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10 THE SOUTHERN WORLD, AUGUST 16,1882. §omq §it[clq. Iff THE WHEAT FIELD. I»Y PAUL HAMILTON HAYME. Home and Farm. When the lids of the virgin Dawn unclose, When the earth Is fair and the heavens are calm, And the early breath of the wakening rose Floats on the air In balm, I stand breast-high In the pearly wheat That ripples and thrills to a sportive breeze, Borne over the Held with Its Hermes feet, And 1ts subtle odor of Southern seas; While out of the Infinite azure deep The flashing wings of the swallows sweep, Buoyant and beautiful, wild and fleet, Over the waves of the whispering wheat. Aurora faints In the fulgent Are Of the Monarch of Morning's bright embrace, And the summer day climbs higher and higher Up the cerulean space; The pearl-tints fade from the radiant gruln, And the sportive breeze of the ocean dies, And soon In the noontide's soundless rain The field seems gruced by a million eyes; Koch grain with a glance from Its lidded fold, As bright as a gnome's In his mine of gold, While the slumbrous glamour of beam and heat Glides over and under the windless wheat. Yet the languid spirit of lazy Noon, With Its minor and Morphcan music rife, Is pulsing In low, voluptuous tune With summer's lust of life. Hark 1 to the droning of drowsy wings, To the honey-bees as they go and come, T6 the "boomer,”* scarce rounding his sultry rings, The gnat's small horn and the beetle’s hum ; And hurk to the locust!—noon's one shrill song— Like the tingling steel of an elfin gong. Grows lower through quavers of long retreat To swoon on the dazzled and distant wheat. Now Day declines! and hls shafts of might Are sheathed In a quiver of opal haze; Still through the chastened, but magic light, What sunset grandeurs blaze! For the sky, In its mellowed luster, seems Like the realm of a master poet’s mind— A shifting kingdom of splendid dreams— With fuller and fairer truths behind ; And the chungeful colors that hlend or part, Kbb like the tides of a living heart, As the splendor melts and the shadows meet And the tresses of Twilight trail over the wheat. Thus Kve creeps slowly and shyly down, And the gurgling notes of the swallows cease, They flicker aloft through the foliage brown, In the ancient vesper peace; But a step like the step of a conscious fuwn Isstealtng-with many a pause—this way. Till the hand of my Love through mine Is drawn, Her heart on mine, in the tender ray ; O hand of the lily, O heart of truth, O Love, thou art faithful und fond as Ruth ; But / am the gleaner—of kisses—Sweet, While the starlight dawns on the 'dimpling wheat! •The humhlr, or us commonly culled, “bumble-bee.” “ l»EK*ONAI/’-KirTY OLOVEH. Kitty Wheat used to plead in extenuation of the pranks that mude her the plague of the house as a child, the torment of teach* ers und delight of schoolmates as a girl, that site was predestined to mischief as the sparks to fly upward. She looked like a sparkle of very lively flame on u certain Suturday afternoon which she hud spent with her two •‘ownest" friends —Sophie James and Jennie Hurt. "A weury, muddy lane walled in on both sides!" complained Kitty, to-day. "Stagna tion is a sort of miusmayic poison to one of my temperament. 1 suppose this is the feverish stage of ennuf.” But 1 uiu almost sure it was not Kitty with whom originated the idea of answering a “personal" in the somewhat equivocal cor ner of an otherwise respectable newspuper. Sophie called her attention to it in the iirst place. “Who, do you think writes such tilings, and why?" said that young lady, who wus Kitty’s senior by a whole year. “Lazy people who have no brains, and take it for granted there arc others in the world as foolish and idle as themselves," rejoined sixtcen-ycur old Kitty, sensibly. Then she read the advertisement aloud: “A young man of fair education and breeding, with little taste for the frivolous routine of fashionable society, desires to open a correspondence with a young lady of kindred tastes. The object of the proposed exchange of letters is mutual improvement in Intelligence and in the expression of thought and feeling. Any young lady an swering this advertisement may trust to the word of a gentleman, that her communica tion shall be treated with delicacy and her confidence held sacred. Address "Martin Kxlloou, P. O. Box 1380." “A proposal extraordinary!” observed Kitty, laying down the paper and taking up the macrame lace she was netting. “So Jeanie and I said,” returned Sop'hie, animatedly. “Not at all like a vulgar, or dinary personal. But 1 wonder if he would really be content to exchange views with his incognita upon such matters as tend to ‘mu tual improvement?’ " “I should like no better fun than to put him to the test if 1 were not an ignoramus who can’t write ten words without misspell* ing one,” said Jeanie. “He is evidently an educated gentleman.” Kitty dropped shuttle and thread to re read the personal. She was no ignoramus, and she knew it. Her chirography was re markably beautiful; her sprightly compo sitions were the pride of the school. She could sustain the role of “L'Amie Incon- nue" in literary, artistic and social discus sion better than any other girl of her “set.” She would not have said it aloud, but this was what she was thinking in acertoin closed back-chamber of her brain, when Sephie chimed in with— “If I had your skill with the pen and your ready wit, Kitty, I would write one letter at least—tentatively, you know. You would never be found out. It would be glorious fun to lead him further and further and fur ther into the fog.” In reviewing the scene in other days, Kitty lost the succession of indiscreet steps at this point; could not be sure if she sat down ut Sophie's desk of her own free will, or if she wus coaxed or bantered into begin ning to write. She knew that she soon be came interested in the letter of four pages to “My stranger friend," dated "Cave of Trophonius. A snowy afternoon," and signed, by a sudden thought, “Kitty Clover.” The girls applauded each sentence when she read it over to them. Every nerve and vein of the three was tingling with frolic and expectancy. Martin Kellogg was to ad dress “Miss Kitty Clover," under cover to Mrs. James Aiulruss, a former trusted ser vant of Jeanie Hurl’s mother, but now mar ried to a respectable tradesman. Three days later, Kitty goinggaily singing through the hall of her own home was ar rested by the imperative ring of the tele phone close by. Tiny! ting! ting! ting! "13!" Kitty grasped the transmitter. “Halloa!” Kitty always insisted to her somewhat shocked mother, that everybody said “Hal loa,” in such circumstances. "It was a tele phonic technicality,” the minx would add, magniloqueiilly. "Is that Kitty Clover?” said Jeanie’s voice. Kitty laughed : “Sometimes, and to some people.” "I have a letter for you," called Jeanie far more loudly and shrilly than was neces sary, after the manner of most telephoning damselB. "Come over at once! We are dying of curiosity!” The Harts lived just around the corner, and in live minutes more the three bright young faces hung over the important docu ment. It was longer than Kitty's by two puges; the chirography was free and firm ; the composition a tissue of respectful perti- Jlaye, a pugc or two of graver import and much grateful flattery of his fair correspon dent. “And no.sentimentality !” Kitty drew a relieved breath. “This is better than we hoped for. No, my dear girls,” as both be gan to speak eagerly. “We will not flatter Martin- by an immediate reply. Wuit a week.” Before the allotted time had passed, a sec ond letter arrived. Martin was evidently impatient. But his tone was even more guarded than at first; the subject matter of the epistle unobjectionable. The current news was discussed; a paragraph given to a municipal election, und a page to European affairs. The weather und lost tiubbuih’s church-services received due notice. “I believe he is fifty years old!” cried Kitty catching up her pen. She began her reply thus: “ Venerable man! You have come down to us from a former generation!” As such, she addressed him with playful familiarity of which she was scarcely con scious herself, thanking him for the "patri archal wisdom of his essay,” and the valu able items of useful knowledge he sought to instil into her youthful mind, with much more badinuge that ran off of itself from the point of her pen. On the next day but one, number three was brought to Jeanie by Mrs. Andruss, wnile the three friends sat togethep over their lessons. Jeanie took the envelope as bad been aranged between them, but as soon as the woman had gone, passed it over to Kitty. "It is very heavy. I believe he has sent you his photograph!” she said, in a half- frightened, half-laughing tone. Kitty took it with the tips of her fingers, undid the thick folds with the air of one who feared to let loose a spider or a toad. “Ach I" she ejaculated, when the expected object fell into her lap. 8ophie seised it. A floridly-tinted photograph of a vulgar looking fellow, with black eyes, waxed mootteohe, studded shirt-front auud uuo* tious smile, sitting sideways in his chair the better to hang a ringed hand over the back. “A regular ‘Bowery Boy!" said Jeanie horrified to whispering. Poor Kitty’s face sank into her hands. “Girls! girls! what have I done? What shall I do ? ' "Read the letter!” suggested Sophie. "It can’tbesobad as the picture.” It was no better. Kitty's inch was made the warrant for an ell so liberal that reader and listeners, rattlers and madcaps as they were, were shocked into the severest propriety. Kitty sat like an image of gray stone. Her pretty lips were tight lines of such misery, that Sophie began to cry, and Jeanie to re volve some form of possible consolation in her mind. “After all,” she brightened up to say, “there is no real barm done. It is as easy to drop the—the—wretch—as it was to take him up. Mary is as close as wax, and knows next to nothing besides. All that we have to do is to burn the picture and letters as fast as they come." “I feel as if my hands were dirty!” sighed Kitty, looking down at them. But I never, never thought once that I was writing ail that stuff to a real dreadful man! Look at that watch chain! I know it is brass; And the ineffable smirk of that Curl in the mid dle of his forehead, stiffened with quince- seed water! I can actually smell the hair- oii! Faugh!” With the interjection the photograph went into the lire und the letters followed. “There!" Kitty’ heaved a deep-drawn sigh, watching the burning. “I have had my lesson—and paid well for it!” Bite made further puyment in lacerated self-respect and harassment during the en suing fortnight. Martin Kellogg wrote four times, twice per week, each epistle being more familiar in style than its predecessors. He wus losing sleep and flesh, he averred, under her cruel silence. He left a mighty bouquet at Mrs. Andruss’s house with the fourth letter. Jeanie made a cremation of flowers and letters in her chamber, Kitty looking on in anguish that was beginning to tell upon health and looks. 'Like a bound captive, she waited the cessation of persecution, or further and crucial developments. She was practicing witli mechanical dili gence one evening almost three weeks after the receipt of her corrrspondent’s photo graph ; her father and eldest brother had gone out; her mother was confined to her room by a sick-headacbe; the two younger boys were busy above stairs with lessons; dropping her hands listlessly upon the keys at the close of adilllcult exercise, something —not sound or motion, but an indefinable expression ut unolber presence besides tier own in the room—made her glance around. A man stood within three feet of her. She had never seen him before, but as she started up he saw that he wus recognized. "Miss Wheat, I believe!” lie suid. in oily, insinuating tunes. "Alitu, Kitty Clov.-r!” "Who are you?” Her sharp, thin voice, so unlike her usual speech, startled even her self. “And what do you mean ?” He held outun upen letter, silently point ing to the signature, smiled more broadly, and took a clmir, uninvited. “1 don’t comprehend!” stammered miser able Kitty, ubout whom the lighted room was growing black, while the floor rocked and sank under her feet. “You were quicker of wit on the 8th of January, when I chanced to be in the cen tral office of the Telephone Company, chat ting with my sister, who is one of the ope rators there. Kind Fate led me close to the instrument as a voice culled, ‘Is that Kitty Clover?” and an angel answered, ‘Borne times, and to some people!’ ’’ Kitty, deathly sick, sank upon a sofa, wringing her hands. "On! if you’d only go away I It was nothing but fun with us girls. I never dreamed of ever seeing you!” “And do you find me so frightful, then?” said the fellow, his leer intensifying the dis agreeable smile. The room seemed filled with his breath la den with brandy fumes. Kitty jumped up and backed towards the door. “Papa!" she called, faintly and brokenly, aaln a nightmare. “I met your father and brother on my way up-town,” remarked Martin Kellogg, coolly. “Sit dowu and talk rationally. What harm can come to you through my visit? Why should we not be friends? Why should not friendship in time ripen into a warmer feeling?” Kitty looked at him, her eyes wide with horror and abhorrence. “All the Mine, I stay here for awhile (” be uttered, insolently, tipping his chair back and crossing his legs. “You owe me some thing for not answering my last love-letters.” Kitty tried to rise. “Sit down,” ordered Kellogg. A hollow roaring filled Kitty’s ears. “I must wake up presently! I must! I mint/” she repeated to herself, pinching her chill fingers. She turned and ran as for her life up to iier room, bolted the door and fell on the bed. Mr. Wheat and hls son returned home at 10 o’clock. There was no one in the parlor, but the gas burned there brightly, and an overturned chair lay in the middle of the floor. "What a smell of stale cigar-smoke and liquor!" observed the aitonished master of the house. “Papa! 0 my dear papa!” Kitty flew down the stairs and fell into his arms. “I thought you never would come! And that he would never go away! I am so glad!” Mr. Wheat was a just parent, and his lec ture after hearing the confession was severe. He dearly loved his only daughter, and while he chided, he did not put her out of his embrace. “It is all over now!" sighed exhausted Kitty, and before sinking into the first sound slumber she had known for weeks. She exulted too soon, miscalculated the talents of her “stranger-friend.” Baffied and vindictive, he was yet too shrewd to make himself personally liable to the active indignation of her natural pro tectors. He could, and he did, ply her with anonymous letters in various feigned hands, full of his spiteful criticism of her manner, appearance and behavior, all testifying to the close watch he kept upon her move ments, although she never saw him. No one could prevent, or foresee, the arri val of presents-still anonymous—of bon bons, flashily-bound cheap literature and flowers. In these and oilier ways, he haunt ed the poor child, until she hardly dared stir out of doors, or open a parcel. To avert the nervous fever that seemed imminent, her parents took a sudden reso lution to send her, under her brother's es cort, to visit an aunt whose home was in Chicago. Kitty's native city did not see her again until the following autumn. Her tormentor was weary of the chase then, or had removed from town, for he never crossed her patli again.—Marion Harland, in Youth’$ Companion. The Sheep and the Chamois. A chamois once came down from its moun tain home to graze in a rich valley, and while there met a well-fed and contented sheep. After an exchange of cordial greet ings, the sheep, noticing the thinness of his friend, expressed great pity for him, com miserating hls hard lot in being compelled to inhabit rough and inhospitable moun tains, where food was scarce and the climate severe. “ 1 have, as you see,” suid the sheep, “ the richest pasturage that the land affords. I have, also, a comfortable house, that affords me shelter from the storm, and a protection against wolves." "You may spare your pity," said the chamois, in reply. “ My lot is not so hard us you deem it. Thu conditions that you think so unfavorable to my happiness, tend to secure it. I dwell among icy crags, it is true, but the hunter cannot reach my home. The pasturage afforded by the moun tains is indeed meagre, but I eat my food in safety. The rocks are a hard couch at best, but 1 sleep in peace. I am sometimes hun gry and shelterless, but I am always free. Excuse me if I prefer a hard life, with free dom, to an easy life without it, and deem it better to perish of hunger on the mountains than to grow fat in the rich verdure of the valley, only to die at last by the hand of the butcher.” Just then the shepherd approached, armed with a glittering knife. “Alas! my poor friend,” aald the chamois, “ you must even now meet your fate. It is the end of ail your happiness. As for me, I will breath once more the mountain air, and find safety among the avalanches, and on the barren rocks.” What appear to be hard conditions in life, oftentimes secure to men the most dearly prized treasures, while ease and luxury weaken, enslave, and destroy their victims.— Paul Peregrine. Bruised peachtree. leaves applied to a wound caused by a rusty nail, will remove the pain immediately and prevent lockjaw. Moistened soda applied to a burn will re- lw tip pain immediately.