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[For The Sunny South.]
THE COTTON KING.
BT W. P. B.
I love the South,—her mountains grand—
Her fertile vales and fields,
Where toil may reap through all the land
The stores that Nature yields;
I love her fields of golden wheat—
The harvests that they bring;
But let me not th is praise repeat—
That “Cotton is her King."
Erst scarce he owned a peer's estate,
Or had a baron’s fame;
But prouder grown, and would be great,
He takes a sovereign's name;
And now with tyrant's sway he reigns,
Absorbing everything,
The glory of our Southland wanes
With Cotton as her King.
Usurper, he extends his reign
O’er mountain, vale and mead;
His will would banish all the grain •
And leave no rival-seed;
O’er all the land he thin would throw
His overshadowing wing;
’Tis time to let this boaster know
That Cotton is not King.
The modest fruits and corn and wheat
Have rights as well as he;
Each one should have a princely seat,
A province broad and free;
They only ask a joint domain,
Not grasping everything,—
A field for all the golden grain,
Not all for Cotton King.
Not one should boast exclusive claim
For all have regal birth;
From God's own heav’nly throne they came
To rule and bless the earth.
The South is broad for each and all,
And rich returns will bring
For seeds that on her bosom fall
Where Cotton is not King.
The “Sunny South” must hear the voice,
“Restore the banished grain!”
Her waving fields shall then rejoice,
And Plenty smile again.
With Corn enthroned, and Wheat his Queen,
The poor man then Bhall sing;
The rich shall never mourn, I ween,
When Cotton is not King.
Where Cotton's royal banner waves,
A thousaud wrongs appear;
He makes the farmers' sons his slaves
Through all the toiling year;
No time for culture or for rest,
For books or anything,
Except the wages paying best
To drudge for Cotton King.
Hig flag, though snowy fair and white,
Through all the South o erspread,
Is but the sign of killing blight—
A sheet to shroud the dead—
A blight upon our fruitful soil,
And death to everything
That we should hope from Southern toil,
Were Cotton not our King.
The tyrant's reign o'er brawn and brain
Throughout the land must cease,
Or never shall the South regain
Prosperity and peace.
Restore the royal golden grain,
And let tueir praises ring!
And crown fair Ceres queen again,
And snub the Cotton King!
[Written for The Sunny South.]
THE OLD RECTORY;
OR,
FANNY’S PROJECT.
BY BEY. B. F. DUNCAN.
(Continued from No. 26.)
I felt happy, supremely happy, as I briskly
traced my steps through the bustling streets
ward home. I had a delightful consciousness
at I was true to the vow made upon my knees
’ the study-door the evening previous. I felt
at I could well afford to avoid, for a while at
ist. any embarrassing effort that such a vow
ight demand of me. But encouraged by the
eat success with which I had just been re-
irded, I determined that I would ascertain,
thout actually committing myself to a direct
plication for work, what prospect there might
to obtain employment for my needle. I was
ready on the main street—the business street
the town. In a few moments, I would reach
e store of Mrs. Waters. Mrs. Waters was also
parishioner of my father. She was an English
•man, and had* for several years been the
incipal milliner and dress-maker of the place.
II reached the store, and looked in through
e closed glass doors, I saw that it was bare of
irchasers, and that Mrs. Waters, with two or
ree young sewing girls, were sitting in the
ir around a glowing stove. I had often before
id little social visits to the mistress of this es-
alishment during business hours; hence a
jit, apparently with social purpose, might
w be made without exciting any suspicions of
Y real intention. As I entered the store, Mrs.
iters removed the work from her lap, and
ssing behind the counter, came forward to
set me.
“Good morning, Miss Fanny, she said, el
iding her hand across a pile of boxes; “ what
n I do for you this morning ?”
>«I have come to make no purchases, ” I replied.
[ have been walking, and have only stopped
• a few minutes to see you. You must not let
i interrupt you. I see that you are quite
sy, and I shall go back and do my talking
die you are sewing.” , - ,
>« Why, this is very kind. Come back, by all
M»tin I wish I could put my work aside while
u are here, but we are crowded with business,
s are sewing here more than half the night.
Crowded with business, I thought I wish she
mid ask me to help her, and that she would
y me for my work. I looked first at one and
an at another of the hands that were buried
«i||t and lace and velvet. They ^ worked like
Tried women. There was a hastiness, a care
en ess about every stitch that, I knew, must
ike their work less acceptable to customers
m more substantial sewing and more deliber-
s arrangements of the material would be.
ire than once I saw Mrs. Waters’ eyes pass, as
supervision, from one to the other of her as-
itants; and several times she found it neces-
ry to require their carelessness to be rectified,
very brief inspection of this scene in the
irk-room satisfied me that I could add very
F ely to her reputation for taste and substan-
and neat sewing, if she would only permit
i to assist her.
“As you are crowded with work,”I said, “you
a have no objection to help, be it ever so little.
, Mrs. Waters, unless you are afraid to trust
or- reputation to ms, I will sew too while I am
ting with you. Give me something to do. I
til enjoy my visits much more if you will let
i be employed.”
[ am inclined to believe that she thought there
s some risk in accepting my offer. She most
» i tively refused for a lime while to accede to
request, but I was determined that she
should not refuse. I had an object in view. I j opening for my efforts to earn something. Night money for another dress. All that I ask of you the doctors of the church to the cause of religion,
was more than ordinarily expert in the use of j after night as I was sewing in my room, I dwelt is that you will come and see me often. People His salary is paid when it can be collected^ but
my needle, and I wished to show her that I was ; upon my course for the future, and finally are afraid of me. There is nothing dreadful we have no need of it. Hardly a day passes
entirely competent. I knew, too, that I had a
special fondness for such work, and my taste had
often been called for in the retired departments
of the preparation of female wardrobes. I
wanted to show her how much ’ better I
could do what some of her clumsy appren
tices were doing inartistically. Of course, I
carried my point, and though I saw a look
almost of dismay pass over her face, I selected,
when she gave me my choice of work, a piece
which seemed to be giving one of her girls a
great deal of trouble. In the school, the home-
school, in which I had been trained, pains had
formed the purpose to see what my brains and j about me. Don’t you be afraid of me.” without my seeing Aunt Nancy, and I never
my pen would do for me. It was as I expected. I promised all that she asked, and when I leave her without throwing my arm around her
The busy season waned with me as with Mrs. stepped into the carriage a little later to be driven , and kissing her to my heart’s content. Judy is
Waters. But no sooner did I find myself at j home, I was ten dollars richer than when she | still with us. Her attentions to old Cudjoe so
leisure in the evening than I took my desk from called for me that morning. won upon the old widower’s heart that he laid it
its place on the table, turned over its contents,
and selected such as I thought I should be
willing to subject to the ordeal of examination
which precedes publication. My father had for
some time combined a critical exercise with my
studies. I was required to read carefully an
article, to analyze it, and then write out a
critique upon it. I found the value of this dis-
been taken to show me the unloveliness of ev- cipline now, and tried to subject my produc-
erything like art, or effect, when conjoined with ; tions, without partiality, to the principles that
our actions; and the influence of these lessons , decide the good or the bad in literary compo-
made me feel really a little ashamed of myself sition. Nearly everything that I had ever writ-
in my subsequent behavior before Mrs. Waters : ten was in the form of romance. I had a num-
and her assistants. The careless manner with ' ber of short stories. And I had actually pre-
which I took into my hands the complicated ; surned to prepare quite an elaborate plot, which
piece of work, as though it were not more im- j I had not yet half developed, though I had writ-
portant than the hemming of a pocket handker
chief, was all studied. I saw the anxious milli
ner casting sly glances at me, and I seized those
moments to appear the more indifferent to the
difficulties of my task. In a little while, I had
ten twenty-five chapters. As I said just now,
when ‘sewing work gave my evening hours no
employment, I turned to the examination of
these literary performances of mine, determined
that I would break them up and remodel sen-
Weeks had now passed since I had completed
and laid away my “long story.” These weeks
had been profitable to me. They had served,
too, to render less sensitive the wounds that my
disappointments had inflicted. I began to feel
like renewing my efforts with the publishers. I
determined, however, that as this was to be my
final struggle it should be for greater things than
' I had yet aimed at. I would now try to have
a book published. I tried a number of promi-
: nent publishing houses. Here are some of the
; letters received from some of them. One is very
: brief. The house has already more on its hands
! than it can well accomplish, and the proprietors
do not feel authorized to accept more. Another
! compliments the work, but the author is not
; known in the literary world: the public taste is
! capricious; perhaps the book may not suit the
! peculiar taste of the times, then it will be a fail
ure; the piiblishers decline to assume the risk.
at her feet, and she is now its possessor.
(THE END.)
The Fat Man and the Dutch Woman.
A SAILOR’S YARN.
; j . r- , . ; : - --— t— ... . ~~~ Another thinks the success of the work quite
accomplished it, and said, as I handed it to Mrs. tences, and write and re-write until my judg- certfti b , lt tLe pub ii sbers must be secured A
Waters, I hope it will suit you. I ment might approve them. At the risk of being lie* „ u, n „ c .r, f i .i„i_
hope it will suit you,
“ You have done it beautifully,” she replied,
“and so quickly. How handy you are witli
your needle, Miss Fanny. If you had served at
the trade, you could not be more at home. I am
sure that my young friend, from whose hands
you took it. thanks you with all her heart. It
seemed impossible for her to understand how
it ought to be done. If my workwomen had
only the half of your skill and taste and quick
ness, I should make my fortune in a little while.”
I wondered if this were flattery, or if the
words were sincere that I had just heard. 1 de
termined that I would test their character before
I left the store. Mrs. Waters accompanied me
to the door as I rose to depart. I had bade her
good-morning, and was stepping into the street
when, as if the idea had just occurred to me, I
recalled her.
“Oh, Mrs. AA'aters! yon tell me that you have
more work than you can conveniently accom
plish—you have seen a specimen of my skill in
your line, and have declared yourself satisfied;
perhaps it will be a mutual accommodation if
you will allow me to help you. I should be
glad to be able to make a little money, and in
this pleasant way, and will become one of your
sewing girls at once if you will let me take some
work home with me. If I please you, I shall be
glad to sew for you as long as you will supply
me.”
She seemed surprised, and then after reflect
ing for a few minutes, said:
“ AVait a minute, if you please.”
She left me, and was gone about five minutes,
when she returned with a package, and placed
it in my hands.
Let me have this to-morrow, Miss Fanny,
approve them. At tbe risk of being
tiresome, I must add that the chief fault I found 1
with my stories was a taul4~iW^3tj > tev AVhen
■ writing for myself, I might fling the reins upon
the neck of fancy, and give it full liberty in its 1
flights; but now that I was writing for the pub-
; lie, I knew that I must curb and check that j
! fancy. My rhetoric was painfully florid. I im
agined some admirer of the chaste style of Mac- .
aulay running his eye over my manuscript, and i
, my cheeks glowed with shame as I read the high-
j sounding phrases and waded through the lines ,
of modifiers that I might reach some little com- \
monplace thought. This, then, must be my j
work—to tone down all this frivolous nonsense; 1
; and to the performance of my duty I addressed i
myself. The question I asked as I supervised j
i each sentence was, What do I wish to express ? !
This point ascertained, I then proceeded to ex-
j press it in the simplest language I could com-
i mand. Then I wrote the sentence stripped of
j" its fluttering and gaudy plumes. I soon had my ;
I first piece pruned and ready for presentation.
] It had this merit at least there was nothing in
i the way of expression that was overdrawn, or
' that I felt like being ashamed of. There it lay j
I before me, copied in a round, distinct hand upon
i the alternate pages of commercial note-paper,
i and accurately paged. How little I imagined j
| the discouragements, the heart-sickness, the al- !
I most despair of the way upon which I had now
j taken my first step. Often, in after months, as |
j I sat weeping over my returned manuscripts, I ;
| wished that 1 had not been driven from my less j
pretentious but more reliable needle, over which :
I had shed no tears of bitter disappointment. ]
I sent my first manuscript to the editor of our i
town newspaper, with a very polite note telling
finished, and yon shall be paid at my usual him of the necessity under which I labored to
rates. ”
Here the interview closed, and I hurried with
well-filled subscription list, and a thousand dol
lars as soon as the book is printed, are required.
I had almost despaired, but I resolved upon one
trial more. Here is the answer: “The manu
script is well worth the notice of the reading
public. AA'e are willing to publish upon these
terms. AVe will publish the work, and share
with you equally the profits, expecting that you
will bear an equal share of the burden of loss,
should it be a failure. ” Here was my best chance.
But how could I, even witb my sanguine hopes,
honestly accept the terms. What should I do ?
Oh, for a friend to stand by me, at this moment,
and say, I will see you safely through it. “Aunt
Nancy !” I exclaimed. “ Has she not promised
to help me if I needed help.” I determined
that I would see her, and ask her aid.
Although I had begun to feel quite at home in
Aunt Nancy’s house and quite at ease in her
presence, and although she had told me that
there was nothing about her to be afraid of, I
was conscious of some feeling of dread as I en
tered her comfortable dining-room, holding my
letter in my hand, on the day after its reception.
I found that the best way to overcome the feel
ing was to introduce at once the object of my
visit, and as soon as I had extended the usual
civilities, I said:
“I have taken you at your word, Aunt Nancy,
and have come to ask you to help me still fur
ther.”
“ AVhat! do you want some more money?” she
asked.
“ No, not exactly. I have been working very
hard, but I. find that this rntjans of obtaining
money is uncertain, and for some time I have
been trying to establish a permanent source of
revenue. It is possible to do this by my pen. I
have written a book, Aunt Nancy.”
The old lady removed her spectacles, wiped
them hurriedly with her pocket handkerchief,
: obtain compensation for my article if I eoulfi. I
■ asked him if, after examination, he deemed it
light step and thankful heart to my home and i worthy of publication, that he would accept it , t them on again . and witb out saying a word,
task. It is needless to recount the many little, j a nd pay me what he could afford to. £ yed me most altentivelv.
Judy carried MS. and note, and returned with “The MS.,” I continued, “is now in the hands
a short reply, that he would examine the article , of a publisher of New York. He has examined
sent and write me more fully the next day. AVhat it, approved it, and here are the terms upon
a night I spent! The next day found my hopes which he proposes to publish it.”
dashed and shattered. The MS. had been ex
amined. It was highly approved. The editor s
pleasure at knowing that his native town was
honored in the possession of a female writer who
promised to shine in the literary firmament as a
trifling events that made up the sum of our home-
life during the next few days. Upon examining
the parcel which Mrs. Waters had entrusted me
with, I found that she had given me a very mod
erate task — a task that I easily accomplished
after I retired to my room that night, without
encroaching at all upon the time that ought to
be allotted to sleep. This I carried to her the
next day, and received only a trifling compen-
S ^°u /° r ; tv™ something, however, to be ; ^ f the first magnitude . wa s quite bey ond
added to Aunt Nancy sjpft: and as she snpp.lied w fais abiiitv OI -^^StoTT: HuT^he emild u3f ac
me with more work, and promised that she ; t the Story. The financial condition of the
would continue to do so as long as the busy sea- - - -
son lasted, I saw how the daily receipts of even
these small sums would, in time, amount to
something of value. I must not forget to men
tion that so anxious was I to secure employment
for my needle, I entrusted my secret to faithful
Judy, and secured a promise from her that she
would obtain from her colored acquaintances
some sewing work for me. She would not listen
for an instant to my proposition to make up
old Cud joe’s shirts.
: paper did not warrant his paying his contrib-
utors. The same excuses came to me weekly
i with my returned MSS. from the different pub
lishers of newspapers and magazines in my own,
! and in other Southern States. I was returning
1 some visits one day. Upon the table in the par-
i lor of one of the houses at which I called, I saw
; a pile of magazines. While waiting for my
i friend to make her appearance, I took up one of
the magazines, published in New York, and saw
I handed the letter to her. She read it over
two or three times. At last she said:
“ Well, have you told him to publish?”
“How could I?” I asked. “Suppose there
should be loss. I cannot promise to secure the
publishers.” _
“I see, I see,” she answered quickly; “you
want me to help you. AA’hat kind of a book is
it ?”
“A novel,” I answered.
“A novel! And you want an old woman like
me, with one foot already in the grave, to help
you throw into the world one of those pernicious
snares! My child, if it were a religious book, I
should not have a word to say; but a novel! I’d
rather give you the money that it will require to
publish it at once.”
But don’t you see that my object will not be
hope dat day may neber come when I’ll see sich
as you a makin’ check shirts for Uncle Cudjoe,
or any odder cullud man. Dere’s a plenty o’
odder kind o’ work dat I can git for you.”
She was true to her promise, and she was as
et more ? If this book be published, and if it
prove a success, it will be a continual source
.. x - ui “v. • j- *1 i- j ,, T ; a most encouraging proposition to writers, voung gained thus? That monev gone, where will I
“No, chile, no, she indignantly replied. “I ] and old, to contribute to its pages. The stand- - if «.« wh./™mi.’i.«i «.* j* «■
ard of criticism was not unattainable, by any
means, and liberal compensation was freely
offered. I felt that my golden days were dawn
ing. Like one who had been watching through
a long and wearisome night. I seemed to be look-
of income. The reputation of the author estab
lished by it, the public will purchase the new
for the sake of the old; and thus my noble work
0 „ will be permanently and safely endowed.”
faithful to my secret as she was true. _ It is as- i ing at the dawn of the coming day. At the close “That is all true. But I am not one of those
tonishing how the small amounts received from i of the visit, I borrowed the magazine from my people who are willing to do evil that good may
Mrs. AAaters, and for the cutting, qr cutting friend and hastened home. Before night one of come.- And I tell you, Fanny, novels are bad
and making of calico dresses, sacques, aprons, my stories, with the editor's proposition, was : things. They have done more to ruin young
or for trimmiDg a bonnet, or arranging a j mailed to his address. In a little more than a people than any other of the works of the devil,
party dress, from my colored patrons, quickly i week I received a reply. My story hud been ad- And the novels of the present day are all bad.
accumulated some dollars to be devoted to my i mired and accepted. It would be published in I don’t read any of them. All that I know of
the next number of the periodical. In a P. S.
the editor informed me that remittances were
not made until after publication. He hoped that
holy purpose. I had not yet placed at my
father's disposal the money that I had obtained
from Aunt Nancy. It happened fortunately that
a present of some provisions from one of his j I would favor him again with the fruits of my
parishioners placed him beyond the immediate
need of it. I had time, therefore, to reflect and
decide upon the best plan by which it might
them I learn from the Churchman, that good
paper published in Hartford, Connecticut. Peo
ple have been going crazy over YVilkie Collins.
Why, the Churchman says that his last novel,
• The New Magdalen,’is a disgraceful thing. I
know a gentleman who snatched it from his
daughter's hand and threw it into the fire before
one comer of my writing-desk to his purse. He
should be its possessor on the next Sunday, and
should be entirely unconscious that the offering
was from me. My father recognized the giving
something, and the Churchman says that it is full
of rank infidelity and everything that is bad.
Young writers are more or less imitative. They
may imitate without detecting the evil that lies
promising genius. After waiting impatiently for
several weeks, I received one day a copy of the
_ _ _ magazine, in which I soon found my contribu-
reach him without his suspecting its source. I i tion looking as well as good paper and printers’ her eyes. There, again, is George Eliot, who
had now, in all, about twenty dollars, and my ink could make it look. Every day, after this, I wrote ‘Adam Bede.’ She must write another
plan was formed ‘for its change of position from j expected a letter enclosing the promised remu- book, a novel, Middle-February, or March, or
neration, but no letter came. I ventured at last
to write and remind the editor of his unfulfilled
part of the contract. Judge of my dismay when
he replied that he would send the magazine to ^
of our earthly possessions as a pari of worship, j my address for one year, which was all the com- ! hidden in the works of these standard authors.
He looked upon worship as altogether deficient ! pensation that be could afford. . j How do I know that you have not ?”
without it He had therefore established in his : I believe I was now upon the point of despair, ! I wished that my aunt had shown more confi-
parish the weekly offertory. The offerings of j and would have abandoned forever all hope of ' dence in my high sense of religion and morality,
each Sunday in the month were appropriated earning money by my pen, had I not finished ; but I did not tell her so. When she ceased
to a different and specific object. On the Sun- j my “long story,” as I called it, and had nearly j speaking, I,said:
day which I had selected to transfer the first ! completed its preparation for the press. I de- “Will you let me tell you my story? I am
fruits of my vow to him, the offertory would be j termined that I would finish it. that I would sure that there is nothing in it but the purest
appropriated to diocesan missions. My plan i place it aside, and wait for future developments j teachings of our religion.”
was this: I would inclose the amount in an en- j to guide me in regard to the final disposition of ' She consented to listen to my outline, and ex-
velope with the following directions for its ap- | it. Between Judy and Mrs. AA r atersIf<ymd sew- ! pressed her approval and interest when I reached
propriation: “The inclosed twenty dollars are j ing enough to yield me a little efffffiweek. My the end. ,
contributed to the rector, for his own use, by J relations to Aunt Nancy, too, had become some- j “Leave your letter with me,” she said. “Mr. i
one of the young members of his congregation.” ! what more intimate. She astonished us all very | Shroudy is to be here at one o’clock, and I shall 1
I believe I was, for the first time in my life, glad J much one day by driving to the rectory about | instruct him to conduct the business for you.”
to learn from my mother when the bright Sun- j twelve o’clock in her comfortable carriage, and j Oh ! how I longed again to throw my arms
day morning came, that she would not attend j insisting upon my going to take dinner with her. j around that dear old form, and show my thank- j
church that day. I could deposit my envelope I I spent some delightful hours wandering over fulness by telling her all! But the time had not
in the basin entirely, unobserved. I was sitting j her old house and examining the numberless j come yet. I determined, however, that she I
in the parlor reading after^ our return from j curiosities that she had been accumulating for ; should not always be in ignorance. She should
I am a sailor, and when 1 go on leave I have
to take a stage-coach and travel a hundred miles,
part of it over one of the meanest, roughest
roads in the world. It takes twenty-four miles,
night and day work, enough to try the patience
of a fisherman. You pitch and roll, and get
bumped, till you’re so sore you feel like a big
traveling boil. Then eating along the road !—it
would kill Porp to make one trip. The farmers
try to give you as little and mean as they can
for a shilling.
When I got to Lancaster I took good pains to
be on hand at the stage office early, for I wanted
an end seat. The middle seat has no back but
a leather strap, worse than nothing would be.
Y'ou keep trying to lean on it, so does the other
man: and when he jolts forward it slacks up and
you fall back, and when he jolts back it tautens
out like a span and shoots you forward.
I got there in good time, but somebody was
ahead of me. I paid my passage, got my trunk
put on, and jumped in, resolved to stick to my
seat in spite of everything short of a woman in
distress—we always have to break out for them,
you know. I believe Porp there would give up
a chicken-pie to save a woman from starvation.
AA’iien I got in there was a Dutchman and his
wife—I mean a Dutchwoman and her husband —
on the back seat. By Jupiter? I found it was
“me and my old man” before I got home. The
next two passengers that came were very reason
able sized men. One of them sat with me and
the other took the strap.
It was almost time to start—about one bell in
the first dog-watch—and I was just feeling good
that we weren't going to be crowded, when along
came two great nig fat fellows, enormous chaps,
carrying a trunk and blowing like—Porps. The
fellow on the middle seat saw them, too. “ Jeru-
salem cricket! ” said he, and he slipped over
alongside me. Three on a seat is a pretty close
fit: but I couldn’t help it, and said nothing.
The fat men got their trunk put up, and then
they surrounded the coach. One came to the
starboard door, one to the larboard. By th 3
Hokum, as the bosen says, it was a tight mulch
for ’em to get through the doors. They squeezed
in though, and settled down surprisingly quick.
All this time they hadn’t said a word, and when
they got their seats they just sat still and stared
at us like fishes, with never so much as a wink.
The Dutchwoman and her husband had been
still, too: but when we got under way she began
to make up for lost time. It was “John” this
and “John” that; “John, you preak dat glock” -
he had a wooden clock in his lap—and “John,
you growds me.” “John” one thing or another
till I was sick of her. However, she quieted
down after awhile and went to sleep. I wished
I could sleep. I was crushed as flat as a
flounder.
The road for the first sixty miles was pretty
level, and we didn’t bump much, but I won
dered how the old lady managed so much bet
ter than the rest of us. About two o’clock the
moon went down, and the driver stopped to
light the lamps. One of them shone into the
stage a minute, and I saw how the old holy was
stowed. She had got up on the seat, and braced
her knees against the side of the coach, and was
lying back on the old man. There he sat, one
: arm around his wife, the other holding the
clock, bolt upright in the corner, wide awake
and the picture of misery.
AA'hen the light shone in, it woke the Dutch
woman up. “John,” said she, “ make dat driver
take dat light out my eye.” John did’nt say a
word. AA'e went ahead again directly, and I be
lieve I slept a little, for the next I knew it was
broad daylight and the sun was shining, and I
was chilled through and so stiff you couldn't
have bent me without breaking me. There sat
the two fat men, staring at me like fishes still,
and there was the poor Dutchman, looking fen
years older, and there sat his wife, as fresh as
Lake Erie. “John,” says she, “I pleeve you
grack mein glock.” “Nein,” says he. “Yah,
you grack dat glock mein mutter gif me fife
year.” And she went on and abused John, and
fussed and scolded till I felt like kicking her
out. AA'iien she looked at the clock, there wasn’t
anything the matter with it after all.
The road was a little rough by this time, but
we did pretty well. The fat men were too heavy
to surge much, though the Dutchwoman began
1 to look uneasy about something. However, we
did very well till we stopped and got breakfast,
and set off again. Then the road was awful.
The fat men commenced to bob about tremen
dously. They would slip back on the seat and
, squeeze the Dutchwoman and her old man,
until a big jolt would come and throw them
forward on us again. I saw the old woman was
. getting mad, and I looked out for squalls. The
fat man in front of her was round and big and
full, and he took up room enough.
By and by it breezed up a bit. “John ! ” she
whispered, sharp and angry, “make dat man
keep on he seat.” John didn’t do anything, but
the fat man slipped as far forward as he could.
He worked back again directly, and it began to
freshen. “John, dat man on my knee.” John
said nothing, but the fat fellow crowded forward
again. But he couldn’t help sliding back with
the motion of the stage, and it was a weighty
matter for him to move himself. Then it blew
a strong breeze. “John, you tell dat man keep
oft' o’ me!” John didn’t answer. “John! you
hear what I tell you? Not a word out of John.
“John! you tell him he must move/” No answer.
“A bretty sort of a husband you is! Say, you
man, you move!”
The fat man moved forward with a sigh. Pretty
soon it was, “Mister you get off o’ my leg!” It
was a moderate gale now. Pretty soon again,
“Mister, you keep off o’ mt, by dam!” Every
time she spoke he would slide forward, but in a
minute he would slip back. “Mister, you get
church that morning, when the study-door was i years, or walking backward and forward among : know that she had been the means of enabling a j ^ a P • Strong gale blowing now.
rtnunAfl «nmr fnt.Vi£*t naacnil frnm D i 11 ii • xf it i i JV. 1 x: *1 J i: xi n* : i* - i “Mister, von col
opened, and my father passed from Upholding
in one hand the money and in the other the en
velope in whieh it had been inclosed. He said
nothing to me as he passed through the apart
ment, but I heard him ascend the stairs and go
into my mother’s room. At dinner I missed a
look of care that both the dear faces had been
wearing for a long time. That night at family
prayers he united with the ordinary petitions,
“the general thanksgiving of the church ser
vice.” Thus far, I had certainly been most suc
cessful. I had succeeded beyond my most san
guine expectations. But my success had not
deceived me. I saw plainly that it rested upon
no reliable source. The current might turn any I silent,
day. Mrs. AVaters continued to supply me with j “I see,” said Aunt Nancy, “that you are not
work, and to pay_ me punctually. By Judy’s | willing to make a confidant of me, at least.
the countless varieties of her beautiful exotics. child to relieve the sufferings of her parents,
We were sitting alone after dinner when she ! and of enabling a priest of the most high God to
suddenly laid her knitting in her lap and said to \ devote himself more entirely to his Master’s
me:
“ I am an old woman to feel curiosity, am I j
I not?”
She saw my embarrassment, and continued:
“Don’t say that I am, unless you want to. I
know that I m too old to be curious, especially
about children’s secrets; but you have a secret
that I am curious to find out. I do want to know
what you wanted that money for in November;
and what you did with it ?”
I did not know how to reply, and remained
Mister, you got to get off o’ my lap, you hear
me?” “Mister, you hurt my leg!” “Mister,
you must get out o’ my lap, by dam!” “Mister,
wor j- woman no like every man set in her lap.” “Mis-
I heard from my publishers in a short time. 1 ter ’ you keep out o my lap, or I stick a pin in
They wrote to tell me that arrangements the ' Soaring hurricane. ...
most satisfactory had been made for the publi- . I watched the fat man closely then. For awhile
cation of my book. My friend and relative had ! managed to keep forward, but in five minutes
assumed the entire expense of publishing, and J 1 ? lorgot and slipped bac . , b ' '
had ordered that,the profits should be entirely i hl ^. face twitched and^gotjed, and he gave a
appropriated to the author. The work was now ■ squirm and a groan.
in the hands of the compositors, and was rapidly
progressing toward completion. Here my strug
gles terminated. A capricious public smiled
upon me, and I realized a large amount from
the sale of several editions. As a new and pop
ular author, I found no trouble in disposing of
She had done it.
"The fat man looked at me, and for the first
and last time he spoke. “Young—man,” says
he, “ would—you —j est —as—lief—change —seats
—with—me?” I changed with him and we had
a dead calm.
Some time since at Vicksburg, a small colored
. , ' , .* f . .- e v - n V ——— — . ...... uuuuio xu uufunug vu , SOME TIME S1IK C ill \lCKSUUTg, U SU1U11 CUIUICU
aid, I also received employment in sewing, sqch ■ Well, 1 can t blame you or any one else for hav- j my short stories, and in arranging, upon the j bov f e q j nt0 the river and was rescued in a half-
as I have already described. But Mrs. AA'aters’ , ing secrets, I suppose. I have mine; yes, plenty j most profitable terms, for the publication of my | dr owned condition. He could easilv have been
busy season” would not laBt always, and then
that source of relief would be cut off Natu
rally, I began to wish and look for some perma
nent employment I was too young to ask a
position in a school—indeed, my own education
was not yet completed. I could only think of
writing for the press. If I could, in the first
instance, make a favorable impression upon
some publisher, and then upon the reading pub
lic, I could see how there might be a constant
of them. I keep my own counsel, if ever a
woman did. But, Fanny, I like you. I believe
you are a good girl. I believe you are sensible.
I don’t believe you have been carried away by
any visionary, impracticable, Jellaby scheme. I
have been thinking that by helping you to carry
out this work of yours, whatever it may be, I
might be doing some good. Y'ou understand me,
don’t you ? If I can help you, I am willing to.
Before you go this evening, I shall give you the
most profitable terms, for the publication of my
subsequent works. From my parents my secret
could not longer be kept; and to Aunt Nancy I
hastened that she might learn from my own lips
why I had toiled.
There are no longer upon the faces of my dear
parents looks of consuming care. We never hear
the little ones complaining now of hunger. My
father has grown young again. His table is full
drowned condition. He could easily have been
pulled out by a negro floating along in a skiff,
and when some one swore at the darkey for his
lethargy, he replied: “Dis yere is my last paper
collar, and de boy was kicking water like an alli
gator.”
>' “ I never sot my hand to writin’ poetry till two
years ago,” said a young ruralist, tilting back in
of reviews and papers. His book-shelves are en- a grocery chair; “but the minute I took to
riched every year with the new contributions of j with that Johnson girl, I couldn’t help it!’