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For the Bradford Reporter.
IIUENDS.
■ E KiTF I II V DEDICATED TO H. A. B.
v-1 a friend? Are not all false or changing,
,tn;> u thediighway of my life,
• v ■-h yi-ar this heart estranging
r. m those whose love could enervate its strife?
Have I a friend ?
i i,. mi who often sat beside me,
... ..a whose eyes I though a true light shone ;
: -nuiie came and sorrows to betide me,
Ind when 1 looked again 1 was alone ;
Was he my friend ?
_ aiy treasures there is still a letter,
protestations strong of friendship writ,
one whose after silence burst the fetter
Halt to his own my spirit closely fit.
Was he my friend ?
d the hand of one whose voice condoling, :
•. red lue while lone upon affliction's bed,
yester-month the battle sounds were rolling |
ward me the enemy be fiercely led ;
Was be mv friend?
"
. iv a lady fair and sweet and gentle,
i'ho seemed to live upon the words I spoke ;
. was my being in love's sentimental,
But she was false, my heart adoring broke.
Was she my friend ? j
■t those who warmest are in their profession,
Experience this lesson true will teaah,)
y will longest give the heart possession,
Hut those who flatter not ia act or speech !
I have such friends.
I wunda, May 2-TtLi.
ME, THOMPSONS UMBKELLA.
A BEAUTIFUL SKETCH.
Augusta, I wish you would practice
■ I m's march. Mr. Thompson likes
"a! liow sick I was of hearing about
I fli mpson ! My poor aunt, she meant |
v,-ry kindly, of course, but she little j
w iiow she made me hate those single !
; utienicn whom she so wished me to
;:ease. I was an orphan, and had forty |
.•Is n year, and my aunt's annuity died
.'A her ; so 1 suppose her anxiety to see j
carried was both commendable and '
,viral, hut to me it was dreadful. More- I
perhaps because I was a proud girl, ;
: chaps, too, because I was a foolish j
the mere fact of a man, young ormid
iged—for only the old and wedded
: excluded— coming to the house on
;■ account, made him detestable in my
- I should not wonder if that were i
t the reason way I pleased none. I was j
•i ito lie pretty —1 may say that now,
0 : it is so long ago —but plainer girls, j
:ii no greater advantage than I had,
■at oil'at a premium in the marriage
irket, and I remained Augusta Raymond, j
wed and unsought for. I did not care, i
I. I only lamented that my aunt j
•Id worry these unfortunate gentlemen :
1 me with vain efforts to make me like |
She was my best friend, however, j
■■ 1 loved her dearly. So 1 now sat
'■• ii to the piano and played Chapin's |
'••'b, and practiced for the benefit of the
- 1 '! Mr. Thompson, who was to come
* veiling, and who little knew, poor j
I v, he had been invited to spend a j
with us for the express purpose of
'g in ive with his second cousin's
1 had not seen him since 1 was a
He was a young man then, tall,
■ - > i grave, and already on the road
• r -perity. He was a rich man now—at
rich fur a poor girl as I was, but he
•> Mr. lumpson, and 1 hated him ; be
' he must be old, quite old.
■tight of all these things while 1 was
. iig, and then I forgot them, for the di
musie bore me away, and music was a
!tn me then.
" lived in the country, and a small but
tiful garden enclosed my aunt's cot
it was a low one, with broad rooms,
: '-!e dark perhaps, yet strangely pleas-
At least, they seemed so to me. 1
* ! .v liked the room in which I now sat 1
v Qg. It was our best room, but it was
' nr sitting-room. A central table was
■vn with books, some of which were
'ld friends, and others were pleasant
new acquaintances. Flower-stands,
■baskets, and delightful chairs, chairs i
to read or dream in, added to the at
ions of this department. I enjoyed it j
as I played ; but then, to be sure, the
ws were all open, and every one gave
* glimpse of the green garden, with a
•''-ii of blue sky above its noddiug trees,
the sweet scent of the mignonette came j
vith every breath of air. Where are
•Stt'jw, pleasant room and green garden? j
■■ ruthless hand of man has laid you >
v and my eyes can see you no more, j
; '-if no home for lost places, no dream- |
hke the Indian's hunting-ground,
r " the tilings that have once been may
)' u shadowy existence '! Are you real
ver gone and lost, save when you j
'-lack every time a woman, whose!
' ■ l!< turning gray, hears that grand, I
v -rniul music to which your pleasant j
•aim >s would seem so little akin?
;'*y dear ! Mr. Thompson 1" said my
voice, as 1 closed the instrument. I
1 round and saw him; tall, dark,.
"<•' very little altered, and not at all I
"e had expected him for dinner, and j
4,i come for luncheon ; I forget how ;
: ' l! stake arose. As he opened the gar- j
-Ate, | le niet , U y UUI ,t. They heard me
'• •> and stood by one of the windows
'i. \V hen 1 ceased they entered the
1 ; .^ : aud ' l was then that, as 1 said, I
- • > . -• * ■' v■> - * -r* *. #
E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher.
VOLUME XXVII.
I did not diiow it at the time, but I knew
it later ; I liked him from that very mo
ment. lam not sure that every girl would
have liked Mr. Thompson. lie was decid
edly good-looking, and he was both shrewd
and pleasant ; but he had a quaint and ab
rubt manner, which was apt to startle
strangers. I liked it well, however. I
liked that eccentricity which never took
him too far, and that slight want of polish
which gave flavor to everything he said or
did. I liked all, excepting his umbrella.
That 1 detested. It was large, massive and
dreadfully obtrusive. lie had it in his
hand on that bright, warm day, and long
as our acquaintance lasted I never saw Mr.
Thompson without it. Later, when our in
timacy had progressed, I taxed him with
this. "Yes," he said good-humoredly, " I
confess it is my hobby. My earliest am
bition as a boy was to possess an umbrel
la, and my greatest happiness as a man is
to go about with one."
Uf course, we did not speak about his
umbrella on this the first morning we spent
together. Mr. Thompson praised my mu
sic, and looking me full in the face, told
me I played divinely. He said it without
preamble, and I saw he meant it. My aunt
was delighted, and I felt pleased ; but,
somehow or other, I also felt that Mr.
Thompson treated me like a little girl; and
so he did, not merely then, but even after
wards. Tiresome man ! I had thought him
old before 1 saw him, and I could not make
him think me old now that he saw me.
Mr. Thompson did not stay a week with
us, but a month. 0, that happy month,
with long golden days and delicious even
ings, and music and sweet converse ! shall
I ever forget it ? If the wakening was bit
ter, let me remember that the dream was
very sweet.
Mr. Thompson was to leave us next morn
ing', and we were in the garden together.
1 knew by this time how I felt towards
him ; and, kind though he was, I doubted
if he cared much for me. And when he
said, "Augusta, 1 have something to say to
you," my heart began to beat. He used to
call me Augusta now and then, having
known me as a child ; but never had he
said it so kindly as this evening.
Ah, well ! I suppose many women have
to go through the bitterness which came to
me then. Mr. Thompson had met my cous
in Jessie at Mrs. Gray's, proposed to her,
and been accepted. From the moment lie
mentioned Jessie's name, I knew my fate.
Without seeking it, I suppose, she had ever
stood between me and every good. She
had taken the friendship of my best friend,
the liking of my nearest relative—l was
not really my aunt's niece, oily her late
husband's—and now she had forestalled
me in the love of the only man I had ever
cared for. Surely she was not to blame in
that, but, 0, how hard, how very hard, It
seemed to me ? The nightingale sang in
the trees above us, pure, brilliant stars
burned in the sky, the garden was full of
fragrance, and Mr. Thompson went on pour
ing Jessie's praises in my ear. She was so
handsome, so bright, so genial, and so de
lightfully innocent ! And what do you sup
pose he Told me all this for ? Why, because
lie wanted me to go and live with them.—
My Aunt's health hud been failing of late,
and he was aware that I knew the worst
might soon come, so he wanted me to be
sure of a home. I burst iuto tears.
" My dear, good child," he cried warmly,
"if 1 were not going away, I would not
have grieved you so. You have. I know, a
true, warm heart. Your dear aunt may live
for years : only, if she should not, Jessie
and I—"
"Fray don't!" I interrupted. I could not
bear it. The more he praised me, the kind
er he was, the more 1 wept and felt misera
ble. At length, at my request, he left me.
I grew calmer after a while, and went in.
" Do play Chopin's march for us, my dear."
said my aunt. Poor, dear aunt ! she wanted
me to fascinate him to the last. She little
knew that Jessie, whom she disliked so, had
been beforehand with me there.
I played it again. It was the knell of all
my hopes. A gray twilight filled the room,
and they could not see the tears which
flowed down my cheeks. I played well,
they said ; and I believe I did. Something
from myself was in the music that evening
was very sorrowful. Mr. Thompson came
and sat by me when I had done. The servant
brought in the lights and a letter for my
aunt. While she was reading it, he said,
softly—
" You will think over it."
" Pray don't," 1 entreated.
" But you do not know how much I like
you," he insisted ; ■' and then you will do
my little heudless Jessie good—poor child
ish darling ! Besides, 1 have set my heart
on something."
This crowned all. I guessed his mean
ing ; lie had a younger brother for whom
he meant me. He had all but said so this
evening in the garden. "It would do John,
who was rather light, all the good in the
world.'' I could not bear it. I rose and
went up to aunt
" What news, aunty ?" I asked.
" News, indeed !" she replied, amazed.—
" There's Jessie going to marry my cousin,
Mr. Xorris, old enough to be her father. 1
wonder what he will do with the little
flirt ?"
There was a pause.
Mr. Thompson came forward. . I did not
dare to look at him.
" What Jessie is that ?" he asked. "Sure
ly not Miss Raymond's cousin?"
"Yea: the same. Do you know her?"
" I have seen her at Mrs. Gray's."
He spoke very calmly. I suppose he did
not believe it. I pitied him ; from my heart
I pitied him.
" Perhaps it is not true !" I said.
"Not true ! why she writes to me her
self—there's her letter."
I looked at him now. lie was pale as
death, but very firm. Xeither troubled
look nor quivering lip gave token of the
cruel storm within. Something now called
my aunt out of the room.
" Augusta, may I look at it?" he asked,
glancing towards the letter, which my aunt
had handed me.
I could not refuse him. I gave him the
letter. He read it through with the same
composure, then looked, for his umbrella,
which he would always keep in a corner of
the sitting-room, he said very calmly,
" I think 1 shall go and take a walk."
And he went out, and we saw him no
more till the next morning, when he left
us.
My aunt was disappointed to find that
Mr. Thompson had not proposed to me af
ter all, and I was hurt to the heart's core
by the coldness of his adieu. My value
had gone down with my cousin's faithless
ness ; mine had been at the best but a re
flected light. I was liked because Jessie
was loved.
She became Mrs. Norris soon after this.
She was married from my aunt's house, out
of regard to Mr. Norris, who was related to
her, and who disliked Mrs. Gray. "That
busybody," he called her, and I am afraid
she was a busybody. Jessie was very
bright, and seemed very happy. She
teased me unmercifully about Mr. Thomp
son. She was sure, she said, he had made
love to me, and she looked at me with
cruel significance as she spoke. But I be
trayed neither his secret nor mine ; and
though she vexed me when she quizzed
him to Mr. Norris, especially about his um
brella, I did keep silent.
" I am sure he will be married with his
umbrella under his arm," she said, the
evening before her own wedding. "Don't
you think so ?"
1 did not answer her ; I went out into
the garden, and wondered how she had
charmed him. Alas ! I might have won
dered how, without seeking it, how he had
charmed me.
Jessie's marriage was a blow to my aunt.
She had always thought I should go <if
first. She was also cruelly disappointed
by Mr. Thompson's indifference, and per
haps she guessed the meaning of my altered
looks. I believe 1 got pale and thin just
then. And 1 was always playing Chopin's
march.
"My dear," said my aunt to ine one
evening, " is not that very mournful ?"
" I like it, aunt," I replied ; but I re
solved to play it no more.
"Mr. Thompson liked it," she said, with
a sigh. I wonder he did not propose to
you," she added, abruptly.
I was unite.
" 1 wish I had never asked him here,"
she resumed ; " 1 cannot help thinking—"
" Don't, pray don't !" I interrupted.
She did not insist, but she made me go
and sit by her. She caressed me, she
coaxed me, and little by little she drew my
secret from me.
"My poor darling," she said, when I had
confessed all, " he may value you yet."
" No, aunt, he never will. But pray do
not trouble about me. I mean to get over
it, and 1 will."
I spoke resolutely, and my aunt praised
me.
"You have always been the best of
girls," she said, tenderly, "and I am glad
you have had confidence in me. Ido not
mean to leave home this year ; but now I
will take you to the sea-side. You must
have a change, my poor darling."
She kissed me, and I remember how calm
and happy I felt in that gray room, sitting
by my dear aunt's side, and looking at the
starry sky. The nightingale was singing
again as on that sad evening when 1 had
felt so broken-hearted ; tears rose to my
eyes when I remembered it, and his last
kindness, and my foolish withered hopes ;
but the bitterness was gone from my sor
row.
" You must have a change," said my aunt
again.
Alas ! the change came with the morn.
My aunt was late for breakfast. I went
up to her room and found her calmly sleep
ing. But, oh ! too calm, too deep, were
those slumbers. The kind eyes which had
rested on me in love were cl sed, the voice
which had ever spoken in praise and en
dearment was silenced for ever and ever.
1 suppose it was not Jessie's fault that
her husband was my aunt's heir-at-law; but
I found it very hard. Poor dear aunt, she
always did mean to make a will in my fa
vor, and she never did. Mr. Norris behaved
very handsomely, I was told. He gave me
the piano which had been bought for me, a
few other articles of no great value, and all
my aunt's wardrobe. He kept her jewels,
which were fine,and the furniture,for which,
as he said truly enough, I had no use.
Moreover, he allowed me to remain in the
cottage till Lady-day ; though perhaps, as
he could not live in two houses at a time,
and must pay the rent whether I stayed
there or not, this was no such great favor
after all. God forgive me, I fear I was very
sinful during the dark days that followed.
1 had some friends who did, or rather who
said their best, but there was one who nev
er came near me, who gave me no token ol
his existence, who had no kind word for nu ,
who let me struggle through ray hard trial,
and who never ofiered a helping hand. He
might at least have written, have condoled
me in my sorrow, but he did not. And yet
lie was in the neighborhood. He was fat
at Mr Norris' house. Jessie herself told
me so. True, he had business to transact
with her husband ; but still, how could he
do it ?
He did it, and did more. Mr Norris was
thrown ofi'his horse one morning and bro't
liome dead. Jessie became a widow and a
poor one, said the world. Mr. Norris was
not a rich man after all, and he left many
debts. I only went to see her once. I
found her cold, callous and defiant, under
her infliction ; yet I would have gone again
if Mr. Thompson had not been Mr. No-iris'
executor. He had business to settle with
the widow, and I could only interfere ; be
sides, I could not bear to see them togeth
er. It was very wrong and useless, but it
was so.
Mrs. Gray often came to see me. I cannot
say she comforted me much. She gave me
a world of wearisome advice, and told me
much that I would rather not have heard.
What was it to me now, that accounts
kept him so often and so late with Jessie ?
They were both free ; and if he chose to
forgive her and marry her, and if she chose
to marry once more for money—l say it
again—what was it to me ?
And yet I suppose it was something,
after all ; for when Mrs. Gray left me one
afternoon in February, 1 felt the loneliest
beiug on this wide earth. She had harped
again on that hateful string,—that Mr.
Thompson seemed quite smitten with Mrs.
Norris. "And what do you think, my dear?"
she added ; "he thought you were gone.
He seemed quite surprised when I said I
had seen you on Sunday.
What,is she not gone ?' he asked—'gone
to London ?' 'No, indeed ! What should
she go to Loudon for V He did not answer
that, but, fromjsomething he said,l saw he
thought you were engaged to be married.
'I wish she were, poor dear,' I replied ; 'it
' is a hard case to be so young and so lone-
REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER.
TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., JUNE 7, 1866.
ly.' I have no doubt be thinks so too, and
so it is to prevent Mrs. Norris from being
lonely that he goes to see her so often."
Thus she rattled on, stabbing me with
every word, till at length she left me to
my misery. 1 sat looking at the fire ; it
was bright and warm, but my loneliness
was heavy upon me ; besides, it bad been
snowing, and the gray sky and white gar
den and silent air had something both lone
and chill in them. Yet I was not quite
alone. Early in the winter I had taken in
a poor, half-starved, stray dog, and, though
he was but a shaggy half-bred cur, I had
made a pet of him. He had laid by bis
vagrant habits willingly enough, and he
now lay sleeping on the rug at my feet, —
Boor Carlo ! he heeded not the morrow,and
thought not of the future. Y r et how long
could I keep him ?—and if I cast him away
who would have him? He had neither youth
nor beauty to recommend him—nothing
but his old honest heart, anb who would
care for that? "Pocrold Carlo !" I thought,
and, perhaps because my heart was rather
full just then, tears rose to my eyes as I
thought of the fate that lay before him. I
believe I thought of something else too. I
remember a vision I saw in the burning
coals ; how it came there Heaven knows.
I saw them both, as no doubt they often
were, bending over accounts which they
read together,then looking up and exchang
ing looks and smiles which no one could
mistake. I wonder why I came back to
images which tortured me—but it was so. I
I do not know how long Mrs. Gray had i
been gone, when Carlo gave a short bark ;
the gate-bell rang ; I saw a.tall, dark form
pass across the window, and my little
maid opened the door, saying—
"Mr. Thompson, ma'am."
I rose. He came in with his umbrella
as usual, and Carlo went up to him and
wagged a friendly welcome. I could not
say one word. I was dreadfully agitated.
I felt sure he had corne to tell me that lie
meant to marry Jessie, and to ask me to
go and stay with them, or something of the
kind. Nothing else could have brought
htm. Or perhaps, as Jessie had. no doubt
told him that I was gone, he had, 011 learn
ing the truth, felt ashamed of his long cold
ness, and had come to make some sort of
excuse. He had none ; but he asked how
I was, took a chair, looked rather hard at
me, and without waiting for my answer,
feared I was not very well.
" 0, I am not ill, you know," I replied, a
little carelessly. "I trust you are well, Mr.
Thompson."
He said he was very well, and he looked
at the fire. For a while we were both si
ledt. I spoke first. My remark was
scarcely a gracious one.
" I heard you were so much engaged
that I scarcely expected to see you," I said.
I was vexed with myself as I had said it.
lie might think I was annoyed at his long
absence, and, surely, I was not. But he
took my implied reproach very well. He
answered that he had, indeed, been much
engaged, but that everything was over
now. Mrs. Norris, he added, had left this
morning. My heart gave a great throb ;
but I was mute.
" She left in no very contented mood, I
believe," he resumed. " The balance in
her favor was low—lower than 1 expected.
Mrs. Norris has something like a hundred
a year. This and a few jewels constitute
the net profit she derives from her marriage.
U luckily, these speculations cannot be
repeated often, you see. The capital of
youth and beauty has but a time—a brief
one ; it is apt to wear out, and the first
venture ought to be the best. Mrs. Norris,
not having found it so, is disappointed. I
suppose it is natural ; but you kuow /can
not pity her very much."
I supposed not ; but how all that cold,
hard talk pained me.
" I have a lancy," he resumed," that this
kind lady expected some other ending to
our accounts. This is not very flattering
to my vanity, unless, indeed, as showing
my marketable value ; is it, now ?"
I would not answer that question. His
tone, his manner, vexed me. Suddenly he
raised his eyes to mine.
" Did such a rumor reach you ?" he ask
ed.
I could not deny it. My face was in a
flame. I believe I stammered, but Ido not
know what.
" Even you have heard it," he said look
ing scarcely pleased ; " the world is very
kind. And you believed it, too! I had
hoped you knew me better."
He seemed quite hurt ; but I offered no
justification. Then he rather formally
asked to be allowed to mention the busi
ness that brought him. So it was business!
I scorned myself for my folly* which was
not dead yet, and I bade him speak.
Was I asleep or dreaming ? Mr. Thomp
son spoke of my aunt, her love for me, my
forlorn position, and expressed the strong
est wish to take care of me.
" But," he added, with sorue hesitation,
" I cau do so but in one fashion, as your
husband. \V ill you overlook all these pe
culiarities in my temper, which used to an
noy you, I fear, and take what there is of
true and good in me 1 Can you, will you,
do this ?"
He looked at me in doubt. Ah ! this
was one of my bitterest moments. He cared
so little for me, that he had never seen,
never suspected, how much I loved him.
And he expected me to take him so. I
clasped my hands and twisted them nerv
ously ; I could not speak at once.
" And you, Mr. Thompson," I said at last
—"and you —"
" Well, what about me ? Do you mean,
can I, too, do this ?"
"Yes ; can you do it ?"
" Why, surely, else I had never proposed
it."
He half smiled at the doubt my question
implied, and he looked at me as he smiled.
Both look and smile exasperated me.
" Mr. Thompson," I said excitedly, " I
have not deserved this. Carlo, come here."
My poor shaggy Carlo came forward,
wagging his tail. He laid his head on my
knee and looked up at me wistfully and
fondly, as only dogs can look when they
vainly seek to read the meaning of a hu
man face.
" He was an outcast," I said, looking at
Mr. Thompson; "he was starving; he came
to this door ; I fed him, and he would not
leave it. I took pity on him—l gave hiiu
a mat to lie on, and a crust to eat. He
loves me for it ; but Mr. Thompson, I am
not quite so low as to be brought to this
poor beast's level, I can take care of my
self."
Mr. Thompson threw himself back in his
chair, and uttered a dismayed whistle as
I made this free commentary upon his pro
posal.
" Well, well," he s iid, recovering slow
ly, "I can understand that you should not
care for me, but I did not expect you would
take it so."
" And how could I take it ?" I cried. —
"You gave me pity, I scorn pity. Ah, Mr.
Thompson, if I were not the poor, forlorn
girl I am, would you feel or speak so ? Do
you think 1 do not know how rich girls are
wooed and wn ? If you cared an atom for
me, would you dare to come to me with
such language ?"
" What language ?"
" What did you mean by taking care of
me ?"
" What I said. Yes, Augusta, I wish to
take care of you, true, fond, loving care ;
nothing shall make me unsay it."
He spoke warmly, and many a glow rose
to his face : but I would not give in, and I
said, angrily, that I did not want to be ta
ken care of.
"Do let us drop these unlucky words,"
lie entreated, "and do tell me whether you
will marry me, yes or no. Let it be, if you
like, that I want you to take care of me. I
am much older than you are, you know."
I don't know what possessed me. I said
" No." Oh ! how I would have liked to
I recall the word, but it was spoken, and he
rose with a clouded and disappointed face.
He lingered a little, and asked to know
why it was No and not Yes. 1 said we
could not be happy together. He bowed
gravely and left me. I suppose he was
hurt, for he did uot add a word. No assur
ance of friendship, of good will, no hope
that I would relent or change my mind,
passed his lips. The door closed upon him.
I heard the garden gate fall to, and I felt
in a sort of stupor. It was over. What
madness had made me banish him? Every
step took him away farther from me--nev
er—never again—should we meet. Per
haps he would not have left me, then, if I
could have spoken the truth. Ah ! if I
could have said to him, " I cannot be hap
py with you because I love, and you do
not ; because my love and my pride would
suffer all day long if I were your wife ; be
cause it is easier to do without you than
to have you on t ese terms." If I could
have said all this, would our meeting have
ended thus? It was too late to think of
that now, but it was not too late to suffer.
I buried my face in the pillow of the couch
on which 1 was sitting, and cried aud sob
bed as if my heart would break.
Poor Carlo's cold nose, thrust in the hand
which huug down by my side in the fold ot
my dress, roused me. I looked up aud saw
Mr. Thompson. He was very red and seem
ed flurried.
" I have forgotten uiy umbrella," he said,
a little nervously.
Yes ; there it was, in the corner, that
horrible umbrella of his ! But, instead of
going to look for it, he suddenly came and
sat down on the couch by me. 1 do not
know how I looked, but I felt ready to die
with shame. lie took my hand and kissed
it,
"My dear Miss Raymond," be said, per
suasively, " why should we not be happy
together ? I cannot bear to give you up,
indeed I cannot."
I loohed at him in doubt.
"Then do you really like me ?" I asked.
"Do I really like you ? Why, what else
have I been saying all along ?"
"You said you wanted to take care of
me."
" 0, if we are to go back to that " he
began resignedly. But we did not go back
to that ; we went back to nothing, for a
miserable girl suddenly became the happi
est of woman. Still I was not quite satis
fied.
"You would not have come back, if it
had not been for that horrible umbrella of
yours," I said, with a little jealousy.
" Very true," he replied, with his pecul
iar smile ; "but I did come back, and I
glanc d in through the window first, and
saw you hiding your face on that cushion,
and Carlo looking at you as if he thought
it strange you should be so forlorn ; and so
I came in for my umbrella ; and, to tell
you the truth, 1 had forgotten it on pur
pose."
Perhaps he only said it to please me ;
but as 1 looked in his face I did not think
so then; and, though years have passed
over us both. I do not think so now.
Too LATE !—Alas ! how many hearts
have ceased to beat with the wild pulsa
tion of hope when those cruel, crushing
words have falleu on the ear, leaving only
the utter blankuess of despair ! How often
have the struggles of long weary years re
alized a fortune too late ! How often we
have all found what we coveted most —
friends, power, love—but TOO I.ATE ! How
madly happy it would have made us once,
before our trust had been deceived, and our
spirit broken ! It sickens us now, for we
had given up the thought of it long ago,and
turn from it even as the dying beggar
turns from food, the w T ant of which has kill
ed him.
PURITY OF FF.EI.ING—A life of duty is the
only cheerful lifejfor all joy springs from
the affections ; and it is the great law of
nature that without good deeds, all good
affection dies, and the heart becomes utter
ly desolate. The external world then loses
all its beauty ; poetry fades away from
the earth ; for what is poetry, but the re
flection of all pure and sweet, all high and
holy thoughts ?
WHERE HIS HEART WAS. —As a surgeon in
the army was going his rounds examining
the patients, he came to a sergeant who
had been hit by a bullet in the left breast,
right over the region of the heart. The
doctor, surprised at the narrow escape of
the man, exclaimed, " Why, my man, where
•in the Dame of goodness could your heart
have been ?" " I guess it mast have been
in my mouth just then, doctor," replied the
poor fellow, with a faint and sickly smile.
HOPE for the shirtless. Boston is going
to manufacture paper shirts at twenty five cents
each. No excuse for shirtless persons, then.
A lady, writing upon the subject, says :
' -When men break their hearts, it is the same as
when a lobster breaks one of his claws—another
sprouting immediately and growing in its place."
#3 per* Annum, in Advance.
SPRING.
The yellow skies at eventide,
The morning's crimson glow—
The bare brown rocks that peep above
The swiftly less'ning snow—
The swelling buds npon the trees,
The mellow heat at noon,
Are sweet and subtile prophecies
That Spring is coming soon.
The sparkling brooks freed from the ice
That bound their gentle flow—
The stars are soft as the eyes of love—
The Southern winds that blow—
The breaths of balm from spicy climes,
Like the sweet air of June—
Spead unto us the welcome truth,
That Spring is coming soon.
The early robin on the elm,
The blue bird in the hedge—
The rippling of the forest spring
Adown the mossy ledge—
The purple haze that sails by night
Between us and the moon—
All, all suggest the pleasant thought
That Spring is coming soon.
For the Bradford Reporter.
COMMON SCHOOLS- No 3-
There are certain obligations we owe to
ourselves and to society, the right perfor
mance of which requires intelligence. In
a government where the people are the
rulers, i. e., make their own laws, educa
tion is both an individual and a national
necessity. An ignorant people never make
wise laws. The community which allows
ignorance to prevail in its midst, can never
be a prosperous one. Every good citizen
is interested in the cause of Education. The
Common Schools are the only practical
i means of affording it to the masses. These
I place an education within the reach of
every one, and if the people would give
the Common School system their united,
earnest support, we should soon see a mere
virtuous, law-abiding, and successful com
munity. It is a fact, however, that there
is a species of opposition to the present
school Law. This unfriendly feeling does
not manifest itself in any well defined, tan
gible manner, but is seen in that grumb
ling, compl dning way, in which many in
dulge when speaking of the schools. Hav
ing received very limited benefits from the
schools themselves, they denounce the
whole system, in palliation of their own
"intellectual poverty."
Fault finding with some persons has be
come a chronic disease, such a habit, that
they do not stop to inquire into the reason
ableness of the thing. The real friends of
education are not of this class. The ground
work of the above" opposition is found more
I in the way the school law is executed,than
in the law itself, We believe directors are
frequently to blame for the unfavorable
prejudices toward the system. They do
not half execute the law, and there will
always be more or less disloyalty to a law
which is not enforced. Directors, we know,
are a much abused class. Still this should
not deter them from doing their duty. They
have great responsibilities resting upon
them. To them is committed the impor
tant charge of educating the youth,
and they should see to it that they prove
faithful to the trust. Every motive of in
terest and duty holds you to strict ac
countability. To you, the friends of pop
ular education look, to make the school
system a success. You are the Executives
of the laws. At the first meeting of direc
tors for the coming year (first Monday in
June) Resolved that you will make the
law honorable by enforcing it. If the law
requires convenient school houses, make
them so. If good teachers are demanded,
employ no others, and hold out proper in
ducements to secure them. If uniform
books are required, bring about a unifor
mity at once. If the law says "visit the
schools once a month," do so, or choose one
of your members to do so. If the law
makes you the guardian of the children
"from six to twenty-one years o age," see
if you are not robbing them by annually
appropriating five per cent of the school
fund for those the law says you are not the 1
guardians of. Where the law is faithfully
administered by intelligent directors the '
schools will be found most prosperous. We J
say, execute the laws. ALPHA BETA.
TAKIXG COLD.—A " cold'' is not necessari
ly the result of low or high temperature.
A person may may go directly from a hot
bath into a cold one, or into snow even,
and not take cold by pouring a couple of
tablespoonful of water upon some part ol
his dress, or by standing in a door, or other
opening, where one part of the body is cold
er than the other. Let it be kept in mind that
uniformity of temperature over the whole
body is the first thing to be looked after. It
is the unequal heat upon different parts of
the body that produces colds, by disturbing
the uniform circulation of some part.
If you must keep a partially wet garment
on,it would be as well perhaps to wet the
whole of it uniformly. The feet are a great
source of colds on account of the variable
temperature they are subjected to. Keep
these always dry and warm, and avoid
draughts of air, hot or cold, wet spots on
the garments, and other direct causes of un
equal temperature, and keep the system
braced up by plenty ol sleep, and the es
chewing of debilitating food and drinks,
and yon will be proof against a cold and its
results.
MRS. Partington is in New York. She
came in from Boston as soon as she learned by tel
graph that gold was falling rapidly in Wall street,
but after several unsuccessful attempts to get into
the shower is going back a disappointed woman.
A young widow of very polite address,
whose husband had lately died, was visited soon
after by the minister of the parish, who inquired,
as usual, about her husband's health, when she re
plied, with a peculiar smile :
"He's dead, I thank you."
SUBLIME JIPECTAOLE.
A COLUMN OK FIRE ONE THOUSAND FEET IN
HEIGHT, AND A RIVER OK FLAMES THIRTY
FIVE MILES LONG.
A jet of lava or more stupendous propor
tions than any ever conceived of, is descri
bed by Mr. Co AN in the Honolulu Friend of
February, in his account of the eruption of
Manna Loa, on the Island of Hawaii :
"The eruption commenced near the sum
mit of the mountain, and only five or six
miles southeast of the eruption of 1843.
For two days this summit creter sent
down its burning Hoods along the north
eastern slope of the mountain ; then sud
denly the vale closed,and the great furnace
apparently ceased blast. After thirty-six
hours the fusia was seen bursting out of
the eastern side of the mountain,about mid
way from the top of the base.
NUMBER 2.
It would seem that the summit lava had
found a subterranean tunnel, for half way
down the mountain,when coming to a weak
point, or meeting with some obstruction, it
burst up vertically, sending a column of
incadescent fusia one thousand feet high
into the air. This fire jet was about one
hundred feet in diameter, and was sustain
ed for twenty days and nights, varying in
height from one hundred to a thousand leet.
The disgorgement from the mountain-side
was often with terriflic explosions, which
shook the hills, and with detonations which
were heard for forty miles. The column of
liquid fire was an object of surpassing bril
liancy, of intense and awful grandeur. As
the jet issued from the awful orifice, it was
white heat. As it ascended higher and
higher, it reddened like fresh blood, deep
ening its color, until, in its descent, much
of it assumed the color of clotted gore.
In a few days it had raised a cone some
three hundred feet high around the burning
orifice, and as the showers of burning min
erals fell in livid torrent upon the cone, it
became one vast heap of glowing coals,
flashing and quivering with restless action,
and sending out the heat of ten thousand
furnaces in full blast. The struggles iu
disgorging the liery masses, the upward
rush of the column, the force which raised
it one thousand vertical feet, and the con
tinuous falling back of thousands of tons of
mineral fusia into the throat of the crater,
and over a cone of glowing minerals, one
mile in circumference, was a eight to in
spire awe and terror, attended with explo
sive shocks which seemed to rend the mur
al ribs of the mountain, and sound to wake
the dead and startle the spirit in Hades.—
From this fountain a river • 1 fire went rush
ing and leaping down the mountains with
amazing velocity, filling up basins and ra
vines, dashing over precipices, and explo
ding rocks, until it reached the forests at
the base of the mountain, where it burned
its fiery way, consuming the jungle, evapo
rating the water of the streams and pools,
cutting down the trees and sending up
clouds of smoke and st am and murky col
umns of fleecy wreaths to heaven.
All Eastern Hawaii was a sheen of light,
and our night was mined into day. So
great was our illumination at night that
one couid read without a lump, and labor,
traveling and recreation might go on as in
the daytime. Mariners at sea saw the
light at '2OO miles distance. It was a py
rotechnical display, more magnificent and
marvelous than was ever made by any
earthly monarch.
In the daytime the atmosphere for thous
ands of square miles would be tilled with
a murky haze,through which the sunbeams
shed a pale and sickly light. Smoke,steam,
gases, ashes, cinders—furnace or capillary
—floated in the air, sometimes spreading
out like a fan,sometimes careering in swift
currents upon the wind, or gyrating in
everchanging colors in fitful breezes. The
point from which the fire-fountain issued is
ten thousand feet above the level of the sea,
thus making the igneous pillar a distinct
object of observation along the v hole eas
tern coast of Hawaii.
During the eruption the writer made an
excursion to the source. After three days
of hard struggling in the jungle and over
lields, ridges and hills of bristling scoria,
he arrived near sunset at the scene of ac
tion. All night long he stood so near to
the glowing pillar as the vehement heat
would allow, listening to the startling ex
plosions and the awful roar ol the molten
colnmr., as it rushed upwards a thousand
feet, and fell back in a fiery avalanche
which made the mountain tremble. It was
such a scene as few mortals ever witnes
sed. There was no sleep for the specta
tor. The fierce, red glare, the subterra
neous mutterings and the rapid explosions
of gases, the rushes aud roar, the sudden
and startling bursts, as of crashing thun
der—all, all were awe-inspiring, and all
combined to render the scene one of inde
scribable brilliancy and of terrible sublim
ity. The rivers of fire from the fountain
flowed about thirty-five miles, and stopped
within ten miles of Hilo. llad the fountain
played ten days longer, it would probably
have reached the shore.
FUN, FACTS AND FACETLZE,
WHEN* does a man become a sugar-plant
er ? When he buries his SWEET heart.
LET no one overload you with favors, you
will find it an insufferable burden.
WHY does water boil sooner in an old
saucepan than in a new one ? Punch takes it upon
himself to answer this abstruse question by say
ing, it's because the old un's used to it.
A learned young lady, the other evening
astonished a company by asking for the loan of a
diminutive argenteous, truncated cone, convex on
its summit, and semi-perloruted with symmetrical
indentions.
She wanted a thimble.
DEAN Swift said, with much truth, It is
useles for us to attempt to reason a man out of a
thing he has never been reasoned into.
A MULE driver iu the army was swearing
at, and kicking a span of balky mules, when the
general, who was annoyed at his profanity,ordered
him to stop.
"Who are you?"
"Commander of the brigade!"
"I'm commander of theso mules and I'll do as I
please, or resign, and you can take my place."
"WHAT did Mr. Hoke die of?" asked a
simple neighbor. "Of a complication of disor
ders," replied his friend, "How do you describe
such a complication, my good sir?" -'He died,"
auswered the others, "of two physicians, an apoth
ecary, and a surgeon."
"WHAT is that dog barking at ?" asked a
fop, whose boots were more polished than his ideas.
"Why," replied a bystander, •-because he sees
another puppy iu your boots."
THE path of glory leads but to the grave,
and the road of the whisky-swiller endeth in a bed
in the gutter.
PEOPLE perform the greater part of the
voyage of life before taking on their ballast ; hence
so many shipwrecks.
A lawyer engaged in a case.tormentt d a
witness so much with questions, that the poor fel
low at last cried for water. "There, said the judge
"I thought you'd pump him dry."
THE man who courted an investigation,
says it isn't half as good as an affectionate girl.—
We expect not.
A philosopher who had married n vulgar
but amiable girl used to call her "llrowu Sugar,"
because, he said, "she was sweet, but unrefined.
AN old lady being asked to subscribe to
a newspaper, declined on the ground that when she
wanted news, she manufactured it.