Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

the little negro was disjiatched to the near est neighbor’s who lived just in sight. As certaining that Henry hadgoneto the village, about twelve miles distant, to procure the marriage license, I proffered my horse to send for him, assuring the distressed mother that l would remain with her, and render her any assistance in my power, which she might require. Little William, sobbing as if his heart would break, set ofl on his mel ancholy errand. About dark an old lady and her daughter arrived. They had known and loved Ada, and their grief at her sad fate was scarce less vehement than that of her family. They remained long enough to perform the last sad office of enshrouding the corpse, but beinganxious to return home to attend a sick family, and as I had proffer ed to remain with the corpse during the niglit, they departed, promising to return in the morning. It was late bed time before I could per suade the mother to retire to her room. A small fire blazed in the hearth—the corpse lay upon the table near the center of the room, and the old negro woman sat snoring in the corner which the night before had been occupied by the fortune-teller. My mind was busied in recalling the thrilling in r'ulpiita of tlirt |v>wt t.wnnt.v-fnnr hour*, ami in endeavoring to account for the unhappy cre dulity which I had seen exhibited in the mind of tho unfortunate girl over whose life less body I was watching. How strange thought I, how unreasonable, and yet how true, that superstition dwells in every human breast. It is an innate quality nt the mind— and though cultivation and enlightenment may render us ashamed to acknowledge it, vet are we all more or less the slaves of su perstition, in some shape or other. In the ignorant this nntural disease of the mind, if we may so call ’.t, assumes a bolder type, and becomes n vulgar fear; while in the cultivated and refined it is not less sensibly felt, though in a measure restrained by the dictates of reason or subdued by pride. ■ Indeed, this same undefindable credulity of the human mind—this same shadowy fear, has been cited bv some as one of the strong est natural evidences of the immoitality of the soul. There are many who put the fullest faith in Fortune-telling, and would blanch at an evil omen, or thrill with joy at a good one, who even strive to hide their superstition from themselves. Tosuch, one prediction verified, one omen answered, is sufficient to establish their belief, while a thousand failures would not unsettle their faith in the grossest of absurdities. Thus ac cident conspires to aid the deception, and our natural superstition renders us redicu lously credulous,in spite of our better judg ment. In this instance there was something so remarkable, so mysterious,as almost to make me superstitious in spite ol myself. I lie strange appearance ol the old fortune teller J —her sudden disappearance, for she was gone before morning, no one knew whither j —the dream —the fearful realization of the maiden's fears—all seemed linked in dark j mystery. But upon reflection I was at no : loss to account for vvliat at first glance seein- ; ed so mysterious. Os a very nervous and j excitable temperament, her imagination had been much excited, by her dream and the ominous card, and it was doubtless owing j to her visionary faith in thesupernatiiial that J she lost her life. Her brother stated that j she approached <dose to the edgeol the hank and stood looking stedlastly, as if attracted by someobject on the other side ol the creek. He warned her of her danger and begged her to come away, but she did not remove her gaze, and when the bank, which had been undermined bythe late rains, gave way beneath her feet, precipitating her into the stream, she put forth her arms exclaiming, “Henry! Henry!” and still calling upon that name, sank never again to rise in life. The angry stream doubtless recalled to her | mind the scene pictured in her dream, and perhaps her disturbed fancy supplied the figure of her lover upon whom her gaze was fixed. Thus she fell a victim to superstition. I had long indulged in a train of such re flections, ami my eyelids were growing wea ry as I sat by the dim fire-light, when I was suddenly startled by the noise as of heavy treading of naked feet in the room—l start ed from my seat and gave the fire a stir which caused the brands to rekindle and a bright light was shed throughout the room, by which I was enabled to see two enor mous cats, their eyes gleaming like balls of fire, their tails erect, backs bowed and every hair standing fiercely on end. I felt my own hair leap up, as I saw them approach towards the corpse. Seizing a heavy stick I made towards them, endeavoring to fright en them away, hut they only growled sul lenly as they seemed preparing to attack me. One sprang u|>on the corpse. Aiming a des perate blow, l knocked it far on the floor ; with a loud yell it dashed out of the window through which it had entered, and was im mediately followed by theothor. The noise alarmed my hostess who entered the room in great agitation. I explained the cause to her, and after, as I thought, effect ually se curing the window against another intrusion from such visiters I begged her to retire. She desired to look upon her daughter, and lighting the candle which I had extinguish ed, we approached the corpse. I had not seen her since she had been dressed in her funeral robes. Turning down the cloth which covered the body, I exposed one of the loveliest faces that ever smiled in detth. What asight of solemn beauty ! Her round ed form lay clad in the plain white muslin dress that was to have been her bridal robe her bright auburn hair was parted upon her polished forehead, over which sat a beautiful cap of her own needlework—the dimpled cheek, the beautifully curved lips seemed only to lack their native ruby hue to give them life—while the long silken lashes seemed striving to hide those soft blue orbs that had once beamed with such bright intelligence. There were no ghast ly imprints of disease on that fair brow—no sunken eye, no hollow cheek, nodeath point ed features —hut full, and fresh, and lovely as she had lieen in the bloom of health and youth she lay. while a smile of heavenly sweetnesso’ei spread her angelic face. Long the mother gazed—heavy and deep were the sobs that shook her frame, and touch ingly eloquent were the outpourings of her heart's deep sorrow, i was too full of grief to offer condolence to her, and I could only entreat that she would retire from the har rowing sight. At length she again retired to her room. Resuming my seat hy the fire, I sat filled with the gloomy thoughts naturally inspired hy scenes like the past, until 1 perceived the heavens slowly greying in the east. Desir ous of refreshing myself hy a walk, I waked the old negro who had snored away the night in the corner, and sallied forth into the fresh morning air. It was not so near light as I had supposed, but as day began to dawn, I continued my walk in the vicinity of the house and mill, until it was quite daylight. Presently I lieatd the approach of horses’ feet, and in a few minutes l could see two horsemen, a man and a boy coming round the base of the mountain,at a rapid gait. I quickened my pace in order that I might reach the house by the time they arrived. As I expected they proved to he William and Henry. As they dismounted, the young man who was a well grown, fine looking youth, of perhaps twenty years of age, gave me a hurried salutation, and taking my hand in his, which was feverish and hot, we moved towards the door. On entering, the first ob ject that met his view was the corpse of his intended bride. Poor youth, his manhood torsooK nim, anil he fell prostrate upon the body giving vent to his grief in the wildest lamentations. It was no time for me to speak. Observing that the covering of the body was somewhat disordered—though it was still so dark rn the house, that I could not distinctly seethe face of the corpse which was slightly exposed—l replaced the cover and retired from the room, that I might not interrupt the sorrowful interview between the almost distracted mourners. I had paced before the door forsome time, picturing to myself the wretched feelings of the disconsolate youth, when suddenly a loud scream broke upon my ear, so full of agony and horror, that I involuntarily rushed in the direction from whence it proceeded. As I entered, I beheld the mother, where she had sank down upon the floor near the corpse, while Henry, with one hand elasped over his eyes, leaned against the wall appa rently gasping fijr breath. Pointing with the other hand towards the body he gasped— “Oh God!—look there! look there!” 1 turned and beheld a sight of such freezing horror as sent the blood curdlingto my heart. Neither in all the sad realities of life, or the most extravagant imaginings of my brain, had 1 ever realized a scene so distressingly painful, so revoltingly heart-sickening! That beautiful face was all marred and mangled —those lovely features upon which a smile of such angelic sweetness had reposed but an hour before, were now ghastly, grim and hideous ! During my brief absence, and while the old negro whom I had charged to be watchful, was sleeping, the cats had en tered and preyed upon the corpse. The nose and mouth were dreadfully mangled, and nearly all the upper lip eaten away, leaving the white teeth exposed in a most ghastly manner. The sight was terribly ap palling, and 1 quickly hid it from my sight. That face was never uncovered again. “ Oil, mv God!” exclaimed the almost ft antic Henry, “was it not enough to tear her from me thus, but Iter sweet body must be devoured—that l should never behold that lovely face again. Oh!—oh!—it is more than I can bear!” “Do not murmur, Henry, at the piovi denc.e of God. It has pleased Him severely and sttangely to afflict us. ButHe will give us grace to bear it, if we place our trust in Him.” said the weeping mother, while con vulsive sobs choked her utterance. It was long before all the argument or entreaties I could use succeeded in calming the violent emotions of the bereaved family. About nine o’clock the neighbor who bad vis ited us on the preceding evening arrived with her husband,and shortly after some four or five of the nearest neighbors came to the house, with whom I consulted in reference to the funeral. A rude coffin had already been provided which arrived about noon, and a grave was opened near that of the fa ther of the deceased, on a beautiful spot near the bank of the stream, which was sha ded by a noble beech. There being no cler gyman tlien in the settlement, at the solicit ation of the mother, I officiated at the funeral. The day was dark and sombre, and the November winds whistled through the branches of the trees, scattering the faded leaves in our path as we bore the deceased Ada to her long homo. It was a sad office to consign one so young and lovely to the silent tomb; and as we paused hy the little mound which we had reared over her low ly lied, every heart in that rustic throng throbbed with sympathy for the Doomed Maiden. w. t. t. Madison, Georgia. r&M r PE\?l&M©\£ a O, that im’ii should put an enemy in their inoulils, to steal away their brains! thut we should, with joy, revel, pleasure, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! —Shaksteare. A narrow Escape. —A young lady in Ban gor, who was engaged to be married to a moderate wine drinker, after attending a few Washingtonian meetings, informed her intended, that unless he gave up his wine drinking entirely, she would not fulfil her premise. This, the gentleman after coiisid etahle parleying agreed to do, hut she did not require him to sign the Pledge—no, his word was sufficient; so their engagement remained unbroken, and for a short time his promise also; but the old adage held true in his case, Promises, &e. She remonstra ted with him, urged him to sign the Pledge, assuring him of her determination to lead a life of single blessedness, rather than wed one who loved his liberty to drink, better than lie did her. But again the lover pre vailed on her to accept his promise instead of his signature, and all things now bade fair to terminate hftppily. At length the wedding day arrived—the friends assembled—the minister rose to per form the solemn ceremony, that should make the twain one for life, and the joyous biide groorn led forth his chosen one, with manly pride. The bridal attendants exchanged significant glances, and all in silence awaited the breathing of the marriage vow. The bride’s father looked on with a quivering 3(D &a*hi js &kt sans <b mmiL. lip, and the tear softly stole over her moth er’s cheek, as the miuister propounded the inquiry, “ Wilt thou have this woman to he thy wedded wife!” “1 will,” responded the bridegroom, in a deep heartfelt manner, as he gazed on the face of her he loved. At this moment, ere the ceremony proceeded farther, the bride cast onelook of agony upon the minister, and silently disengaging her self from her bridesmaid, left the room. All was confusion and amazement. Her father followed her, and eagerly demanded the rea son for such capricious conduct. Without hesitation she answered, “Father! Edward has twice promised me, previousto this day, that he would never again touch aught in toxicating—once he broke the promise and I forgave him, but warned him if it occur red again, I would give him up forever; and father, he lias dishonored his word again. I detected it by his breath just previousto the opening of the ceremony, for a moment 1 doubted what step was most advisable, but when I remembered my own promise, I could hesitate no longer. Return to him, dear father, fell him my reason for discard ing him, and God grant it may waken him to a sense of his danger.” The father being a temperate man, could not urge his dauglt- | ter to run the tearful risk of uniting herself with a tippler, and he left her in the solitude of her chamber, to gather strength to endure her disappointment, while he returned to the parlor to inform the heart-stricken young man why his affianced bride had fled. The company dispersed hastily, some applauding j the course taken hy the lady, others con- ! demiting it, but all pitying the intended bridegroom. For our part we think the young lady narrowly escaped the dark lot of the drunkard’s wife ; for he who honors not his own voluntary promise, can have little strength of mind, or manly honor to battle with the temptations to drink, which con tinually present themselves. This occurred but a few months since.— The Organ. The following is a dialogue between a ; drunkard and his wife ; itis in perfect accor dance with the unreasonableness of drunk ards in general. “ I say Molly, vvliat have you got for dirr* tier ?” “ 1 told you this morning we had nothing in the house.” ” O, well, let me take the baby, and you pick up something.” “ So you told me this morning, but there’s nothing to pick up. “ Oh, pick up some codfish and potatoes, Molly, pick up someth ng.” “ But Mr. Lindsey there’s nothing in the house.” “ Nothing at all 1” “ No meal, nor bread, nor potatoes, nor a mouthful of anything that can be eaten.” “ Well, well, Molly, 1 say pickup a little something or oilier, and let us have some din ner, for I’m in a hurry.” THE last leaf. BY O. W. HOLMES. I saw him once before As be passed by the door, And again The jiavement stones resound As he totters o’er the ground With his cane. They say tliijt in his prime, Ere the pruning knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets So forlorn; And he shakes his feeble head, Thut it seems as if he said “ They are gone.” The mossy marbles rest On the lips he has pressed In their bloom. And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said— Poor old lady ; she is dead Long ago— © © That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff', And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here, But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches—and all that, Are so queer. And if I should live to he The last leaf upon the tree In (liespring— Let them smile as 1 do now At the old forsaken bough Where 1 cling. i Saturday Afternoon. —What day in the whole week’s calender that is more remark able for its many striking peculiarities, than Saturday? and a Saturday afternoon, what a busy, bustling, stirring time ! Standing upon the corner of the street, wo can look upon the moving throng, and seem to read each passing thought upon every changing countenance. Here goes tlie Bank man, or rag baron, in black broadcloth and fine linen ; eyes twink ling and watchful, arid a stern expression about the close mouth. He is one of the many who tramp along life’s turnpike to the jingling music of the “ almighty dollar” and a few old coppers, enjoying no recreation but what is derived from the multiplication ofan interest table. Here is the gaily mess ed damsel passing along with a very self important strut, and easting a most excruci ating and captivating side-long look at every buck she meets. Here goes the day-laborer, with a bland and happy smile lighting up his whole countenance. No doubt, he is thinkiugof the morrow—the holy Sabbath —a day when he can cast off the weight of toil and vexation which now clings to him, and be happy amid the bright smiles of a fond wife, and’ the innocent prattle of his children. His heart which heats beneath so rough an exterior, affords to that man a hea ven of content; he is at peace with the whole world, and why should he not be one of the happiest of God’s creatures ? There comes the sharp, pinched up, acute features of the wealth-hoarding merchant. He is probably ruminating upon the losses and gains of the week. There is the brawny, rugged car man with an enlivening smile upon his face. Perhaps (lie is a young chap) he is thinking of sparking it “on a Sunday evenin’.” — How spry yonder timid shop-girl trips home wards. with a whole week’s earnings care fully folded up in one corner of her clean white hendkercliief. Won’t there be a jo vial circle around the fireside of her home to night ? What, with the sly questionings of the old folks who is her beau, the prattle and noisy laughter-peals of her little brother, the crowings of little sister in her lap, and the mote questioning, and promising, and laughing : —God help the happy group a rouud that old homely hearth-stone ! ’!3 death ! here is a scratchingand-crawl ing politician, whose face is marked with deep study, passion and brandy! The dirty ends of several old odd numbers of the B. S. Democrat are peering out of the torn pogket-hole of bis rusty black coat; and, while be is explaining, de facto, the state of political flairs, and the remedies that will save the country from immediate ruin, the honest independent whom he is talking to, is listening some, nodding much, gaping more, and wondering how much longer he will be held by the button.hole Huzza ! here comes a troop of school boys with their “ smilingshining faces,” hal loling, yelling, running, jumping, bounding, tumbling along, their little hearts swelling and bursting with very joy at their escape from the thraldom of the school-room and the tyranny of the tutor’s rod. “Whoop!” there they go—dashing off’like mad—scat tering away—some to sail their walnut-shell boats upon the limpid bosom of the Shetuc ket—some to gather nuts among the hills, or wander over the broad fields, God knows whither. Happy, happy are the days of our youth ! We learn to value them more, as the accumulating burdens of life devolve up on us. Saturday afternoon ! who does not wel come its approach ! — Norwich News. Irish Hospitality. —The hut was low, and built of shingles: it consisted of but one room. Nevertheless, it was clean, orderly, and to us, accustomed lo southern cottages, comfortable. An old woman was spinning, and a cheerful girl, plain, but of a pleasant countenance, was in the act of putting some small fish into the everlasting three legged pot. “Ech I” nlic exclaimed, “ but the leddy is wet;” and down she knelt to pull off our shoes and chafe our feet, while the good dame hung tip our dripping cloaks, and as sured us it would be line by-aud-by ; and then she would have us sit close to the fire ; and after some whispering between mother and daughter, a little roundtable was brought from the datk corner, and covered by a clean white cloth ; aiul the little fish were dished, and potatoes, full and floury, raked from out the ashes ; and if we had not partaken of this genuine hospitality, we should have given offence to those who meant so kindly. The old woman spoke with clannish devotion of her old landlord, Doctor M’Donnel. She only wished he was able to come to Mur lough Bay, and then she was sure he would build her another “ hoose.” She was quite self-possessed from the moment we entered until we departed; there was no southern shyness mingled with the national hospitality; the case of manner of this poor woman and her daughter was perfectly well bred. When she placed all she had to offer, both asked permission to resume their wheels ; and they conversed with us, and speculated on the weather. And the old woman spoke of the traditional feuds between the Mac quillans and the M’Donnels, and assured us that Fairhead was better worth seeing than the Causeway, and told how her husband and her other children were at “ wark” in the doctor’s fields. And at last, when the boat came in sight, and the rain ceased, she rose, “ cloaked” us carefully, and clasping her hands, bade God bless us, with a rustic grace and earnestness we have not forgotten: the girl watched our departure, but the mother immediately returned to her wheel. We have often thought ot the humble cot tage of Murlough Bay. We do not remem bet to have seen one where industry and cheerfulness made a braver stand against poverty. We have been in many huts, where the inmates sat, unrejiiningly, side by side with misery, as if it were their sister ; but here was the resolve to displace misery by industry, —the effort gave the dignity of independence to the poor inmates.— Mrs. Hull's Ireland. Evolution if Light in the Human Sub ject. — It was ten days previous to L. A.’s death that I (Sir Henry Marsh) observed a very extraordinary light, which seemed dart ing about the face, and illuminating all a round her head, flashing very much like an aurora borealis. She was in a deep decline, and had that day been seized with suffoca tion, which teased her much for an hour, and made her so nervous that she would not suf fer me to leave for a moment, that I might raise her up quickly in case ofa return of that painful sensation. After she settled for the night, 1 lay down beside her, and it was then this luminous appearance suddenly commenced. Her maid was sitting up be side the bed, and I whispered to her to shade the light, as it would awaken Louisa. She told me that the light was perfectly shaded ; l then said, “ What cau this light be which is flashing on Miss Louisa’s face?” The maid looked very mysterious, and informed me she had seen that light before, and it was from no candle. I then enquired when she had perceived it; she said that morning, and it dazzled her eyes, but she had said noth in or about it, as ladies always considered ser vants superstitious. However, aftei watch ing it myself half an hour I got up, and saw that the candle was in a position from which this peculiar light could not buve come, nor indeed was it like that sort of light; it was more silvery like the reflection of moonlight on water. I watched it more than an hour, when it disappeared. It gave the face a look of be ing painted white and highly glazed, but it danced about, and bad a very extraordinary effect. Three nights after, the maid being ill, I sat up all night, and again I saw the lu minous appearance, where there was no candle, nor moon, nor in fact, any visible meansof producing it. Her sister came into the room and saw it also. The evening: be fore L. A. died, I saw the light again, but it was fainter, and lasted about twenty min utes. The state of the body of the patient was that of extreme exhaustion. For two months she had never sat up in bed. Many of hersymptoms varied much from those of other sufferers of pulmonary complaints whom I had seen, but the general outline was the same. Her breath had a peculiar smell, which made me suppose there might be some decomposition going forward. The young lady about whose person these lumin ous appearances were manifested 1 had seen several times before her return to the coun try; her lungs were extensively diseased; she labored under the most hopeless form of pulmonary consumption. —London Medical Gazette. “Merry England.'' —We make the fol lowing extract from a letter sent by an in dustrious English mechanic to a gentleman iri Newburyport, hy whom it was handed to the editor of the Newburyport Herald.— The letter writer is a man of 35 years of age, with a wife and four children. He is said to be a most excellent workman,” and a man of integrity and sound moral principles. He came to this country about a year ago, but was induced to return to Liverpool for reasons not stated. Hear what lie says of the condition of the working people in Eng land, and contrast it with the prospects of our own mechanics: “ To be sure, the prospect is very gloomy at present; but yet there’s a sweet little che rub sits smiling aloft to keep watch fertile life of poor Jack. As to myself personally, I am not so much concerned, but it is the thoughts of my rising family that pains my heart. Crime, always ati attendant on pov erty, prevails to a great extent in this town. It is almost dangerous to let your children go out of your sight, and parents have to keep their eyes always upon them. “I had hoped to have been in the United States by this time, but am thus far cruelly disappointed. lam now as low in the scale of society as it is possible almost, to be ; and how I am to get over the approaching win ter, God only knows. ‘•You will very naturally ask, how do you live? Why, my dear sir, we do not live— we “starve?” two meals of water gruel, or salt and potatoes, or, for variety, the second boil of coffee or tea grounds, given by “most English charity.” The best charity is cold, but in this happy land it is far belowfreezing point. This is the bill of fare of thousands of our very best mechanics in this country; and to procure even these, we are compell ed to pawn and part bits of clothes to the pest ofsociety, the pawnbroker.” Here is a beautiful thing from the pen of Mrs. Cornwall Baron Wilson : The Head and the Heart. —“ Please my lady, buy a nosegay, or bestow a trifle,” was the address of a pale, emaciated looking woman, holding a few withered flowers in her hand, to a lady who sat on the beach at Brighton, watching the blue waves of the receding tide. “ I have no half-pence, my good woman,” said the lady, looking up from the novel she was perusing with a list less gaze ; if I had, I would give them to you.” “lam a poor widow, with three helpless children depending on me; would you bestow a small trifle to help us on our way ?” “ I have told you that I had no half pence,” reiterated the lady, somewhat pet tishly. “ Really,” she added as the poor applicant turned meekly away, “this is worse than the streets of London ; they should have a police stationed on the shore to prevent such annoyance.” Such were the thoughtless dictates of the head. — “ Mamma,” said a blue eyed boy, who was lying on the beacli at the lady’s feet, flinging pebbles into the sea, “I wish you had a penny, for the poor woman docs look hun gry, and you know we are going to have a nice dinner, and you have promised me a glass of wine.” The heart ot the lady an swered the appeal of her child ; and with a blush of shame crimsoning her cheek at the tacit reproof his artless words conveyed, she opened her reticule, placed half-a-crown in his tiny hands, and in another moment the boy was bounding along the sands on his er rand of mercy. In a few seconds he return ed, his eyes sparkling with delight, and his countenance glowing with health and beau ty. “Oh ! Mama, the poor woman was so thankful ; she wanted to turn back, but 1 would not let her; and she said, God bless the noble lady, and you, too, my pretty lamb: my children will now have bread for two days, and we shall go our way rejoicing.” The eyes of the lady glistened as she heard the recital of her child, and her heart told her that its dictates bestowed a pleasure the cold reasonings of the head could never be stow. Absence of mind. —We have just got our finger upon an old case of absence of mind, that is infinitely better than anything mod ern we have ever seen. In some respects La Fontaine was not unlike Oliver Gold smith ; both were forgetful, generous, un affected. The French poet almost forgot he bad a wife; and when his friends told him it was a sliarne to absent hiraSelf from her, promised to call and see her. The servant, not knowing him, said she was gone to church; upon which he returned to Paris in the company of his iriends. Being one day at a house, his son came in ; but not hav ing seen him for some time, he did not re cognize him, hut remarked to some of the company, that he thought him a very prom ising lad. He was told this promising lad was his own son. “Ah!” exclaimee the poet, “ upon my soul, I’m very glad to hear it.” ©KD©Q M A L. For the “ Southern Miscellany.’’ LETTER FROM MAJOR JONES. NO. Till. PineviUt, November stk, 1842. To Mr. Thompson : Dear Sir, —Sense I writ you that last let ter we’ve all ben as bisy as yaller jackets in a cotton blossom, movin’ over to town. I t wan’t no great ways to hall things, but th en you know its such a plagy job. I never thought ther was so much plunder ’bout our house til we come to move. But its jest so every year. Mother’s always got more old washin-tubs and fat-gourds, and Rpinin wheels, and quiltin frames, and sich fixing than would fill Noar’s ark, big as it was and she’s got to have ’em all moved, lock stock, and barrel, for she says she can’t trust nothin with niggers when she aint on the plantation. This movin into town every winter and out in the summer is all a fool quality notion any way, and I’m gittin rite sick of it, and if it hadn’t a ben that the Stall ionses was gone to town when I got back I blieve I’d coaxd the old woman out of it this time. Well, now I’ve got a fair swing at Miss Mary, for she’s so close 1 can jist call in any time ; but ’tween you and me, I’m fraid I’m gvviue to have some trouble ’bout this mat ter yet. There a lot of fellers scootin ’bout her that I don’t more’n half like no how. One chap’s jest come from the north, rigged out like a show monkey, with a little tag of hair hangin down under his chin jest like our old Billy Croat, that’s a leetle too smart for this climate, I think. He’s got more brass in his face than ther is in mother’s per servin kittle, and more gab than Mr. Mount gomery and our preacher together. He’s a musick teacher and 1 don’t know what all, and makes himself jest as popler ’bout town as if he’d lived here all bis life. All the town gulls is gwine to take lessons of him on the pianner, ’cept Miss Mary, and old Miss Stallions says she aint gwine to the e.\- jiens of byin a pianner these hard times no how. She says she’s gwine to laru her gals * to make good houskeepers and good wives]* and when they git mnrrid if ther husbands like musick they can bye sich things fbf ’em if they’ve a mind to. “'V es, madame, but though, you know” —says the imperent cus, the very fust time he was iuterduced into the hous by cousin Pete, who is jist as thick with him, as too fools could be—“you know complisliments is the gratest riches a young lady can have —complishmetits last for ever, but riches don’t. “ But no body can’t live on complish ments,” says old Miss Stallions, “ not these times, they can’t.” “ Yes, but Miss Stallions,” says he, “you’s rich enough to ’ford your butiful daughters every gratifactiyn in tlie world. Now you hadn’t ought to be so stingy with sich chain, in daughters as you’ve got. “Cus your iinperence, thought I, fora stranger, rite afore ther faces too. Old Miss Stallions didn’t say much. I was settiu pretty near Miss Mary, and when he begin to run on so, I sot in tulkin with her, so she couldn’t hear the diatted fool, but the fust tiling I knowd Mr. Crotchet cum and set rite down between ns. “ Don’t you think we can swade the old woman into it, Miss Mary if we lay our beds together. 1 gin Miss Mary a look as much as to say I think lie's in a mighty grate hurry to lay your beds together ; but she jest smiled, and put her heukercher up to her face and sed she didn’t know. “ 1 say, Jones,” says lie, “ won’t you be a spoke in my wheel, old feller, I’m dying in love with this butiful young lady, and 1 can’t bear to see her upper (unities neglected.” I looked at the feller rite in the face, and jest had it on the end of my tungto tell him d—n his insurance. But Miss Mary was tliar and her mother, and l tried to turn it off’ the best way I could without lettin’ my temper rise. “ I aint no wagin maker, Crotchet,” says I, “ but I’ve got a liiggei that kin put a spoke in your wheel mighty quick, if that’s all you want.” Miss Mary crammed her hankerclier rite in her mouth. “Oh,” says he, “you don’t take—you don’t take, Junes; I mean can’t you help mo to court Miss Mary, here, and her mother.” 1 begin to feel sort o’ warm behind the ears, but I thought I’d jest give him a sort of a hint. “ I reckon you won’t need no help,” says I, “ you seem to git along pretty fast for a stranger.” “ I think so too, Joseph,” sed old Miss Stallions. “ Then you will give yourconseut, I spose, madam,” says he. “ What, sir?” axed the old woman, open in’ her ise as wide as slio could and drappin her ball o’ nittiu yarn on the floor at the same time. “You’ll by one, won’t you ?” “ Whew !” says I, rite out loud, for I felt so relieved. Miss Mary laughed more’u I ever heard her afore in company. “ That I won’t,” says old Miss Stallions, gwine on with her nittiu—“ not these times, I’ll shore you, sir.” “Oh, ho !” says he, lookin’ round to me, “ I see how the wind blows, Jones, but you might as well give up the chase, for I dont think you can shine. I’m smitten myself. What say you, Miss Mary? The Major han’t no morgage, has he ?” “Oh no, sir,” said Miss Mary—“ none at all.V “ Any claim Jones,ah?” I tried to say something but I couldn’t git a word in edge ways, and every time I look ed at Miss Mary she kep laughin. “ Ther aint a morgage on nary nigger nor foot of ground, thankthe lord, these hard times,” sed the old woman. She was drap in to sleep, and didn’t know what she was sayin. It was Saturday night and time to go hut I wasn’t gwine till Crotchet went, and he did’nt seem like he was gwine at all. “Wonder what time it is?” sed Miss Mary. “Oh taint late,” sed he. “Is ther gwine to be any preachin here to-morrow I”