Newspaper Page Text
the SOUTHE&ff WORLD, NOVEMBER i, 1882.
10
Written ipecUtlj for The Southern World.
THE COMET.
BT DOB* DBAH.
Tb# comet! the comet! I have seen It to-d»jr
For tbe very lint time since It wandered tbli way;
Being called ont to view It, at earliest dawn,
For a wblla I did nothing but grumble and yawn.
But aoon elumber waa banished, and fled from my
eyes,
As I gated on tbs heavens with awe and surprlae;
For there shone tbe great comet, a glorious sight,
Bo radiantly glowing with soft, golden light.
Asentranced I stood gaslng, with wondering eyes,
There arose, from tbe silence, a chorus of cries;
My colored attendants, Just roused from their sleep,
Were all kneeling around me, too frightened to weep
" Fer de Lord's sake, dear missis, suah you Is our
friend,
And will tell ns de trufe, am dls de world's end?
Am dal flery-talled sarpent up dar in de sky
Owlne to burn up de yearth? Is we done gwlne to
die?”
Thus Ibey all sbrJeked together, until a new din
Arose In their accusing each other of sin;
" Von stole missis' sugar,” •' And you done took her
bread,”
"De old Debbll will git you, for suah, when you're
dead.”
As for me, i most glddly escaped to my room,
After soothing them all with the words that their
doom.
Bad nothing to do with the bright vision on high,
That ere long would fade harmlessly out of tbe sky*
THE CANHMEHE SHAWL,.
Life Among the Lowly.
" Blest your soul 1 how air ye, Miss Sover
eign ?" said a bent, wizened old woman, ac
costing a lady who was giving some orders In
a store. “ I should hev knowed ye if I'd met
you in the Mew Jerusalem: you ain’t a day
older’n you wuz a dozen yearago.’ The old
woman wore a rusty alpaca, and a tattered
woolen shawl that did service at the same
time for a bonnet.
“ I really—I beg your pardon,” murmured
Mrs. Sovereign, smiling apologetically upon
the poor old face, and trying to bring to
mind all the old women she had ever met.
"Is it Mrs. Rue? ’
"Bless your eyes I I knew you wouldn’t
forget an old neighbor—when I made your
wedding-cake, tool Mow there’s many a fine
lady like you wouldhev jest made as if she’d
never sot eyes on sich a shabby old body as
me ; bu. you never wus proud. Lor sokes!
I wish 1 hed my teeth in t I jest thought of
it. I'd ’a put ’em in if I’d knowed I wus
going fur ter see you; but, ye see, I thought
there’d be nobody here to take a grain of no
tice of me. That’s jest the way—go without
a thing, and you're sure to wish ye hed it;
keep on your old gown, and company’s cer
tain ter call 1”
"You’ve grown into a philosopher since
we met,” said Mrs. Sovereign.
" Like as not,” answered Mrs. Rue, whose
notions of philosophy were rather liszy.
“ But, you see, I wus alius one of them folks
as set a sight by appearances—more's the
pity I And the teeth, I got ’em by the way
of a slant; and somehow or other when I
don’t hev 'em in, the roof of my mouth
seems ter go clear up ter the top of my head.
You see, there wus a young fellow as wus a
dentist—a sort of peddling dentist—and he
wus took down with tbe small-pox, and no
body ter look after him but them as wus
scared ter death of it; but as it wa'n’t no
' great account ter me noway, and I couldn’t
be much worse off in t'other place, if I died
of it, than with ’Liza Ann, why, I jest up
and nursed him clean through with it; and
when he got well, says he,
" ‘What shall I do fur you fur all you've
done in my behalf ?’ And says I,
" ‘Nothing whatsomever. I wus only curi
ous to know if I’d be liable to the disease.’
" ‘Nonsense,’ says he; 'I want ter pay you
in some way.’ And as he wusn't forehanded
and I knowed how ter feel fur them as wasn’t
and as it wus all in his line, I said,
“ ‘Well, if you’re bent on it, make me a
set of teeth.’ And I’m awful sorry I ain't
got ’em in.”
"Indeed you deserved them,” returned
Mrs. Sovereign. “ But don’t concern your
self about it; I shouldn’t know that you
were without them if you had not told me.”
" Oh yes, you would, begging your pardon,
if you wus onst ter see them in."
" You are dropping a piece of steak from
your paper," observed Mrs. Sovereign.
“Lori I wouldn’t mind losing the whole
of it, I’m that glad at seeing you, only 'Lisa
Ann would raise sich a rumpus; she
wouldn’t take no excuses; and it couldn't
be made up ter her noway I I s'pose she’s
a-scoldlng now, ’cause I ain’t at home frying
this 'ere; but I left ths table all sot, and the
water a-biling far tbe tea."
"And who is ’Liza Ann?”
“Goodness! I thought everybody knew
’Liza Ann—leastways she thinks they do.
■ Why, she’s my Tom’s widder; an' he left
word on his dying-bed that she wus ter per-
vide fur me as long as I lived, an’ sometimes
I think she’s a-trylng ter see how soon she
can git rid of me.”
"And do you still live In Joy’s Court?”
pursued Mrs. Sovereign.
" Bakes alive I didn’t you know that we’d
left that there these ten year ? I s’ posed that
wus town talk. I wish ter goodness I hed my
teeth in, and I’d walk along with you a bit,
ter hev a little chat, and not keep you a-
waiting.”
“ Oh, never mind your teeth." Another
woman might have hinted that she had her
tongue left.
"Now that’s downright Christian in you.
I take it, ’Liza Ann herself wouldn’t be seen
out doors with me in this old gown; and it
wa’n’t but yesterday as I met Miss Deacon
Merit, and stopped ter ask after the deacon’s
numb-palsy, and she jest makes as though
she wus’t looking my way, and walks
straight on. I tell ye what, Miss Sovereign,
if ye want ter find out the natur’ of folks,
what virtues they’re made of, and what air
hung onto ’em like their clothes, jest lose
your worldly prosperity and your good looks,
and wear out your store clothes. But that
Cashmere shawl is ter blame fur it all—
plague take it!"
"What do you mean ?” asked Mrs. Sover
eign.
" Oh, like as not you never see me wear it.
1 never hed it on my back more'n twice. I
felt as if I wus carrying of Christian’s bur
den every time I put it on. 'Liza Ann don’t
know I’ve got it—she'd take it away If she
did. I keeps it sewed up in a towel in my
straw bed—there wa’n’t nowhere else out of
the way of 'Liza Ann’s prying eyes. I can’t
bear the sight of that shawl: it makes my
eyes smart ter look at it, and the tears jest
come of their own accord. Sometimes I’ve
bin half a mind ter sell it; but, sakesalive!
you can’t never git the vally of a thing like
that 1"
"And how much did you give for it?”
asked her listener.
" A hunderd dollars 1—silver ones I It blis
ters my tongue ter tell itl A hunderd dol
lars, if I'm a sinner; and I've wore it twice,
and hed more wretchedness out of it than
there air threads wove into it 1”
•’ Oh! oh I” sighed Mrs. Sovereign, wonder
ing if her companion was in her right mind.
“ Yes, I hev. Sometimes I’ve thought if I
could git a hunderd dollars fur it again—
thougii, of course, I could’nt—it would be
jest enough ter take me into the Old Ladies'
Home—that’s one of my castles in the air—
so’t I’d be out of 'Liza Ann’s reach. I’ve
thought maybe the grave couldn't be so bad
if Liza Ann wus’n’t there too!”
“Dear, dear! But you were telling me
about tbe shawl?”
"Lor, yes I I've got a Jjfbit of wandering
onto me like my old grandmother. She'd
begin a-telling how the children got the
measles, and she'd let ye into the private his
tory of half the family by the way, and wind
up, like as not, with a fortln somebody wus
expecting from Angland. Wa’al, I dunno
as you remember the widder Miles's son that
went a-voyaging ter the world’s end ? They
do cay how that he wus rich as Croysus, but
she never got no raorp’n his cheest after be
wus lost overboard. You see, she wus ex
pecting of him heme, and his cheest came in
stead. Wa’ai, Miss Miles, she didn’t so much
as open it fur six months; and then she
found this ’ere shawl in it, which I s'pose he
wus a-bringing home ter her. I sometimes
wish she never hed opened it! Howsomever,
the minute I clapped my eyes on the shawl
I wus covetous of it, and I never rested till
I got it. I thought it was the most beauti-
fulest thing I’d ever sot eyes on. It looked
as if it wus all wove of rubies and precious
stones, and it wus most all border, save a bit
of scarlet about as bigas a bandana handker
chief 1 Mow, you see, I’d never owned a
shawl but this ’ere robroy that I’ve got on;
and though it wa’n’t so nigh used up as it is
now, it hed lost considerable of its bloom;
and so, one day, when Miss Miles dropped in,
and said she hedn’t no heart fur nothing
since James's death, andshe shouldn’t never
wear nothing but black clothes the rest of
her life, and how her only desire now wus
ter go out ter Indy fur a missionary, and if
she could only raise a hunderd dollars on
that Cashmere shawl, ,’twould help pay her
way, and after that the. Bqa^d -would take
care other, it seemed&AOMtofa pious duty
ter help her out, if she . felt a call. Least-
ways, it wus one of the biggest: temptations
that ever beset a poor vain mortal We wus
a-boying baok the house in Joy’s Court et
$>-
that time—fur, ye see, my husband's name
hed bin on Mr. Grew's paper, and what did
he do but up and fall, and obleege us ter
mortgage the house i Wa’al, I said it then,
and I say it now, that it ain’t proper fur a
man ter put his name ter another man’s pa
per, and leave his family out in the cold—
not that I blames John half so much as my
self, fur he did it jest ter obleege, and I
bought the shawl only ter please myself!
We wus trying ter git enough tergither, you
understand, ter pay off the mortgage, and
some years we could’nt do no better than ter
pay tbe interest. I worked amazing hard. I
took old Miss Lamson ter board—and a heap
of trouble she wus, poor soul, with her rheu
matics and ticdoloreux; and she hed ter hev
skeleton jelly made for her, and lastly she
hed ter be fed ; and it wa’n’t no fool of a job
—she wus a powerful eater! But I never give
her a hasty word, nor a wry look; and I treated
her as handsome as if she'd ’a bin my own
mother or the fust lady in the land. You
see, the town paid fur her board—and a
mighty small one it wus, but it helped; and
after she’d gone home I hed more time, and
I took in needle-work, and I’d raked and
scraped a hunderd and some odd dollars ter
gither—my John he’d bin laid up with rheu
matic fever, and hedn’t got nothing afore-
hand that year—and I wus going ter pay it
down that very next Monday, when Miss
Miles and the shawl they come in a Satur
day !
“ I hed a great struggle with myself fust.
It kep’ me a-turning and twisting all night
a-making up of my mind. 1 hankered after
that shawl like all possessed, till it seemed as
if I couldn’t be happy without it noway,
though all the while 1 knowed I’d no busi
ness with anything so grand. But all the
neighbors hed hed new shawls that fall,
even Miss Grew—lor! they rides in their
carriage ter-day, and goes about cracking in
their silks, as if failing and bringing honest
folks into poverty wa’n’t a crying sin!—and
I thought ter myself how this one would
be crazy with envy when she saw me sail
out in my new Cashmere, and the other one
and her Bay State would be cast into the
shade. So, without onst thinking that I
hedn’t nothing, like gowns and fixings, ter
correspond, 1 jest paid Miss Miles the money
and carried my shawl up stairs. Wa’al, she
wa’n’t no sooner out of tbe house than I’d
give a farm not ter hev bought it; but I
wus too proud ter call her back, and I’ve
alius hed her heavy on my mind, as well as
the shawl; for you know, she wus lost a-go
ing ter Indy, and I somehow felt sort of re
sponsible-seeing, too, as she wus the last of
her family. Wa’al, John he didn’t know I
hed the hunderd dollars—I’d kep’ it fur a
surprise—and now I couldn’t make up my
mind ter tell him about the shawl. So when
it came Sunday I put it on with my old de
laine, and my rough-and-ready straw bonnet,
and sneaked down the back stairs ter meet
ing without saying a word ter him—he hed
not got able ter be out himself—and I felt so
horrid mean about it that when Miss Jenk
ins said, ‘)Vbat a splendid new shawl you’re
a-wearing of 1’ it didn’t give me the leastest
quiver of pleasure as ever wus; nor when
Miss Grimalkin said, ‘It really don’t seem
worth while ter hev such a dressy shawl ter
wear about here, where there’s nobody ter
see—now, does it?’ nor when Miss Little de
clared, ‘There wasn’t nothing like a shawl
ter cover up your old gowns, and make ye
look respectable! though I knew it wus all
spite and jealousy that made their words
stinging. I've come ter think I’d rither hev
my neighbors good-natured than envious as
I git along in years. I wa’n’t half so com
fortable in my Cashmere as I’d been in the
old robroy; and after I wore it twice I took
sich a dislike ter it that I jest hid it away,
and went back to the robroy. But I alius
felt as if the Cashmere hed crippled us. Ye
see, we alius has ter pay fur our luxuries,
even after we’ve got tired of ’em. Money
wus harder ter git after that, or perhaps I’d
misused my opportunity and didn’t deserve
another. Howsomever, Mr. Doubleday, who
held the mortgage, died, and his son fore
closed, and turned us out o’ house and
home I After that there wasn’t much ter
hinder us from going down hill pretty
lively. John he lost courage, and was gif
ting weakly; the children died one after
another, except Tom, and ’Liza Ann she
worried the life out of him in time; and so
here I am, an old woman, with naught in
the world but a set of teeth and that there
Cashmere shawl. You see, if I hed paid the
money onto tbe mortgage, it would hev give
John a lift, and put some spirit inter him—
fur work never seems so lightas when you’re
gifting head—and then may be I shouldn’t
hev hed retribution a-follering of me round
all my days in the shape of ’Lisa Ann
a-twitting me of being a burden and a mill-
stone around the neck of she and the chll-
dren; though, goodness knows, I slave well
fur all I git—what with being up at five o’
mornings, making pies and frying of griddle-
cakes, and standing at the wash tub, till my
feet were that numb they couldult bear me I
But it ain't no use. You may do ninety,
nine things fur some folks, and if you don’t
do the hundreth, ye might as well let it all
alone; and'Liza Ann’s one on’em; though
I don't want ter be complaining, only a pot
must bile over onst in a while, onless the
fire goes out; and you’re an old friend, so’t
I’ve made free ter tell ye about the'sha^L
A body must speak now and agin about
what’s worrying ’em, and there’s no sympa
thy in ’Liza Ann more’n a tommyhawk! ”
“ And did you never speak to your hus
band about the shawl ? ” asked Mrs. Sover
eign.
“Bless you, yes; and he said as how it
wouldn’t hev made no difference noway;
Donbleday’d hev foreclosed, and the house
and the money'd hev gone together. He
wus alius that consoling, John wus. But
I’ve thought if any body could feel as how
the shawl wus worth a hunderd dollars or
less, it might, as I said, pay my way Inter
the Old Ladles’ Home, out of 'Liza Ann’s
reach, for I'm sot agin being a burden or a
millstone ter any body.”
" I should like to see the shawl,” said her
friend ; “ if you will bring it to my moth
er’s house to-morrow, I will see what can be
done.”
" I'll come, rain or shine.^’I’ve bothered
you with an awful long yarn, but if it wa’n’t
fur ’L'za Ann—gracious! there she is at the
door now, a-looking fur me, and a whole
thunder-storm in her face I Good-day, and
thanks I ” and the little old woman hobbled
off, up a muddy lane.
Trne to her word, Mrs. Rue appeared next
day with the shawl.
"It is as good as new,” she said, unfolding
it.
"Quite,” returned Mrs. Sovereign, ex
changing glances with her mother. “It'sa
pity that you couldn’t have sold it before,
and bad tbe money at interest all this'
time I ”
"’Liza Ann wouldn’t hev.heered;ter its
staying there I ’’
" But how much do you think it is worth ?”
asked Mrs. Sovereign, with an amused smile.
“Lor sakes 1 if I cound get twenty-five
dollars, I should thank my born stars?”
"Well I was looking at a shawl of this
kind in Mew York last week, and the price
was—two thousand dollars.
“Mowdon’t! you’re jesta-jokingof met
Who ever heard tell of a Cashmere shawl
costing sich a power of money! ’’
"It’s a very good joke is’nt it? But it's
true, all the same. You see, it's an India
Cashmere; you thought it was French, I
suppose; so perhaps did Mrs. Miles. But as
she set her own price, and has left no heirs,
there will be no trouble. My husband is
going to give me an India shawl. If you
are willing I will take this, and pay you two
thousand dollars I"
" My I ” cried the poor woman, with tears
in her eyes. “ It’s the first time I’ve wished
John alive agin in this 'ere world of worlds!
If he only knew! Miss Sovereign, the Lord
must hev sent you a-purpose ter take me
out of 'Liza Ann’s reach? I don’t hev need
ter be under obligation ter the Old Ladies’
Horae neither, fur I can hire a room, and
keep house all ter myself, and hev folks ter
tea sociable; and what’s more, I shall hev
something ter leave the children, ter pay
'em fur being a burden and a millstone 'bout
their necks! I wish my John wus here ter
thank you 1 ’’
Flat-Soled Shoes,
Paris Letter: A lady looks infinitely taller
and slimmer in a long dress than she does in
a short costume, and there is always a way
of showing the feet, if desired, by making
the front quite short, which gives, indeed, a
more youthful apperance to a train dress.
The greatest attention must, of course, be
paid to the feet with these short dresses, and
I may here at once state that high heels are
absolutely forbidden by fashion. Doctors,
are you content ? Only on cheap shoes and
boots are they now made, and only worn by
common people. A good bootmaker will not
make high heels now, even if paid double
price to do so. Ladies-that is, real ladies-
now wear flat-soled shoes and a laCinderella.
For morning walking boots or high Moliere
shoes are worn. If you wear boots you may
wear any stockings you like, for no one sees
them. But if y^y wear shoes you must
adapt your stockings to your dress. Floss
silk, Bcotoh thread and even cotton stook-
inga are worn for walking.