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j H r"" - ■■■■ ■
RUTH.
T . no land of Bethlehem Judah,
J V ft u< linger, let a e wander!
Tnbralh's rorroir, Rachel's pillar, . _
in the vallerjonder ; ' ‘
And the yellow barley harvest
Floods it with a golden glory.
t cU s back into the old time,
Dreaming of her tender story,
J hcr true heart’s strong devotion,
From beyond the Dead Sea water,
From the heathen land of
ifahlon's wife and Mara's daughter.
On the terebinth and fig-tree
Suns of olden time are shinning,
Arid the dark leaf of the Oliro
Scarcely shows its silver lining;
For *till noon is on the thicket,
Vhere the blue-ncck'd pigeons listen
Xo their own reproachful music;
A D d the red pomegranates glisten.
As a queen a golden circlet,
* As a maid might wear a blossom,
«o*tbe valley wears the cornfields
W Heaving on her fertile bosom;
jad the wild gray hills stand o'er them,
All their terraced vineyards swelling
LiW the green waves of a forest.
Up to David's mountain-dwelling.
111.
Lo! the princely-hearted Boa*
Moves among his reapers slowly;
And the widow’d child of Moab
* Bends behind the gleaners lowly.
Gathering, gleaning, as she goeth
Down the slopes and np the hollows,
labile the love of old Naomi
Like a guardian angel follows ;
And he speaketh words of kindness.
Words of kindness calm and stately,
Xdl he breaks the springs of gladness
That lay cold and frozen lately;
And the love-flowers that bad laded
Deep within her bosom lonely,
Sluwly open as he questions,
Soon for him to blossom only—
When that spring shall fill with music,
Like an overflowing river;
All bis homestead; and those flowers
Bloom beside his hearth forever—
-3lyther of a line of princes, '
Wrought into that race’s story.
Whom the Godhead breaking earthward,
Mark’d with an unearthly glory !
IV.
Still be walks among the reapers.
And the day is nearly over,
And the lonely mountain partridge
Seeks afar his scanty cover:
And the flocks of wild blue pigeons.
That had gleaned behind the gleaner,
Find their shelter in the thicket; -
And the cloudless sky grows sheener
With a sudden flush of crimson,
Steeping in a fiery lustre
Every sheaf top in the valley,
On the hill-side every cluster,
V."
Slowly, slowly fade, fair picture,
Yellow lights and purple shadows,
On the valley, on the mountains,
And sweet Ruth among the meadows!
Stay awhile, true heart, and teach us,
Pausing in thy matron beauty,
iCare of eiders, love of kindred,
All unselfish thought and duty.
Linger, Roar, noble minded !
Teach us—haughty and unsparing—
Tender care for lowlier station,
Kindly speech, and courteous hearing*
Still each softest, loveliest color
Shrine the form beloved and loving.
Heroine of our heart's first poem.
Through our childhood's dreamland moving,
When the great old Bible open'd 11
And a pleasant pastoral measure,
As our mothers read the story,
Fill’d our infant hearts with pleasure.
[Dublin University Magazine,
& CLEVER STORY.
ANN POTTER’S LESSON.
My sister Mary Jane is older than I—as
much as four years. Father died when we
we botli small, and didn't leave us much
meins beside the farm. Mother was rather a
tally woman ; she didn’t feel as though she
null farm it for a living. It’s hard.'work
emgh for a man to get clothes and victuals off
a farm in IVest Connecticut; it’s up-hill work
always ; and then a man can turn to, himself,
to ploughin’ and mowin’; —hut a woman a’n’t
«f M use, except to tell folks what to do ; and
everybody knows it’s no way to have a thing
d ; ne, to send.
Mother talked it all over with Deacon Peters,
nd he counselled her to sell off all the farm
In the home-lot, which was sot out for an
orchard with young apple trees, and had a
prden-spot at one end of it, close by the house.
Mother calculated to raise potatoes and beans
•nd onions enough to last on the year round,
ihi to take in sewin’ so’s to get what few gro
ceries wewas goin’ to want, We kept Old Red,
| ho b es l cow; there was pasture enough for her
: ' :e orchard, for the trees wa’n’t gfowed to
« he bearin’ as yet, and we ’lotted a good deal
oc milk to our house; besides, it saved butcher’s
meat •
Mother was a real pious woman, and she was
'gh-couraged woman, too. Old Miss Perrit,
“ old widder-woman that lived down by the
, “(ft come np to see her the week after father
i 1 remember all about it, though I wa’n’t
ta < ten years old; for when I see Miss Perrit
| the road, with her slimpsy old veil
““gmg off f r om her bombazine bonnet, and
f doleful look, (what Nancy Perrit used
" ca H “mother’s company-face,”) I kinder
ought she was cornin’ to our house; and she
™ ers musical to me, I went in to the back
took up a towel' I was hemmin’, and
I,' ,™ n in the corner, all ready to let her in.
hes V SCenl n 3 f |Could ’a’ been real dis
lot f at * ler ’ B dyin’ when X could do so;
™Wrea is just like spring weather, rainin’
I ~; Ur and shinin’ the next, and it’s the
kr '' Pent mercy they bo; if they begun to
** ea riy, there wouldn’t bo nothin’
u I 1 Stow up. go pretty quick Miss Perrit
e< *’ am -l I let her id. We hadn’t got
h? lt6 . ruom ’ n that house; there was the
in front, and mother’s bed-room, and
tat , tter -; a nd the little backspace opened'
ont behind. Mother was in the bed-room;
the!- * “I' 61 ! her. Miss Perrit sot down in
SBdw * nt tockin’-chair that creaked awfully,
fill e .? 4 to r °ckin’ back and forth, and sighin’,
®°‘her come in.
1 linT SS Langdon!” says she, With
sn n ffle . “how dew you dew? I
tiler a- , come an<l see how you kep’ up
how j r , 18 ® ere nffliction, J reo’ieet very well
thin, . '! 1 husband died. It’s a dreadful
rouj., .f left a widder in a hard world; don’t
•“Nd out by this?”
, mo ) bc t felt quite as bad as ever Miss
, for everybody knew old Perrit
—
THE AGITATOR
Behoteft to the iSjrtrirsion of tfje area of JFvcchom atiJr the Sflvtah of healths Reform.
WmLE -THERE SHALL BE A WRONG IJNRIGHTED, AND UNTIL “MAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN”. SHALL CEASE, AGITATION MUST CONTINUE.
VOL. V.
treated hie wife like a dumb brute while he was
alive, and died drunk; but she didn't gay
nothin’, I see her give a kind of a smaller, and
then she,spoke up bright and strong.
“I don’t think it is a hard world, Miss Per
rit. I find folks kind and hopeful, beyond what
I'd any right to look for. I try not to think
about my husband any more than I can help,
because I couldn’t work, if I did, and I’ve got
to work. It’s most helpful to think the Lord
made special promises to widows, and when I
remember Him I ain’t afeard.”
Miss Perth stopped rockin' a minute, and
then she begun to creak the chair and blow her
nose again, and she said; —
- “Well, I’m sura -it’s a great mercy to -see
anybody rise above their trouble the way you
do; but, law me 1 Miss Langdon, you a’n’t got
through the fust pair o’ bars on't yet. Folks
is alters kinder neighborly at the fust; they
feel to help you right off, every way they can,
—but it don’t stay put, they get tired on’t;
they blaze rite up like a white-bireh-stiefc, an’
then they go out all of a heap ; there’s other
folks die, and they don’t remember you, and
you’re just as bad off as though you wan’n’t a
widder.”
Mother kind of smiled, —she couldn’t help it;
but she spoke up again just as steady.
“I don’t expect to depend on people, Miss
Perrit, so long as I have my health. I a’n't
above takin’ friendly help when I need to, but
I mean mostly to help myself. I can get work
to take in, and when the girls have got their
schoolin’ they will be big enough to help me.
I am not afraid but what I shall live and pros
per, if I only keep my health.”
“Hem, well!” whined out Miss Perrit. “I
alters thought you was a pretty mighty woman,
Miss Langdon, and I’m glad to see you’re so
high-minded; but yoa ain’t sure of your health,
never. I used to be real smart to what lam
now, when Perrit was alive; but I took on so,
when he was brought home friz to death; that
it sp’iled my nerves; and then I had to do so
many chores out in the shed, I got cold and had
the dreadfullest rheumatiz! and when I’d got
past the worst spell of that and was quite folksy
again, I slipped down on our door-step and
kinder wrenched my ankle, and ef’t hadn't V
been for the neighbors, I don’t know hut what
Nancy and I should ’a’ starved.”
Mother did laugh this time. Miss Perrit had
overshot the mark.
“So the neighbors were, helpful, after all!”
said she. “And if ever I get sick, I shall be
willin’ to have help, Miss Perrit. I'm sure I
would take what I would give; I think glvin’
works two ways. I don’t feel afraid yet.”
Miss Perrit groaned a little, and wiped her
eyes, and got up to to go away. She hadn’t
never offered to help mother, and she went off
to the sewing circle and told that Mies Lang
don hadn’t got.no feelings at all, and she b’liev
ed she’d just as soon beg for a livin’ as not.
Poll Mariner, tire tailoress, came and told
mother all she said next day, but mother only
smiled and set Polly to talkin’ about the best
way to make over her old cloak. When she
was gone, I begun to talk about Miss Perrit,
and I was real mad; hut mother hushed me
right up.
“It a'n’t any matter, Ann,” said she.
“ller sayin’ so don’t make it so. Miss Per
rit’s got a miserable disposition, and I’m sor
ry for her; a mint of money wouldn’t make
her happy ; she's a doleful Christian, she don’t
take any comfort in anything, and I really do
pity her.”
And that was just the way the mother took
everything.
At first we couldn’t sell the farm. It was
down at the foot of Torringford Hill, two good
miles from meetin’, and a mile from the school
house ; most of it was woody, and there wa’n’t
no great market for wood about there. So for
the first year Squire Potter took it on shares;
and, as he principally seeded it down to rye,
-why, we sold the rye and got a little money,
but ’twa’n’t a great deal—no more than we
wanted for clothes the next winter. Aunt
Langdon sent us down a lot of maple sugar
from Lee, and when we wanted molasses we
made it ont of that. We didn’t have to buy
no great of groceries, for we could spin and
knit by fire-light, and, part of the land bein’
piny woods, we had a good lot of knots that
were as bright as lamps for all we wanted.
Then we had a dozen chickens, and by pains
and care they laid pretty well, and the eggs
were as good as gold. So we lived through the
first year after father died, pretty well.
Anybody that couldn’t get along with mother
and Major (I always called Mary Jane “Major”
when 1 was real little, and the name kind of
stayed by her) couldn’t get along with anybody.
I was as happy as a cricket whilst they wortf
by, though, to speak truth, I wasn’t naturally
so chirpy as they were; I took after father
more, who was a kind of despondin’ man, down
hearted, never thinkin’ things could turn out
right, or that he was gain’ to have any luck.
That was my naturi, and mother see it, and
fought ag’inst it like a real Bunker-Hiller; but
natur’ is hard to root up, and there was always
times when I wanted to skulk away into a
corner and think nobody wanted me and that I
was poor and humbly, and had to work for my
living.
I remember one time I’d gone up into my
room before tea to have one of them dismal fits.
Miss Perrit had been in to see mother, and
she’d been lollin’ over what luck Naucy’d had
down to Hartford: how’t she bad gone into a
shop, and a young man bad been struck with
her good looks, an’ he’d turned out to bo a
master-shoemaker, and Nancy was a-goin’ to
be married, and so on, a rigmarole as long as
the moral law,—windin’ up with askin’ mother
why she didn’t send us girls off to try our luck,
for Major was as old as Nance Perrit. I’d
waited to hear mother say, in her old bright
way, thatsbe couldn’t afford it, and she couldn’t
spare us, if she had the means, and then I flung
up into our room, that was a lean-to in the
garret, with a winder in the gable end, and
there I set down by the winder with my chin
on the sill, and begun to wonder why we
couldn’t have as good luck ns the Perrits.
After I’d got real miserable, 1 beard a soft step
coinin’ np stairs, and Major come in and looked
at me and then’out of the winder.
WELLSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY, PA., THURSDAY MORNING. FEBRUARY Uy. 1859.
“What’s the matter of you, Anny ?” said
she. ' . i
“Nothing,” says I, as sulky as yon please.
“Nothing always means something,” says
Major, as pleasant as pee; and then she
scooched down on the floor and pulled my two
bands away, and.lo.oked me in the face os bright
and honest as ever you see a dandelion look out
of the grass. “What is it Anny Spit it out,
as John Potter says; you’ll feel better to free
your mind.
“Well,” says I, “Major I’m tired of bad
luck.”
“Why, Anny 1 I didn’t know as we ? dJiad
any. I'm sure, it's three years since fatbeir
died, and we have had enough to live on all
that time, and I’ve got my schooling, and we
are all well; and just look at the apple-trees,
—all as pink as your frock with blossoms;
that’s good for new cloaks next winter Anny.”
“ ’Ta’n’t that. Major. I was tbinkin’ about
Nancy Perrit. If we’d had the luck to go to
Hartford, may-be you’d have been as well off
as she; and then I’d have got work, too. And
I wish I was as pretty as she is, Major, it does
seem too hard to be poor and humbly too.”
I wonder she didn’t laugh at me, but she
was very feelin’ for folks, always. She put her
head on the window-sill along of mine, and
kinder nestled up to me in her lovin’ way, and
said, softly,—
“I wouldn't quarrel with the Lord, Anny.”
“Why, Major! you scare me! I haven’t
said nothing against the Lord. What do you
mean ?” said I, —for I was touchy, real touchy.
“Well dear, you see we’ve done all we can
to help ourselves ; and what’s over and above,
that we can’t help,.—that is what the Lord or
ders, ain’t it; and He made you, didn’t He ?
You can’t change your face; and I’m glad of
it, for it is Anny’s face; and I wouldn’t have it
changed a mite: there’ll always be two people
to think it’s sightly enough, and may-be more
by-and-by; so I wouldn’t quarrel with it, if I
was you.”
Major's happy eyes always helped me. I
looked at her and felt better. She wasn’t any
better-lookin’ .than I; but she always was so
chirk, and smart, and neat, and pretty-behaved,
that folks thought she was handsome after they
knowed her.
Well, after a spell, there was a railroad laid
out up the valley, and all the land thereabouts
riz in price right away; and Squire Potter he
bought our farm on speculation, and give a
good price for it; so’t we had two thousand
dollars in the bank, and the house and lot, and
the barn, and the cow. By this time Major
was twenty-two and I was eighteen; and
Squire Potter he’d left his house up on the hill
and he’d bought'out Miss Perrit’s house, and
added on to’t, and moved down not far from ns,
so’s to be near the railroad-depot, for the sake
of bein’ handy to the woods, for cutfin' and
haulin’ of them down to the track. ’Twasn’t
very pleasant at first to see pur dear old woods
goin’ off to be burned that way; but Squire
Potter’s folks were such good neighbors, we
gained as much ns we lost, and a sight more,
for folks ore greatly better’n trees, —at least,
clever folks.
There was a whole raft of the Potters, eight
children of ’em all, some too young to be mates
for Major and me: hut Mary Potter, and Reu
ben, and Enssq]), they were all along as old as
we were: Russell come between Major and
me ; the other two was older.
We kinder kept to home! always. Major and
me, because we hadn’t any brothers to go out
with us; sb we were pretty shy of new friends
at first. Bat you coalda’t help bein’ friendly
with the Potters, they was such outspoken,
kindly creturs, from the Squire down to little
Hen. And it was very handy for us, because
now we could go to singin’-schools and quiltin’s,
and such like places, of an evenin'; and we
had rather moped at home for want of such
thing—at least I had, and ! should have been
more moped only for Major’s sweet ways. She
was always as contented as a honey bee on a
cloverhead, for the same reason, X guess.
Well there was a good many good things
come to us from the Potter’s movin’ down; bnt
by-and-by it seemed as though I was goin’ to
get the bitter of it. I’d kept company pretty
steady with Bussell. I hadn’t given much
thought to it, neither; I liked his ways, and he
seemed to give into mine very natural, so’t we
got along together first-rate. It didn’t seem as
though We’d ever been strangers, and I wasn’t
one to make believe at stiffness when I didn’t
feel it. I told Bussell pretty much all I had
to tell, and he was doin’ for me and runnin’
after me jest as though he’d been my brother.
I didn't know how much I did think of him,
till, after a while, he seemed to take a sight of
.notice of Major. I can’t say he ever stopped
bein' clever to me, for he didn’t; bathe seemed
to have a kind of a hankerin’ after Major all
the time. He’d take her off to walk with him ;
he’d dig up roots in the woods for her posy
bed ; he’d hold her skeins of yarn as patient as
a little dog; he’d get her books to read. Well,
he’d, done all this for me; but when I see him
doin’ it for her, it was quite different; and all
at once I know’d what was the matter. I’d
thought too much of Bussell Potter,
Oh, dear! those was dork times! I couldn't
blame him; 1 knew well enough Major was
miles and miles better and sweeter and cleverer
than d was; I didn’t wonder he liked her; but
I couldn’t feel as if he’d done right by me. So
I schooled myself considerable, talking to my
self, for being jealous of Major. Bdt’twasn’t
all that; —the hardest of it all was that I bad
to mistrust Russell. To be sure, he hadn’t said
nothin’ to mo in round words; I couldn’t ha’
sued him; but he’d looked and acted enough;
and now,-—dear me 1 1 felt all wrung out and
flung away!
Bj-and-by Major begun to see somethin’ was
goin’ wrong, and so did Russell. She was as
good os she could be to me, and bad patience
with all my little, pettish ways, and tried to
make me friendly with Bussell; but I wouldn’t.
I took to hard work, and, what with cryin’
nights, and hard work all day, I got pretty well
overdone. But it all went on for about three
months, till ope day, Bussell came up behind
me, as I was layin’ out some yam to bleach
down at the. end of the orchard, and asked me
if I’d go down to Meriden with him next day,
to a pic-nio frolic, in the woods.
•No!’ says I, jis short as I,could.
Bussell looked as' though I had slappeii him.
•Anny,’ says he, *wl!at have I done ?’ !
I. turned round'to go away, and Thatched my
foot in a hank of yarn, and down I come flat on
the ground, havin’ sprained my ankle so bad
that Bussell had to pick mo up and carry me
into the house like a baby.
There was an end of Meriden for me ; and
he wouldn’t go, either, but eomc over and sat
by me, and read to me, and somehow or other,
I don’t remember just the words, he gave me to
understand that—well—that he wished I’d
marry him.
It’s abaut as tirin’ to be real pleased. with
anything as it is to be troubled, at first. I
couldn’t say anything to Bussell; I just cried.
Major wasn’t there; mother was drying apples
out in the shed; so Bussell be didn’t know
what to do; he kind of boshed me np, and
begged of me not to cry, and said he’d come
for his answer next day. So he come, and I
didn’t say, ‘No,’ again. I don’t believe X
stopped to think whether Major liked him.
She would have thought of me, first thing;—l
believe she wouldn’t have had him, if she’d
thought I wanted him. But I a’n’t like Major;
it come more natural to me to think about my
self; and besides, she was pious, and I wasn’t.
Bussell was.
However, it turned out all right, for Major
was almost as pleased as I whs ; and she told
me, finally that she’d known a long spell that
Russell liked me, and the reason he’d been
hangin’ round her so long was, he’d been telling
her his plans, and they’d worked ont considera
ble in their heads before she couid feel as though
he had a good enough lookout to ask me to
marry him.
That wasn’t so pleasant to me, when I come
to think of it; I thought I’d ought to have
been counselled with. But it was just like
Major; everybody come to her for a word of
help or comfort, whether they took her idee dr
not, —she had such feelin’ for other folk’s
trouble.
I got over that little nub-after a while; and
then I was so pleased, everything went smooth
ag’in. I was goin’ to be married in the spring;
and we were goin’ straight out to Indiana, onto
some wild land Squire Potter owned out there,
to clear it and settle it, and what Bussell cleared
he was to have. So mother took some money
out of the bank to fit me ont, and Major and j
went down to Hartford to buy my things.
I said before, we wasn’t either of us any
great things to look at; but it come about that
one day I heerd somebody tell how we did look,
and I thought considerable about it then and
afterwards. We was buyin’ some cotton to a
store in the city, and I was lookin’ about at all
the pretty things, and wonderin, why I was
.picked out to be poor when so many folks was
rich and had all they wanted, when presently I
heerd a lady in a silk gown say to another one,
so low she thought I didn’t hear her, —’‘There
are two nice-looking girls, Mrs. Carr,”
“Hem, —yes,’’ said the other one ; “they look
healthy and strong: the oldest one has a lovely
expression, both steady and sweet; the other
don’t look happy.”
1 declare, that was a fact. I was sorry, too,
for I’d got everything in creation to make any
body happy, and now I was frettin' to be rich.
I thought I’d try to be like Major; but I ex
pect it was mostly because of the looks of it,
for I forgot to try before long.
-Well, in the spring we was married; and
when I come to go away, Major put a little red
' Bible into my trunk for a weddin’ present; but
I was eryin’ too hard to thank her. She swal
lowed down whatever choked her, and begged
of me not to cry so, lest Russell should take it
hard that I mourned to go with him. But just
then I was thinkin’ mote of Major and mother
than I was of Bussell; they’d kept me bright
and cheery always, and kept up my heart with
their own good ways when I hadn’t no strength
to do it for myself; and now I was goin’ off
alone with Bussell, and he wasn’t very cheer
ful-dispositioned, and somehow my courage give
way all to once.
But I had to go ; railroads yion’t wait for
nobody; and what with the long journey, and
the new ways and things and people, I hadn’t
no time to get real down once before we got
to Indiana. After we left the boat there was
a spell of railroad, and then a long stage-ride
to Cumberton; and then we had to hire a big
wagon and team, so’s to get us out to our claim,
thirty miles west’ard of Cumberton. I hadn’t
no time to feel real lonesome now, for all our
things bed got to be onpacked, and packed over
ag’in in the wagon; some on’cm had to be
stored up, so’s to come another time. We was
two days gettin’ to the claim, the roads was so
had, mostly what they call corduroy, but a
good stretch clear mud-holes. By the time we
got to the end on’t, I was tired out, just fit to
cry ; and such a house as was waitin’ for us!
—a real log shanty I I see Russell looked real
beat when he see my face; and I tried to
brighten up; but I wished to my heart that I
was back with mother forty times that night,
if I did once. Then come the worst of all,
clutterin’ everything right into that shanty;
for out frame-house wouldn’t be done for two
months, and there wa’n’t scarce room for what
we’d brought, so’t we couldn’t think of sendin,
for what was stored to Cumberton. I didn’t
sleep none for two nights, because of the whip
poor-wills that set on a tree close by, and called
till mornin’ light; bat after that 1 was too
tired to lie awake.
Well it was real lonesome, but it was all new
at first, and Bossel was to work near by, so’t I
could see him, and oftentimes hear him whistle;
and 1 bad the garden to make, round to the new
house, for I knew more about the plantin’ of it
than he did, especially, my posey-bed, and I
bad a good time gettin’ new flowers out of the
woods. And the woods was real splendid—
great tall tulip-trees, as high as a steeple and
round as a quill, without any sort of branches
ever so fur up, and the whole top full of the
yeller tulips and the queer snipped-lookin’ shiny
leaves, till they looked like great bowpots on
sticks: then there’s lots of other great trees,
jmly they’re all mostly spindled up in them
woods. . But the flowers that grow round on the
ma’shes and in the clearin’s do heat all.
So time passed along pretty glib till the frame
house was done, and then wo had to move in.
and to get the tidings from Cumberton, and be
gin to feel as though we were settled for Igood
and all; and after the newness had gone off,
and the clearin’ had got so fur that I couldn't
see Bussell no more, and nobody to look at, if I
was never so lonesome, then come a pretty 1 , hard
spell. ■ Everything about the house Was real
handy, so’t I’d get my work cleared awayj _and
set down to sew early; and them long < sum
mer days that was still and hot, I’d set, atid set,
never bearin’ nothin’ but the clock go ‘f tick,
tick, tick,” —never “tack,” for a changef-and
every bow’d then a great crash and roar in the
woods where he was choppin,’ that I knew was
a tree and 1 worked myself up dreadfully
when there was a longer spell 'n common be
twixt the crashes, less that Bussell might ’a’
been ketcbed under the one that fell. And set
tin’ so, and worryin’ a good deni day in and
day ont, kinder broodin’ over my and
never thinkin' about anybody but myself} I got
to bo of the idee that I was the worsboff crea
ture goin’. if I’d have stopped to think about
Bussell, may-be I should have some sort.bf pity
for him, for he wasjust as lonesome ns l| and I
wasn’t no kind of comfort to come home to—
’most always cryin’, or jest a-goin’ to. j
So the summer went along till ’twas nigh in
to winter, and I wa’n’t in no better spetjrets.— I
And now I wa’n’t real well, and I pined furj
mother, and I pined for Major, and I’d, have;
given all the honey and buckwheat in Indiana
for a loaf of mother’s dry rye-bread and a drink 1
of spring water. And finally I got so misera
ble, I wished I wa’n’t never married—and I’d;
have wished I was dead, if ’twan’t for bein’:
doubtful where I’d go to, if I was. And worst
of all, one day I got so worked up I tcfld Bus
sell all that. I declare, he turned as White asi
a turnip. I see I’d hurt him, and I’d rfave got
over it in a minute, and told him so—only' he
up with his axe and walked out of thjs_ door,
and never come home till night, and then I was
too stubborn to speak to him. I
Well, things got worse, ’n’ one day I was
sewin’ some things and cryin’ over ’em; when
I heard a team come along by, and before I
could get to the door, Bussell come in, all red
for joy, and says:— j
“Who do yon want to see the most, Ann ?” ]
Somehow the question kind of npsqt me—l
got choked, and then X bn’st out a-crjlfi’. j
“Oh, mother and-Major I" says I; and I had
n’t more’n spoke the word before mother hall
both her good strong arms round me, land Ma
jor’s real cheery face was a-lookin’ up at me
from the little pine cricket, where she’d sot
down as nateral as life. Well, I was p tad, and
so was Bussell, and the bouse seemed as shiny
as a hang-bird’s nest, and hy-and-by ;be baby
came—but I bad mother. i
’Twas long about in March when I -was sick
and by . the end of April X was well, land, bo’s
to be stirrin’ round again. And mother and
Major begun to talk about gain’ homo; and|l
declare, my heart was up in my mouth every
time they spoke on’t, and I begun to ;be miser
able ag’in. One day I was settin’ beside of
mother; Major was out in the garden] firin’up
things, and settin’ out a lot of blowsjshe’d got
in the woods, and singin' away, and says I to
mother, — • ■ [
“What be I goin’ to do, mother, without yon
and Major ? I ’most died of clear jonesomo
ness before you come !” j
Mother laid down her knittin’, and looked
straight asme. I
“ I wish you’d got a little of Major’s good
cheer, Army.” says she.- "You haven’t any
call to be lonely here; it’s a real good country,
and you’ve got a nice house, and the best of
husbands, and a dear little baby, ami you’d
oughter try to give up frettin’. I wish you Was
pious, Anny; you wouldn’t fault the Lord’s
goodness the way you do.” ] j
“Well, Major don’t have nothin’jto trouble
her, mother,” says I. “She’s alii safe and
pleasant at home ; she ain’t homesick.” j
, Mother spoke up pretty resolute |
“There a’n’t nobody in the world,;Anny, but
what has troubles. I didn’t calculate to fell
you about Major's; but sence you lay her lively
ways to luck, may-be you’d better 'know ’em.
She’s been engaged this six months [to Reuben
Potter, and he’s goin’ off in a slow consump
tion; he won’t never live to marry her, and
she knows it.” >
“And she come away to see me, mother?”
“Yes, she did. I can’t say I-. thought she
need to, hut Bussell wrote you was pinin’ for
both of us, and didn’t think you! could get
along with Keuben, and I’d come jon alone.—
And says she, ‘ No, mother,"you a’n’t yoiirig
and spry enough to go alone so fur, andjthe
Lord made you my mother, and Anny, my sis
ter, before I picked out Reuben for myself! j
can’t never have’any kin but you, jmd I might
have had somebody beside Reubexi, though it
don’t seem likely now; but he’s god four sisters
to take care of him, and he tbinks-and I tljink
it’s what I ought to do; so I'm goin’ with ypu.’
So she come, Anny; and you sep how lively
she keeps, just because she' don’t jwant to !dis
hearten you none. I don’t knovj as you jean
blame her for kinder hankerin’ to get home.”
I hadn’t nothin’ to say; I was beat. So too
ther she went on:— . i
“Fact is, Anny, Major’s always a thinkin’
about.other folk; it comes kind of nateral to
her, and then bein’ pious helps it. I guess,
dear, when you get to thinkin’ more about Rus
sell an’ the baby, you’ll forget s ome of your
troubles. I hope the Lord won’t have to give
you no harder lesson than lovin’, toteaohjyou
Major’s ways.” !
So after that, I couldn’t say no more to
mother about stayin’; hut when they went
away, I like to have cried myself sick—only
baby had to be looked after, add I couldn’t
dodge her. j I
Bym-by we had letters from hoihe; they got
there all safe, and Reuben wa’n’t no worse.l Mar
jor said—eft bad been me wrote! the letter, I
should have said he wan’t no better!—‘And I
fell back into the old lonesome days, for baby
slept mostly, and in July, Russell, bein’ fiirccd
to go to Cumberton on some land business! left
me to home with baby and the hired man, cal
culatin’ to be gone three days amf two nights.
The first day he was away was j dreadful sul
try; the sun went down away over the woods
in a kind of red-hot fpg, and it seemed as tho’
the stars were dull and coppery s|t night ;|even
1 ! i
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NO. 30.
the whippoor-wills was too .hot to sing; nothin'
but a 'doleful screech-owl quavered away, a
half a mile off, a good hour, steady. When it
got to be mornih’, it didn’tseem no cooler; thap
won’t & breath of wind, and the locusts in the
woods chitted as though they was fry in.” Our
hired man was an old Scotchman, by name Si
mon Grant; and when he got his breakfast, be
said he’d go down the clearin’ and bring up a
load of brusb for me to born. So be drove off
with the team, and bavin’ cleared np the dishes
!l put baby to sleep, and took roy pail to the
jharn ip milk the cow—for we kept her in a barn
, of a Uome-lot like, a part that bad been cleared
afore .we come, lest she should stray array in
the woods, if we turned her loose; she was put
in the barn, too, nights, for fear some stray
wild-cat or bear might come along and do her •
j harm. So I let her into the yard, and was jest
; a-goini’ to milk her when she began to snort
and shake, and finally giv’ the pail a kick, and
set off full swing, for the fence to the lot. I
looked 'round to see what was a-comin’, and
there! about a quarter of a mile off, I see the
most ,’curus thing I ever see before or since—a
cloud as black as ink in the sky, and bangin’
dowel from it a long spout like, something like an
elephant’s trunk, and the whole world under It
looked to be all beat to dust. Before I could
get my eyes off on’t, or stir to run, I see it was
cornin’ as fast as a locomotive; I heerd a great
roar ( and rash—first a hot wind, and then a (jold
one, and then a crash—an’ ’twas all as dark as
death all round, and the roar appeared to be a
passin’ off.
I didn’t know for quite a spell whore I was.
I was flat on my face, and when I come to a lit
tle, I felt the grass against my cheek, and X
smelt the earth *, b\St L couldn't move, no way ;
I couldn't turn over, nor raise ray head more'n
two [inches, nor draw myself op one. I was
comfortable as long as I laid still; but if I went
to move, I couldn't. It wasn't no use to wrig-
and when I settled that, I jest went to
worlc to Agger out whore I was and how I got
there, and the best 1 could make out was that
the harn-roof had blowed off and lighted right
over me, jest so not to hurt me, but so't I could
nofcjmove.
W ell, there I knew baby was asleep
in the trundle-bed, and there won't no fire in
thejhouse; but how did I know the house won't
blowed down ? _ I thought that as quick as a
flash of lightnin'; it kinder struck me; I could
notfeven see, so as to be certain I I wasn't
naturally fond of children, but somehow one's
own is different, and baby was just getting big
enough to be pretty; and there I lay, feelin'
about as bad as I could, but bangin' on to one
hope—that old Simon, seein' the tornado, would
come pretty soon to see where he was.
\ lay still quite a spell, listeuin’. Presently
I board a low, whimperin, pantin’ noise, cora
in’ncarcr and near, and I knew it was old Lu,
a feller hound of Simon’s, that he’d set great
store by, because he brought him from the Old*
Country, I heerd the dog come pretty near to
whore I was, and then stop, and give a long
hopd. I tried to call him, but I was all choked
up' with dust, and for a while I couldn’t make
no {sound. Finally I called, “Lu! Lu! here.
Sir!” and if ever you heard a dumb creature
laifgh, he barked a real laugh, and come spring
-101 along over towards me. I called ag'in, and
he I begun to scratch and tear and pull,—at
boards,. I guessed, for it sounded like that; but
it iva’n't no use, he couldn't get at me, and ho
give up at length and set down right over my
head and give another howl, so long and so
dismal I thought I’d as lieves hear the hell a
tofltn’ my age.
.Pretty soon, I heerd another sound—the baby
eryin’: and with that Lu jumped off whatever
'twas that buried me up, and run. “At any
rate,” thinks I “ baby’s alive.” And then be
thought myself if ’twan’t a painter, after all;
they scream jest like a baby, and there’s a lot
of them, or was then, right round in our woods
—tand Lu was dreadful fond to hunt ’em ; and,
be never took no notice of baby—and I could
not stir to see !
fOh. dear! the sweat stood all over me! And
there I lay, and Simon didn’t come, nor I didn’t
hear a mouse stir; the air was as still as death,
and I got nigh distracted. Seemed as if all my
life riz right up there in the dark and looked at
nic. Here I was, all helpless,- may-be never to
get out alive: for Simon didn’t come, and Rus
sel was gone away. I’d bad a good home, and
a|kind husband, and ali i could ask; but I bad
nft had a contented mind ; I’d quarrelled with
Brovidence,'cause I hadn’t got everything—and
now I hadn’t got nothing. I see just as clear
as daylight how I’d nnssed up every little
trouble till it growed to be a big one—how I’d
sp’ilt Russel’s life, and made him wretched, —
bow I'd been cross to him a great many times
when I had ought to have been a comJprt; and
now it was like enough I shouldn’t never see
him again—nor baby, nor mother, nor Major.
And how could I look the Lord in the face, if I
did die ? That took ail my strength out. I
lay shakin’ and chokin’ with the idee, I don’t
know how long; it kind of got hold of m 6 and
ground me down ; it was worse than all. I
wished to gracious, I didn’t believe in hell;
but then it come to mind, what should I do in
heaven, if I was there ? I didn’t love nothin’
that folks in heaven love, except the baby ; I
hadn’t been suited with the Lord's will on
earth, and ’twan’t likely I was goin’ to like it
any better in heaven; and I should be ashamed
io show my face where I didn’t belong, neither
by right nor by want. So I lay." Presently I
heerd in my mind this verse, that I’d learned
years back in Sabbath School—
}* Wherefore He is able to sare to tfao uttermost"—
4here it stopped, but it was a plenty for me. I
see at once there wasn’t no help anywhere else,
’ and for once in my life I did pray, real earnest,
and—queer enough—not to get out hot to bo
made good. I kind of forgot where I was, I
see so complete what I was; but after a while
I did pray to live in the flesh j I wanted to make
isome amends to Russell for pesterin’ on him
'bo.
i It seemed to me as though I’d laid there two
•days, A rain finally canje on, with a good
|even-down pour, that washed in a little, and
jcooled my hot bead; and after it passed Ly f
iheerd one whip-poor-will singing', so’-* 1 knew
lit was night. And pretty goon I heepd the
j tramp e£ horse s feci'—.t came up —It stopped *,
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