brell4ncono.
For tho "Carlini° herald."
THE INDIANS.
The Shoshone and Bannack range from
the head waters of the Yellowstone to those
of the Snake, and beyond as far as the good
will of their neighbors and allies, the Pal
Utes, will permit. Their country is some
what broken by mountain ranges and spurs,
yet embraces Many plains and rich bottoms,
upon which and among the timbered hills,
their hunters strike the antelope, blacktailed
deer, elk mid bear. Until recently the buf
falo were very numerous along the Yellow
stone and Upper Missouri; but the unsuc
cessitil hunt of last full, showed these red
men what other. tribes had already learned,
that when the white men came the buffalo
leave. Itannack city lay on the trail of
these wandering Ishinalties, when in the
spring, they went to the Salmon for the fish
which has given that beautdul stream its
name.
On Sunday of last week,
.the whole Ban.
tinck nation, excepting some hunting and
war parties, who was still on the track of
deer, Pondere, Nez Perie and Blackfoot, to
gether with Old Snag's band of Snakes, made
their appearance in our settlement, the for
mer to encamp west ul us, the latter east and
down the creek. Their uuhiders are first
seen reconnoitering' limn the, hill tops. One,
three, a score. "11 hat are they dunig here?"
"Do they intend to attack ihe town ?" A h
no, it is all right—set, their families are
coming around the toot of the hill and down
th e g id e ! ) . They come on, an irregular
straggling crowd ul men, women and chit
drew, iii d putt, s laden and louse. The Pon
deris and tiros Venues have stolen h.tlt their
horses, and many, some of them distinguish
ed braves, are compelled to travel about.—
Such of the aninials as are fit for service are
packed to the limit of their strength with
shins, papooses, Mid the necessary outfit of
an Indian Lundy, having the lodge poles
lashed to the p test's side, thetower ends trail
ing upon the ground. Ocen-donally a favor
ite squaw or a sick one may be st•eti moun
ted on top of the pile, her short legs project
ing over the animal's neck or shoulders; but
by far the largest portion of these Willi g
slaves trudge patittiit ly along by Mu sides of
their follow servnts, the ponies, and like
them packed and lade,' with all they can
Carry. Winnemilk, the principal chid, a
Pal Ute, is with.thein. shLising hands
with those of the whiles whom he remembers
since his visit of last tall ; and tli-cise who
have no personal acquaintance recognize the
chief by his dress awl bearing. lie wears
no blanket or robe, but has on the o ter and
roundabout and ctowi: shaped cap, Not for
mer showing to advantage his broad should
ers, deep chest and sinewy limbs, whil e the
latter certainly imensilies the expre-sion of
a countenance in which we look iii vain for
one line indicative tit benevolence. Ile has
the gait, carriage and loft of a tiger just
ready to sluing tipito los prey. Report says
that-his tribe drove-thitia.tram-th cliieftaim
ship and their society on actAffint tit his
crime-, and his ferocious valor recommend
ed him to the Bannacks. Withal, his con
duct towards the whites proves him to be po
lite, and your correspoinlent will always
maintain that, judging solely Irmo his ges
tures, his uninterrupted lltiw of language, his
deep and ineludiuMi Voice, and the (-fleets of
theta upon his authons, he.. is a first class
natural orator. Folly aware of the.strength
of the whites and their rapidly increasing
numbers, he is Carer d to guard against tut
outbreak, especially while Cul. Curtner and
his Californians are so near Salt Lake City.
As they wound I.lollg the sides of the steep
bills which shut iu Banstack on the north, a
pony lost his balance and rolled kto a pros
pect hole five Met deep, In a loud voice the
chief summoned several of h s younginen,
but they , were helpless bettors Zueli a casualty
until two stout whites went into the pd, arid
with the assistance of ethers above pulling
id the t til, head and legs, extricated the
who assuredly thought he had taken his
departure fur the of puny spirits and
_cputd nut believe in his resiitTectinii untilhu
WOB set up on his !cut and left his legs under
Arrived at the camping ground among the
willows on the matgin of the stream, the
squaws actively coniusedieed the discharge of
camp duty by unpackbig animals and erect
ing wickeyups, while such of the men as are
not detailed us scouts and to guard the po
nies which are turned louse to graze up, n
the hills, dispose themselves to rest in aim
ous attitudes, stretched at length ON their
rubes or 10/L1.1114' against, bundles of skins.
We observed that the prepondercnee in
numbers of squaws over bucks was greater
than usual and aceminted 1,,r it Hie al
settee of parties hewing uhd tin the war
path, and the lact that C mnor had made
many widuws nit cache Valley.
A. squaw will, in a very short, time, erect.
good temporary elicit. r against, sun am
wind, by sticking willow I ules into the grouts
in a three quarter circle, and bending aro
plaiting their tops together. Into this skide
ton :The will weave willuwa and brush. Alan
have nu usher protectiue agalie,t the stbaso;
winter or summer, but most are provided
with long, smooth Hie poles, the tops of
which are lashed together and then reared,
with a akin covering on them.
10 the evening 1 called upon Winnernuk
and his family, consisting of three wives and
two c‘bildtien. The night was d, rk and he.
fore entering the'wickeyi:ip I was interested
in observing from a tlistance the groups
within, seated on the ground and within the
light ttla lire which Litt, ned in the centre.—
The chief was it) consultation with tour of
hie principal rnen, and the counienances
all, as I could read them through my glass,
were downcast, indosating nu truce of ihe
Confidence and boldness which they mani
felted on the Ntllllo ground a line months be
They had seen treehh
fore
Californian had cut off scores of their friends
and was, i.t, this very hour tracking with
bloody purpose a fugitive band. They had
lost scalps and ponies in their reeontre with
the Flatheads tind Yam lures
only brother was slain ; and to crown all
meat was scarce in the lodges and the chi!
dren cried with hunger. The chief bade me
welcome as I presented myself at the en-
trance of the wickeyup. A three year ell
boy, naked, brown and beautiful lay asleep
on ti robe, by bia side. To make .room for
his guest he seized the child by a leg and
swung him more than . a yard upon another
pile of robes, where he lay dead in slumbers,
totally undisturbed by his flight.
Winnemuk is very profane, and told me
with many oaths that—"damned Bannack
man he lie—be say Come—heap bulfaloe—
me go—me no see him—me no get him—
pappoose hungry—he-God damn &munch
man—he lie." I could but surmise that.his
indignation was not confined to Bannack
CM
The nest day they carne into town, with
what Skir s they had, to barter for flour, but
they were poor and hungry and ,% anted heap
peer fortlittle skin, whithi ie just the way
whites don't mean to swap, intending that the
-balance of trade shall always be in their. fa
vor. But game was scarce and flour they
muet Woe. So it was necessary to come to
the white trader's terms. The chief demand
woe for flour, powder, bullets; looking. glasses,
guns and blankets. I saw an ind.vidual ex
change two of the latter, old and worn, for
the same number of good buffalo robes, which
are too heavy and clumsy for summer wear.
The Indian men are nearly
.all alike in
statue, form and general . appearance, •owing
Probably to the uniformity of their mode of
life. They are tall, straight., shapely an d
muscular. Any civilized lady would pro
nounce every ninety nine in a hundred of
VOL. 63.
A. K. RIrEEM, Editor & Proprietor
them good looking fellows. There are no very
fat or lean men—no pigmies or giants among
them.
The Fquaws also bear a strong resnmhlance.
All are squat, clumsy and strong Their hob.
it of carrying loads has given .them a gait, or
swinging trot... , Unlike their masters they
make tin attempt at personal ornament, and
are filthy and repulsive They receive no
other attention from the bucks than as a epe•
cies of unfit' property, and necessary as a
means of propagating the species. I do not
believe they are capable of inspiring affection
or even desire in the savage breasts of their
lords.
Though the conduct of the Indians had been
perfectly utioltending, a plan was laid by some
deiiperate white men to attack their camp at
night. Their friends however, gave them
warning in time and their assailants would,
nt any Your of the night, have found n deadly
toe behind every hush ; but the contemplated
trazedy Wlll3 riot 11108 to end. Two day. of
terwartls “Old Snag." chief of the Snakes,
was in town with some of his followers. Fur
years this Indian has been the well recog
timed friend of the whites, and has on more
than one occasion saved the lives of white
men. While unarmed and without notice he
was shot down, in broad day, in our streets
qty a desperado from " Gate ". Being
Dame, be could not escape nn ! offered no re
sistance. Two of the Indians accompanying
hint were shot at the mime time, by other par.
ties, who secured the scalps of Snag end one
r his companions as articles Or i rnflic
the Flatheads. When his hand, who were en
camped within a mile, heard or the flit rage,
each tam drew his knife, thrust it into his
trot, and smeared his body with bltod, put
slime, also, upon hia
The consequences of this act. will not ftll
poll the bends of the perpetrator-, but upon
innocent parties, emigrants upon the road
prospectors: surveyors and others, all of whom
we would warn to he upon their guard and to
travel in force,at the same time calling upon
IC government to protect its citizen. Ilion,
Ilia lines of travel, for she I od;:tils will sorely
demand and take a full and bloody rolribu-
Banaack, Mny 12, 1863
The - s.aa but stately procession had
passed into the church, and even the
aisles of the venerable building were
thronged with persons. One might have
thought., who looked .upon the coronet,
glittering on the cushion of crimson vel
vet, and all the other insirnia of high
rank, that, curiosity alone bad drawn thithl
er such a crowd; but a deeper interest
was marked on every countenance ; and
e firm voice of the minister had faltered
ore than once as he read the solemn ser-
Yet the coffin was that of a child
ME
t little, tender int;int, who had died in
its first unconscious helplessness---Every
one thought of the father, standing up
among them, and looking so tiesolate in
hie grief. More than one fond mother
wept, and drew her red cloak closely round
the .infant on her bosom, .as she gazed
round upon the mournful pomp, and the
little coffin, and the young nobleman
childless, and . worse than
. widowedult,
yeir worse tFan widowed ! as he stood
there, and followed with his eyes the
movement of the men then placing the
ccflin of his child in the shadowy dark
ness of the open vault below hint. The
church was a place of agonizing recollec
tion to the young Earl of Derby. Often
had he entered it a happy husband; and,
as . ly walked slowly down the aisle to his
carriage, be could not help recalling the
day when his beautiful and modest bride
had clung, in trembling bashfulness, to
his arm, when he had there, for the liNt
time, called her his wife. I am sick of
all this idle pomp !" he said to himself, as
he entered the wide hall of his GWII
meg
nilicent residence, utttnded by his train
of servants, and 'net by the obsequious
bows of the men who had conducted the
funeral ; " I am sick of all this mockery , !
I will bear it no longer. Would that f
were a pour, hard-working peasant, with
some honest hearts to care fur we, and
love inc. I aw heartily tired of your
great people!"
Not many weeka after the funeral of the
heir of the noble house or Derby, a soli
tary wayfaring man stopped at the turn
ing of a httle foot-path, which led down
the sloping side of the hill overlooking
the village of II . Ile had been lei
surely wandering on since the early hours
of the morning, and had not yet found
the place where he : would rest for the
night " llere, at least, is a happy
scene," he said, as he looked down upon
the little village at the foot of the hill. -
A bout fifty or sixty persons were scatter
ed, in careless groups, about the pleasant
green. Some of them were dancing be:
neath a venerable grove of elms, others
were crowding round the only booth which
had been raised in the rustic fair. "At
least, I may witness tEeir enjoyment,
though I cannot share it," he said ; and,
in a few moments, he was standing be
neath the old trees on the green.
But, although he was not recognized as
the Earl of Derby, and disgusted by the
attentions paid to htsranii and station, he
found the familiarity of vulgar minds and
low manners not quite so agreeable as he
had perhaps expected. Quietly be turn
ed away from the noisy scene. He pass
ed over the old bridge, which crosses the
clear and shallow stream, and turned down
a lane, the banks which were overgrown
-with wild flowers , and straggling bushes
of birch, sufficiently high and thick to
meet overhead, and form a perfect bower
of grateful shade. A poor woman was
returning home through the lane with her
children, her infant sleeping soundly on
her bosom, and a curly-headed urchin
distending his cheeks, with puffing at a
little painted "trumpet, the horrid grating
of which had all the charm of novelty
and noise to him. The young mother
looked so hot and tired, and withal so
good-humored, that the Earl could not ro
.sist asking her if she , emild direct him to
a' lodging. " Not in tint
. merry villas
we have just left," ho said, "for I am un
well and tired."
1 lic bold
The chiefs
The woman pointed to a little path, not
"a'Cbv,
Sllo.4lloNki
THE LOWLY LADY
very far from the spot where they stood,
which turned suddenly out of the lane
into a wood, overhanging the river, and
directed him to follow it through a large
cornfield, and up a very steep, sandy lane,
and then, for about half a Italie over—but
such directions are tiresome enough, when
one is obliged to listen to them to learn
one's own way; here, they would be even
more so. Besides, I ant 'not sure the
Earl attended to the poor woman, for he
lost his way. lie walked on, wrapped in
his own melancholy thoughts, but sooth
ed, in every sense, by the cool fresh air,
the gurgling flow of the river, and all
those distant sounds, which, in the quiet
fields on a fair calm even iI T „ fall so sweet
ly
indistinct upon the ear. But the sun
had set before the wanderer awoke to the
recollection of the purpose before him.—
Ile looked around hiin ; he saw green and
sloping hills, Inany stately trees, and the
same calm river flowing gently below, but
no house. At last, where the leafy shade
was deepest, Ire discovered a pile of old,
quaint ly-shaped chilli neys,opposed against
the glowing sky. Ile had not proceeded
far in the direction of tne farm.house,
which now plainly appeased among the
t roes, when a light step seemed to approach
him, and then stopped suddenly ; 'arid he
heard the sound of unrestrained wet Ting.
A hazel copse separated him front the
meadow whence the sound proceeded;
but, on peeping through a little opening,
he saw that a young girl was sitting on
the hank of the meadow on the other
side. For a little while she continued
weeping—only for a little while—then
clasping her hands together, she raised_
her head, and her whole heart seemed to
look up to Heaven in her meek and stead
fast gaze.
Still she sat there, almost without stir
ring, except that, once or twice, she
looked down upon that green grass, and
her liana dropped; - half - fargotfully Tiff
half playfully, among the lli.wers that
grew in wild luxuriance beside her,
us if she was pleased with, but scarcely
knew site noticed them. Just then the
rich song of the nightingale burst upon
the stillness of the evening and stole upoi.
her cur; and though her thoughts semi,
yet to linger on the subject wh;
had made her weep, site listened till f at,,,
last she smiled; and so minute after mirr-`1
ute pss•-ed away, and gradually she for
got all her trouble, and only expres
sion on her fair face wasllunocent, glad
ness.
Let no one suppose that in this fur
country girl we have met with any maid.
en of gentle birth, brou g ht doWn 4 , 0 a lciw
estate by the hard uses of adversity ; nor
any wonder of her native village, gifted
with talents of the highest order. Oh,
nn ! Lucy was none of these. What was
she? A fair and happy maiden of low
birth:=lT to - betorb of prat and lnine4
parents be low birth—of no :Iceottiphsh
merits or education beyond readin.r, and
—(let me r,nember')—ye , she couPt
write. She read well, fur her Nuke was
full of natural melody, and practice and
genuine feeling,—atid, idnive all, piety—
had made her very perfect.
Lucy's features were not beautiful, but
their modest, innocent .expression was
better than mere beauty. tier . hands
were not the whitest, in time world, though
delicately, tray exquisitely, shaped ; their
little palms might have been said of her,
as of the fair and happy milkmaid, " she
makes her hand hard with labor,'' it
mitz,ht have been well added, " and her
heart soft with pity;" fur they who knew
her say she was the kindest creature th t,
v‘ , er lived, and speak of a gentle anti win
nine courteousness of manner that gave
a charm to every look and to every word
she uttered. But, although she was one
of Nature's own sweet gentlewomen, and
1111aftectedly modest and pions, she was
only a pour, uneducated country girl.—
There was one, however, who soon began
todind new hope—new life, I might al
roost say—in the society of\ Lucy—one
who, in spite of all the pride of aristoc
racy of his habits and his prejudices, be
gan to feel it a privilege to be addressed
as familiar friend by the pure-minded
maiden ; who felt, in his inmost heart,
the influence o! her modest, cheerful pi
ety , and paid her, from his heart, the
homage ot• re , pect and love, that was the
sweeter from being half made up of grat
itude.
lle could not help smiling , ivhen he
made his proposals, in due form, to the
relations of his sweet Lucy ; for they did
not choose to have their child thrown
away upon and who, for what they knew
to the contrary, might be little bitter
than a beggar, or a sort of (they did nut
quite say the word) " vagabond." They
doubted, - and questioned, and wavered,
and questioned him again, till the Earl
began to feel uuconiforlable and to stam
mer and blush, and thus, in tact, tr. make
them really suspicious; for he had quite
forgotten to provide against this most
probable issue of his suit to, them.
" You sec," said an. old 'uncle, at last,
who was the head of the family„ and the
best spokesman, " you may be a very
good sort of a yoting man, and I have
nothing to say against you ; but youare,
or at least have been till now, when, you're
plucking up ,a bit, a poor, sickly, idle
body ; and suppose you flill ill, or take to
t - to kind of employ, and have nothing
coming in of your own—why, Lucy's
fifty pounds, and the hundred that I
shall leave her, when, please 13eaven,1
die, will go but a very little,way. I toll
you what, ' he said," brother and sister,"
(turning io.Lticy's parents, and looking
very wise,) " don't be in any hurry to
give your consent. Lucy, though I say
it, is us good a'girl-as any in the. land,
and fit for a lord ; yes,' 1 say it again,
(though you pee rn to smile,) young man
—fit for any lord in the land."
Lucy had been very busily phioking
CARLISLE, PA., FRIDAY, AUGUST 14, 1863.
the withered leaves from'
a geranium
which her lover had given her ; but now
she turned round, pale,and, trembling, for
she feared the effect of her ,unele's
har
angue upon her father, who was apt to be
as positive as his brother. She trembled
and her heart throbbed with agitation,
. -
for she cared not if he whom she loved
were penniless; but she felt that without
the consent ()flier par'ent:4;:' (servants of
God and kind' parents as they both were.)
she could not marry hint. • She turned,
as gentle, loving daughters will on all
such occasions, to her own tender mother,
and she had not to speak ; her mother,
could read her looks, and she coubt not
resist the tears which rose so soddenly
into the soft eyes of her dutiful child.
Mothers—or wives, I mean to say—have
a winning way of their own, particularly
mild, submissive wives, such as Lucy's
mother; and what with her own influ
ence as a wife, and her own woman's wit,
or (in truer words) calm good sense, it
was soon agreed that Lucy should marry
her love on this condition—that the an
swer to a certain letter, to be'written by
him, fur a character, etc., proved sati4-
factory.
In due time, to the very day, a letter
arrived, directed to Lucy's father. With
this letter the father and the, uncle were
quite satisfied; and now Lucy, who had
been, at times, unusually silent, recov
ered all her cheerfulness, and went_ about
the house sim , ing (so her mother thought)
like a nioditingale. Thomas Clifford, Inc
SO he called himself, was married to his
Lucy, and all the fair and modest girls of
the neighborhood were round the,
chMrch door' to fling biakett ids allow
ers in the little pith, a. Clifford led his
bride to their own cottage.
lie heard tie blessing of many poor,
aged creatures, who lingered about, in the
sunshine of the churchyard. upon his
humble yetitivi_ly bride. lllircry One Who
met them on that happy -morning sidles
n them and blessed them,
Iligh rank, heaps of gold, could nut
buy such blessings as this !".; he said to
himself; 'hut my sweet, and ;pious Lucy
won the live of every Iteart. These
to too, have knuwu her from her
!"
4'his is a grand place, indeed'" said
Limy, as, tov..Rrds the close of their sec•
otid day's journey, they approached an
aniiient and almost princely edifice ; "but
does our road lie through the parh
" Not exactly though the park," he re
plied ; "but I. thought. my Lucy might
like to see these fine giout4i, and the
'house land ga'rdens.r I have Witown the
gardener and the housekeeper fur years;
and 1 am sure we.shall. find them. very
civil, and willing to show us any little at
tention in their rwer, and we have time
enough, though the sun is getting luw l
for we are Just at home."
Lucy was delighted. She had never
seen a noblennin's• house before, she said.
" Well all those large rooms, and the
picture-, and all the line lurniture, are
very grand," said Lucy, "but my eyes
ache with looking at them ; I like this
garden a great al better. What a
beautiful one it. is ! But may we sit down
in this arbor of honey-suckle so near the
house !"
Lucy sat in silence for sonic little time,
gazing round her at the venerable house,
and the trees and
,gardens ; at length she
said : "I wonder if the lord of this grand
place is happy Is the Earl of Ib rhy a
g ood man, dear husband ? Is he kind
and. free-spoken to the poor? Is he a
married man she added looking with
a smile of peculiar sweetness in her bus•
band's face.
" How ninny questions you have given
ine to answer, Lucy ! Let me consider!
Yes, he is a married man ; he married,
not many 11111t118 ago, a young. country
girl—such another as yourself, dear
Lucy "
"Poor thing!" said Lucy, and she
sighed from her very hcait.
" Why do you sigh, my own'-wife?" he
demanded. "Do you envy that poor
country maiden ?"
" Do 1 envy her ?" she replied, in a
voice of tender reproach : "what a strange
question ! Do 1 envy aity one ?" and
as she said this she drew more closely
round her the arm which encircled her
slender waist; "woula f exchange my
husband with any one !" she added, look
ing up tenderly and lovingly into his face;
"1 sighed in pity fur the young lady, (for
a lady she is now ;) such a change is en
ough to turn her head !"
" Would it turn yours, Lucy ?"
" Perhaps it might !" she replied, in
the simples: and most natural manner.—
"But is she really happy ? Does sho
Lve hint for himself alone ?"
" 11y sweet Lucy," ho beg an, and as
he spoke his wife thought that he had
never seemed so tenderely respectful to
wards her; "my sweet Lucy, you alone
eau answer these last questions. You
smile'l I. see you look amazed upon ore;
but 1 repeat it, you al one !"
" But first," said Lucy, very artlessly,
"I must be lady here; you must make rue
Countess of Derby !"
She had scarcely said this, when, from
- brie of the castle turrets, a bell began to
toll. Clifford rose up instantly, and,
without saying a word, led hi 3 wife to
the ,castle. They entered• the chapel
there, in which the:servants and the ten:
ants had all assembled, and the chaplain
was preparing to commence the evening
service; then leading the wondering. Lucy
into the midst of them, ho presented her
to them as 'their future mistress, the
Countess of Derby, his wifo.
Lucy did not speak ; she could igetiree
ly stand; the color - forsook her face, and
she looked as one about to faint. She
stared first at ho husband, and then- at
thb.domestics around her, and at last she
began to comprehend everything. EA-
gerly she seized her husband's hand,
which she had dropped in her surprise,
now affectionately extended to her; then,
with an effort that was very'visible, but
which gave new interests to her in the
eyes of all present, she regained some
what her natural and modest self-possess
ion ; and, raising her innocent face, she
courtesied to the ground, and met the re
spectful greeting of those around her with
smiles, which, perhaps, spoke more at
once to the heart than the best wisdom
of words. The Earl of Derby led his
wife to his own seat, and placed her beside
him.
Lucy knelt down upon a cushion of
embroidered velvet, with the sculptured
escutcheons and stately banners of the
house of Derby above her ; but, perhaps,
of all the high-born dames of that ancient
family, none ever knelt there with a pur
er heart, or with a. humble spirit, than
that LOWLY LADY.
CAUGHT IN,TifY OWN TRAP
Dora and.l had been silent fully fifteen
minutes—an unusual occurrence for us
—when she suddenly broke out with one
of her gayest, sweetest, peals of laughter.
The cars were going at the rate,of forty
miles an hour, but Dora's laugh rang out
above all their noise and confusion.
" What is it, Dora, you witch, you?"
I said, half piqued that she had not first
told me what pleased her, and laughed
afterwards.
" Nothing. Nell; only Uwas thinking of
something so funny. Do'you see that gen
tleman just in front of us, with the beau
tiful black whiskers and dreamy brown
eyes? Well, he's been watching you be
hind that book the last, half hour, looking
as if he should love to take a bite from
the red ruses on your _chmsks. Don't
blush; but he's in love with you—l'll bet
niy, gold thimble on it, 1 was just think..
ing of sonic of the stories I have read,
about young lades mistaking handsome
fellows fitr their brothers, etc., and
thought what fun it would be : if you could
only manage to' mistake that gentleman
for your brother Fred."
I was ready for some fun in a moment.
"'fell you what I'll do, Dora," I broke
out, eagerly. "You know I havn't seen
Fred since I went to school three years
ago ; and, of course, he's changed a good
deal since then. Well, if that, literary
gentleman with the brown eyes (he is
handsome, isn't he, Dora?) should get
off the cars - at our depot, I'll wait till he
gets mixed up with the erowd ; see him
suddenly, as if 11,w •tyre first time s rusb
up to him in a flutter of delight, call him
hrother Fred, and give him such another
.kissing as he hasn't had since he-saw his
sweetheart last "
" Yes, I would if I were you " said
_poi a, sarcatiqatky., „!..Y.au..dareu 't,,. you.
" Don't I dare to, though ? Wait and
see!"
And so I dropped hack into the cushion
:And silence, till the train stopped at our
station
Dora gave me a wicked look and csrli is
percd that she know itty courage would fail
wn ; fur the gentleman was really getting
off.
I was not to be triumphed over, though;
and so, as we steppeii out ou the platform
1 saw the crowd, and with a little bound,
threw myself into his arms and kissed
bin] full in the mouth, hysterically say
ing :
" Fred, my dear, dear brother ! how are
you r'
I caught a glimpse of Dora—she was
in danger of going into convulsions. I
expected to hear the stranger confusedly
say that there was some mistake : but, to
my surprise, he gave me a hearty em
brace—kissed me two or three titnes,---
said he was well—that. I had grown a lit
tle, and then inquired for my little, friend,
Dora—who, all this time, exciting the
sympathies of the crowd, as they sup.
posed she wi§„..insarle, judging from her
frantic laughter.
Father and mother are expecting
you, Nellie, and arc so impatient they can
scarcely writ to see you. 1 was afraid
you wouldn't know me; but I am really
glad that my imago has been treasured up
so carefully in my little sister's heart."
I was bewildered beyond measure. It
really was Fred, then ; and I had not
known flint. I felt slightly ridiculous,
and while introducing Dora to my broth
er, whispered to keep her to quiet in refer-
euce to my intended trick. I was too much
confused to think of inquiring how he
came to be in tho cars without seeing
me; so we all went to the carriage that
was waiting fur us, and rapidly drove
home.
1 had nover known Fred to be so effec
tionato. Ile held my hand in his own
all the time, and kissed me at unneces
sarily short intervals: but, to tell the
truth, I had never loved him half so well
before—never thought him half so hand
some.
We reached the gate. Mother kissed
me and cried over me all at ono(); fattier
repeated it ; and finally, a frank, hearty
voice broke out with :
" Hallo, sis ! aren't you going to notice
yont scapegrace) of a brother•at all I"
And to my astonishinient,i handsome
follow I had not seen before gave we a
genuine hug, and a kiss that you could
have heard across the yard.
"There is some mistake," I murmured.
" Aro you my brother Fred ? • Tthought
thee gentleman was," pointing to the
handsome fellow I had embraced at the
depot. -
- i•
" Why, sis, are you going crazy ? Of
course Pm your brother, and that fellow
there is my college chum, Archie, Win
ters, who went'half way up the line to
meet you. What are you blushing at,
Nell ? There'wasn't anything wrong in
his going after you, was thert s— rtl didn't
rplt
TERMS :--$1,50 in Advance, or s2 l l l tvithin the year.
If the nation's life is saved, the cost
will not be too dear," was answered. All
that a roan bath will be given for his life.
All that the people have, will they give
to save this nation."
" I have riot held back, so far Mr.
Browning'' There was a tone of self
appruval,—something a little boastful—
about 11Ir. Holmes. "No one can say
hove .refused -to-contribute- my
share. llow much do you suppose have
given to the Volunteer Refreshment Sa
loons, during-the past year ?"
The person with whom he was conver
sing—we have called him Mr. Browning,
—shook hiS head saying, " I can't ima
gine."
" You'd hardly credit the SUM. Six
hundred dollars! That's what I've given
in this direction alone. It costs just
about one hundred dollars to give a weal
to one regiment of a thousand men. So
you see I've teed six thousand brave sol
diers on their way through our c ty
That's something towards helping the
country."
" You have dime nobly in this," said
Mr. Holmes. "But all worVt do as well
—Fin not taking merit to myself. I've
only-done my duty. - When' the State is"
in danger, every true citizen will spring
to the rescue."
.A.nd_111.r.....1-101111C8- leaned— Lack--itr—bis
chair, the iwage of dignified sellappro
val.
" Then there is the bounty fund,' re
marked one of the little group who were
conversing,. "If there was nothing be
sides feeding the soldiers on their way
through, this would he a light matter."
" Light as a feather !" broke in Mr.
Holmes. " Yes, there is the bounty
fund,' a's you say. Well, I've done my
part in that direction also. The time was
when we put our names to subscription
papers to the tune of twenties and fifties,
and thought it liberal. But a change has
come o'er the spirit of our dream. We
must go up to hundreds now. The pub
lic know what I have contributed to the
bounty-fund;' for the committee is gar
rulous."
undyed dollars."
" As I was saying, we are up to the
hundreds now," resumed Mr. Holmes.—
" But 1 am not the one to flinch or make
wry faces, I decided on the amount at
once, and sent a check to the committee.
I like money as well as any of my neigh•
bors ; and I have reason to do so, for I
worked hard enough to get it, but what
will our money be worth if this accursed re
bellion should prevail ? if our country is
lost what of the people ?
'True enough, Mr. Holmes what of the
people ? To save this government is worth
the Facrifiee of every dolrar we possess.
'Arid (sometimes fear, replied the other,
'that it will take the last dollar. I was
counting up, only to-day, what it had cost
me in actual gifts of money, to Bay noth
ing of lows in business and depreciated
values. The sum almost frightened me.
Four thousand dollars t.',o true. lam
not speaking boastful—l don't take mer
it to myself. I only declare the fact.
Hundreds and thousands around me, are
doing as much, or mere. Treasure is be
ing poured out like water.'
And 'blood ! said the low, clear voice
that penetrated like a sword. The speak
er was a woman. She had been a 4itent
MEM
'Yes, and blood !' answered Mr. Holmes
It was but an echo, faint and falling
'...Which is more precious than geld!
The voice was still 19,w and clear, cutting
down to conviction like the thrust of a
sword. And life' added the.speaker.—
Her calmness failed. There was a throb
in her voice. She arose with a (Oct
,
pressed manner, and went from,the room.
Who is she ?' asked Mr. Holmes with
a shame look upon his face.
Her Dame is Edgar.'
Not the widow of Captain Edgar !'
Yes.'
He dropped his oyes. A shadow crept
over his face.
More precious than gold I' he said
looking up after a few moments Yes, ye's.
And what a rebuke! I, boastfully talking,
in her presence, of my golden offerings,
when she had given .blecid and life;inlier .
brave, heroic husband I. .Gold and trees.
!Ire may come back . again, but , not so
blood and life.
'She has giien gold and treasure as well
have time to go, and let him take your
picture with him so that he would be sure
to know you. He's been playing off
some of his mad pranks, and been passing
himself off for me, I'll warrant."
I looked at Archie Winters beseech
ingly ; and as they were all going into the
house I whispered :
" For pity's sake don't speak of that
mistake. How could it have happened ?"
" 1 overheard you in the curs ; and
will promise to keep your secret only on
one condition."
He whispered something to me that
made my face flush scarlet; but I was at
his mercy, and said I would think of it.
1 did think Olt., reader; and, to the de
light of the whole family—Dora and Fred
in particular—Archie and I were married
in less than two months. And Dora said
to me, as I bade her good-by, that it
would give unspeakable delight to Fred
and herself, if 1 would attend their 'wed
ding in a month from then—and I did.
MORE PRECIOUS THAN GOLD
BY T. F. ARTHUR
"This war!" said Mrs. Holmes, with
a partly affected, and a partly real imps.
tience. "It will never cease demanding;
it will rob us of everything. Increased
taxation, increased prices—lessening in
comes—contributions here, and contribu
tions there. Nothing will be left of us
in the end !"
" Yes, I eaw your name down for five
as'lifelsaid one. 'ln losing her husband
;al.lO has ' ,There were few trtier,
kinder, better, m e n. than Captain' Edga r
While he lived, the world's rough places
were smooth for her feet; and if he had
been spared, they would have been kept
smooth. But, as I have said, in his lossi
she has lost all. and now her hands un
used to labor, are reaching out, and search
ing for the means of self-support,
'Has she children ?'
'Two,'
'Widowed—fatherless V
NO, 32.
tAnd poor!
A long silence followed. 4ra breaking
it the subject was not Renewed; nor %ram
there any more parade of money contribu
tion and sacrifice for the war.
We believe in work—good, honest,
bard work—work with the hands, work
with the head, and both combined. It
was man's original destiny, as well as that
of most, perhaps all, of the animal crea
tion. And if we call those which are
done without " consciousness of violation''
then the vegetable kingdom is full of
workers.
But man, above all, because he needs
most. Some animals snake themselves
dwellings, like men, and wonderfully nice
ones; but where is the animal that makes
himself a suit of clothes ? The silk
worm l No madam, His cocoon is his
house or his vest, if you please ; but not
his coat and trousers.
Animals gather their food, and store
it up for use with great labor; but no
animal builds a fire and cooks it. Ani
mals live on fruit and grains; but never
in any conscious or voluntary way, do
they plant trees or sow corn.
The beaver is content to use his teeth
for an axe, and his tail for a trowel, and
does admirable . work with both; but man
makes tools and machinery. The quit.,
rel crosses the river on a chip or a piece
of bark, making a sail of his bushy tail,
which is very clever of him : but men
make canoes and Steamboats.
Thus, in clothing, cooking, agricul
ture, tools and navigation, man is supe
rior as a worker to the whole animal cre
ation. And when we come to brain work
and writing and artistic operations, there
is no sort of comparison.
I tignity of labor ! W-hy, what dignity
is there in anything else ? Who ever
thought or the dignity of idleness? The
only use and the only excuse for play
and rest are, that they enable us to work
the better. Rest is the pause in which
Esc gather strength-to 'Recreation
is the : tep back which enables us to
spring forward with greater force.
It would be a rash thing to say that
work could nut be in excess, because all
Must have rest and sleep ; but it is safe
to say that ten men are killed by bad
habits and bad constitutions, fur one who
is cut off by huuest work. And idle
men are notoriously more short-lived than
laborious ones. The oldest men we
know, and those who have best preserved
their faculties, have been workers, and
sonic of them very hard Workers.
And the workers certainly have the
most enjoyment. Ask any man who has
retired from business. Idleness eats into
the soul and makes happiness impossible:
Work brings cheer. Excess of work is
like all excess, but there is no better coa
t dition-of life-thart that of the • win . and
I temperate worker,
TUB IVIARRIAGE ALTAtt.
Judge Carlton in an eloquent address be
fore the Young illen's Library Association,
at Augusta, Me., thus sketches the marriage
am=
I have drawn for you many pictures of
death; let me sk tch for you a brief but
brig.ft scene of beautiful life. It is the mar
riage altar. A lovely female, clothed in all
the freshness of youth and surpassing beau
ty, leans upoit the arm of him to whom she
has ju,t given herself up forever. Look in
her eves, ye gloomy philosophers, and tell
me, if you dare, that there is no happiness
on earth. See the trusting, the heroic devo•
tion which impels her to leave country, pa
rents, for a comparative stranger. She has
launched her frail bark upon a wide and
stormy sea; she has handed over her happi
ndss and doom for this world to another's
keeping ; but she has done it fearlessly, for
love whispers to her that her chosen guar
dian and protector bears a manly and a no
ble heart. Oh, woe to him that forgets his
oath and his manhood !
Iler dark lying shall the raven flap
O'er the false hearted,
Ills warm blood the wolf shall lap.
Ere life bo parted,
Shame and dishonor sit
On his grave ever,
Blessing shall hallow it,
Never! Oh, never!
We have all read the history of the hus
band who, in a moment of hasty wrath, °aid
to her who had but a few months before uni
ted her fate to his—
"If you are not satisfied with my conduct,
go, return to your friends and to yoiir hap
piness."
"And will you give me back that which I
brought to you?" asked the despairing wife.
"Yes," ho replied, "all your wealth shall
go with you ; I covet it not."
- "Alas I" she unsweied, "I thought not of
my wealth—l spoke of my devoted loves;
can you give these back to me?" .
"Nor said the man, as he flung himself
at her feet i "col I cannot restore these, but
I will do more—l will k-mp them unsullied
and untainted ; I will cherish them through
my life, and in my death; and never again
will I forget that I hare sworn to protect and
cherish her who gave up to me all she held
inost dear."
Did I not tell you there was poetry in
woman's look—a woman's word? gee it
there the mild, the gentle reproof of love,
winning back from its harshness and rude-
ness the stern and unyielding temper of an
ugly man. Ah if creation's fairer sea only
knew their strongest weapons, how many of
Wedlock's' fiercest battles would be unlought•
bow much of unhappiness and coldness wculd
be avoided!
MATERITAL TElkiDcrotEss.—Wotilon are gen=
.orally cited by philanthropists as models of
tenderness and affection. This incident from
the Worcester (Mass.) Sentinel, furnishes the
community another example of her devoted
ness :—"Not long since a number of ,con•
demned-criminals were led out of-prison tcti
the place of 'execution. One of them found
his mother waiting to see him at-the door,
and the following conversation took place:—
"'Where are you going, my boy?
"'To the gallows, mother.'
" 'Well; my dear,' be a good boy l and don't
be hanged in your Sundaysuit ; give it to me
yopr every-day waistcoat its . ,good enough. to
obe: I"!,:gitcellent mother,-
Tack's:o33.theirer , Said an Irish.,
sentriOtthe;British Legion. at Saint Se
bastia. friehd i " was the• reply.—
"Then stand where you are, for,_ by the'
powers, you're the" first I've met with in
this murtherin' country."
V7OIIIC.