flying about and twit
tering joyously in the trees. Presently
Philip came in sight around the hend in
the road. He was waving the newspaper
in the air, and seemed to he shouting some
thing, hut we could not hear. The orchard
shut iiim from view a minute .fter, and 1
j ran down stairs to meet him at the gate
and get the Rtpvhlican.
"Hooray !" cried Philip. "Victory !"
I devoured the news with quick eyes,
and then ran up stairs to Frank, and knelt
by his chair.
" Dear husband," said I, "the news is
grand. Do you think you can bear to hear
it ?"
" Mary," said he, " f shall never l><-
stronger than I am this hour. It is my
last. Tell me the good news. I have
! waited long for it."
Amidst my tears 1 read the news Rich
; inond was evacuated and our troops occu
| pied it. Jeff Davis was flying for his life,
j and Lee's whole army had surrendered to
Grant. An order had been issued to stop
recruiting and drafting. Peace hud already
dawned
He listened with closed ejes, uu expres
sion of unutterable happiness ou his white
face.
" Glory !" he murmured, when I had
done. " The night is past. Dear wife, 1
am happy now. 1 knew I should live to
see the dawn."
An hour later he passed away. I sat at
his feet, clasping his hand in both mine.
" Mary," lie whispered, " you know tin
legacy I leave my boy. He is too young
to understand now, but as he grows up
teach him its priceless value. The day
will come when lie will be prouder to know
that his father died one of the martyrs in
freedom's cause than lie would he if 1 made
him heir to millions. / was a soldier, too !
/ wore the army blue !"
His breath came lainter and fainter. His
hand grew lifeless in my clasp. Then he
rose up in his chair, gazed with brilliant
eyes out at the window toward the south,
waved his bony hand in the air, and fell
hack upon the cushions. I touched his
cold forehead with my trembling lips, and
heard his last faint whisper,
" Mary—don't forget!—l wore the bine !"
And he was one of many.
MORAL COURAGE.— Have the courage to
discharge a debt while you have the money
in your pocket.
Have the courage to speak your mind
when it is necessary you should do so and
hold your tongue when it is prudent to do
so.
Have the courage to speak to a friend in
a " seedy " coat, even though you are in
company with a rich one, and well attired.
Have the courage to own you are poor,
and disarm poverty ol its sharpest sting.
Have the courage to " cut" the most
agreeable acquaintance you have, when
you are convinced that he lacks principle.
A friend should bear with a friend's infirm
ities hot not his vices.
Have the courage to show your respect
for honesty, in whatever guise it appears :
and your contempt for dishonesty and du
plicity, by whomsoever exhibited.
Have the courage to wear your old
clothes until you can pay for new ones.
Have the courage to obey your own con
science, at the risk of being ridiculed by
men.
Have the courage to wear thick boots in
the winter and insist upon your wife and
daughters doing the same.
Have the courage to prefer comfort and
propriety to fashion, in all things.
GIRI.S SHOULD LEARX HOUSEKEEPING.— No
young lady can be too well instructed in
anything which will affect the comfort of a
family. Whatever position in society she
needs a practical knowledge of household
duties. She may be placed in such cir
cumstances that it will not he necessary
for her to perform much domestic labor ;
but 011 this account she needs no less
knowledge than if she were obliged to pre
side personally over the cooking stove and
pantry. Indeed, I have often thought that
it is more difficult to dii-ect others, and re
quires more experience, than to do the
same work with our own hands. Mothers
are frequently so nice and particular that
they do not like to give up any part of
their care to their children. This is'a great
mistake in their management, for they are
often burdened with labor, and need relief.
Children should be early taught to make
themselves useful—to assist their parents
in every way in their power, and to consid
er it a privilege to do so.
A gentleman who had married a
second time indulged in recurring too of
ten in conversation to the beauties and vir
tues of his first consort. He had however
barely discernment enough to discover
that the subject was not an agreeable one
to his present laxly.
" Excuse me, madam," said he. "1 can
not help expressing my regrets for the dear
departed."
" Upon my honor," said the lady, " I can
most heartily affirm that 1 am as 'sincere a
mourner for her as you can he."
A judge out West has recently deci
ded that it might be insanity to sign an
other man's name to a check in place of
your own; but when you draw the money
on the check, and spend in, there is a great
deal of sanity in the proceeding.
IT is a mistake to suppose that time is
money. We know of one or two railroad
companies that make first rate time but no
money.
IT is a pleasant thing to see roses and
lilies glowing upon a young lady's cheek,
but a bad sign to see a man's face break
out in blossoms.
NEVER refuse to pay the printer when
you have read his paper for a year or more
A man who does this is mean enough to.
steal rotten acorns bom a blind pig.
MANY a man thinks it's virtue that keeps
him from turning a rascal, when it is only
a lull stomach. One should be careful, and
not mistake potatoes for principles.
A Traveler tells us that lie knows a fel
j low down South who was so fond of a
j young woman that he has rubbed his nose
! oft* kissing her shadow 011 the wall.
NONSENSICAL— For the ladies and gentle
; men to beautify their faces by artificial
I means. W r e pity the man who married the
j paint on a woman's cheeks.
I IN Si am the penalty for lying is to have
; your mouth sewed up. Suppose such a
| law were in force here, what a number of
! mutes we would have.
IT is not so very fortunate after all, to
be born with a silver spoon in the month.
! A good many have been sooner or later
j choked with the spoon, especially if a very
; arge one.
NUMBER 52.