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VOLUME YL
“OLK LAUGHIN’.”
DY A. C. GOUDON.
When I was u boy in Ferginyer,
At do pluutnshun down on de Jeems,
Years aback, ’fore de war kina, an’ freedom, —
What a long time ago it all seems!—
My marster he owned an ole nigger,
Which de white folk, beca’se o’ his mouf,
Never called nuthin’ ’eoptin’ Ole Laugliin’,
Down dar in de Souf.
lie had de mos’ cur’uses’ notions
’Bout jokin’ an’ havin’ o’ fun;
An’ dar wasn’t no stoppin’ dat darkey
Ef ever he oust had begun.
I’se seed him like bustin’ his west-cot
A laughin' at things dat mos’ folk,
Spite o’ whatever funny he found dar,
Never ’sidered a joko.
Ho would laugh when his ehillun was cryiu’,
He would laugh when de cryiu’ was done.
Seems like ev’rything struck him ridic’lous,
Dat de Lord has made ouder de uu.
Au’ whatever frolic dar happened
’Mongst de darkeys, ef Laughin’ warn’t dar.
Things mos’ly went on purty solemn ;
For dey missed him, I ’clar’.
One day we was.crossiu’ Joeror Itiver.
Ole marster, Ole Laughin' an’ me ;
An’ somehow de boat got upsotted,
An’m soused de whole o’ us three.
I m*de for de shore like a beaver,
Ole marster he struck for dar too ;
But somehow or ’nother Ole Laughin’
iLie pasted out o’ view.
Yet when wo got out, on de bank dar,
Do very fus’ thing teteked my eyo
Was Laughin’, wid mouf stretched wide open,
A-roarin'os if lie would die!
I tell you ole marster was koppiu’,—
I thought he’d ’a’ went tor dat man :
“Ef it jes wasn’t—but it's Ole Laughin’;
I'll be dogged ef I can! ”
I'se seed fo’k whose laughin’ was hurlin’,
Seemin’ like it were scornful some way ;
But his warn’t dat sort o' music,
Ez ditfrent ez night am f’om day.*
When ho opened deni jawbones o' kisu,
An’ let it all out in one ro’,
Ev’rybody what heard him laughed wid him,
Aud wanted some mo’.
Laughin’ seemed to take life sort o’ cur’us,
For I never did know him ter cry ;
Yet often I’ve noticed a misty
Kind a sorrowful look iu his eye.
Old master, he said : *‘A pkilos’pher
Ole Laughin’ is, sartiu an’ sho’—
Ho look on de bright side o’ all things,
An’ who can do mo’ ? ”
When marster got sick an’ deceasded,
Ez de eollin sot dyr on de grouu’
By de grave, all de plantashun darkeys
Kim weepin’ an’ moanin’ arouu’;
An’ Laughin’ was dar ; but de devil,
In spite o’ de griefiin his faee,
Seemed ter have a grip on him as usual,
Even dar at dat place.
For when artor de words, “Dust ter ashes,”
De preacher stood silent in pru’r,
Die Laughin' lie ’rupted de silence
Wid his regular music, I ’clar’,
But he didn't live loug arter marster,
An’ he died wid a smile on bis mouf ;
De bot’ on 'em sleeps in 1 ergiuyer,
Down dar in de Souf.
—[Scribners Monthly.
A Niglit ia the Mountains.
The child's eyes turned from her old
■black maumee, on whose lap she
to her mother, kneeling beside her,
and then out to the yard gay with
dahlias and rich lilies, and the cotton
field beyond, which had been the
boundaries of her little life. The
black lace and the white, the cottoiu
balls, the welLcurb which site had
.climbed every day, grew small and
dim to her as a far-off picture.
Old Dr. Deems stooped aud touched
her cheek. It had always bt eu thin
and yellow, as are the faces of South
ern child red fed on hot bread and cof
fee, but even that meagre fife wps
leaving it now.
‘She is going/ he nictioimd to the
younger physician. ‘Take her mother
out of the room.’
It was the mother, indeed, of whom
they all thought, rather than the
child.
‘Cousin Betty— 9 Dr. Fred stooped
.to lift her gently. J’hut she caught the
old man’s baud in both of hers.
‘Save her ! save her V she cr'ed.
“She is all I l ave m the world V
die lo ked anxiously over at a stout,
sandy-haired man, who stood by the
foot of the bed watching the child,
but who eame now and lifted Mrs. Se
vier in his arms.
‘Bettyl Betty!' he whispered, with
a dreadful love and pity in his voice,
but hsis eyes did not leave the little
gill’s face.
In the silence the sun shone broadly
on the bed and yard without; tlie per
fume irom the sour-wood tree over
powered the smells of the sick-room.
Thud! thud! came the taps of a far
aff woodpecker from its hollow trunk.
The eyes of the child settled on the
black face above her and grew still.
‘Yell, honey! Yhar am its old mau
mee. She cahn’t see me! Jbhe am
goin' in!’
‘Papa!’ cried the shrill, babyish
voice, once ; then all was still The
sunshine grew and tne taps of
the woodpecker more loud.
Dr. Deems reverently covered the
faee of the dead child, but its mother
did not move. She had slipped down
to the floor again, and held its feet
clasped to her breast. Her cousin
Fred looked down at her with some
curiosity in his compassion. He was
from Pennsylvania, and knew but lit*
tie of these Southern kinsfolk. Mrs.
Sevier was a thin, sallow woman, very
like the child, and with a slow-mov
ing, gentle st didity of temperafhent
entirely novel to the Northerner. She
had daily concerned herself smilingly
for his comfort, as his own sisters had
never done. Yet when he had been
bitten a week or two ago by a moc
casin she had gone on smiling
calmly, and assured him that ‘the bite
was poisonous aaad sometimes fatal,
but usually yielded to prompt treats
merit/
By dmt of poultices and whiskey
he was saved, but be naturally re
garded his cousin Betty thereafter as
the most wooden of women. Now,
there was anew, strange fire in her
eye, as ske held her dead child, which
alarmed him. lie tried gently to lead
her away,.
‘You shall not take her from me ;
she said, ‘she is all I have in the
world /
Fred looked auain at the stout man,
who came to her promptly, as if to
serve her was the one business of his
life/
*Give her the usual anodyne, Tom/
said the old doctor, *in double quan
tity. Her life depends upon quiet./
‘What have I to live for V she mut
tered; T have nothing left/
Tom, carrying her out, looked
straight down into her face at this, and
back at the little stiff form upon the
bed. Tom was her husband and the
father of the child.
* * * hr. * Sf.
The next year Mr. finding
that his wife did not recover health of
body or mind after the los-.s of the
child, took her up to the mountains.
He had a strong, light wagon, suited to
the dangerous roads in the gaps, and
a couple of stout Canadian ponies.
He himself drove. Dr. Fred Keyes
went with them, partly as medical at
tendant, partly as companion for Bet
ty. Toan Sevier hardly felt that he
could claim to be called a companion
or intimate friend of bis wife, dear as
they were to each other
‘Yotrre younger than I Fred/ he
said. ‘You read the same books as
Betty. You can fall into her ways of
thinking, eh? I’ve always been a
busy man in the country—fond of
fishing, or caucuses, or a dance, or
anything that brought folks together.’
‘But you’ve given that all up since
yop were married?' eyeing him keen
iy-
Torn pulled his scrubby beard.
‘Yes, of course. ‘Twasr/t her way.
But it had coarsened mo ? no doubt.
Well, you’ll look after Betty, Fred, on
tuis journey ? Try and cke< r her up
a bit V
Xobody must think that this history
is to be a repetition of the old play of
the trusting husband betrayed by hh:
wife and friend. Fred Keyes was a
most, susceptible fellow, as far as
plump, tender young girls were con
cerned. but be was not likely to med
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, JANUARY 81, 1878.
die with the affections of a woman
old enough to be his lean and
hungry-eyed to boot Turn Sevier
humored her like a spoiled child in a
way that disgusted his cousin, lie
had indeed no patience with the uni
versal habit in the South of indulging
women as though they were helpless
babies. Fred had half a mind to
bring this one to her senses by a sharp
pull of common sense. Yet he had a
strong curiosity to know the meaning
of those hungry, remonstrating eyes
of hers. Sometimes he had caught an
unguarded look in them that roused
in him an eager pity, and gave her for
the moment stronger power over him
than the most beautiful woman.
They left the low bottoms of the
Saluda River, where the Sevier plan
tations lay, crossing the Nanta
hela reached the high,
table-lands of North Carolina. For
two or three weeks they passed slow
ly through the mightiest peaks of the
Appalachian chain; now going down
into some fertile valley, with its soli
tary dilapidated farm-house; now into
some vast canon or succession of
gorges fastnesses inhabited only by
the bear or wolf; or up into the
heights, while the clouds wrapped the
base of tlie mountain at their feet.
xVt night they stopped at a farm-house,
where host and hostess with their
dozen children, gaunt gigantic and
dirty but invariably kindly and low
voiced made room for them; or per
haps in a hunter’s log-hot, with plenty
of dogs, tame bears, and fleas, for
company. Tom Sevier had hunted
through these ranges when he was a
young man, and found many old
friends. The solitary mountaineers
meet so few strangers that they keep
close hold on them in their memories.
They had much t.ilk with him, of
Stoneman's rai l and the Vrender/
which seemed to them a matter of
yesterday, although it was ten years
ago. They dated even the ages of
their children by-it. Fred who had
To ght on the other side ? always
joined in the talk, and there was
hearty good-humor all round, unless
Mrs. Sevier was present. Her pa!e ;
dark-lined face was quite calrrq but
everybody felt latent thunder in the
air.
‘Betty says little, but the whole
spirit of the rebellion is smouldering
within her/ Tom said to Dr. Keyes
with an apologetic laugh.
Bay by day Fred was led to won
der more what other secret fire was
smouldering within her.
Tom himself, as Keyes soon
was an incomparable comrade with
whom to go vagabondizing. He was
alive, zealous, full of practical good
sense and information. Whether it
was politics mica-mining, bear-bait
ing # or a weed or bird by the wayside
tliat attracted Fred Sevier's knowl
edge of it was full and accurate. Fred
spoke of this to his cousin Betty one
day.
She nodded indifferently.
‘Mr. Sevier lias been a closer stu
dent than is usually supposed/ she
said, in her thin, pleasant voice, the
accent always on the drawled first
syllable.
‘‘The sweetest-tempered maiq too ?
that I ever knew/ pursued Fred,
watching her iealouslv.
She nodded agaiiq smiled
and turned her eyes again on the lofty
peaks above her, the inexplicable
questioning look lisi g iu her iaee
slowly.
‘You take very little interest in
facts?’ Fred persisted, J l observe
you seldom listen to Sevier's explana
tions/
She did not answer for a moment.
"‘When I traveled over these moun
tains before, -other meanings were giv
es! to them than ‘profitable timber**
lands’ or ‘investments for capital in
mining/ *
Tlt&t afternpon Fred and Sevier
walked on ahead.
‘‘You brought cousin Betty liere on
your wedding journey V Keyes asked,
"No. She never was in the moun
tains before. It is all new to her/
Dr. Keyes made a note of this point.
Here was a chapter and lie suspec
tcd # a chapter full of meaning, m Mrs.
Sevier's life # of which her husband
had been kept in total ignorance.
Like most young men fresh from their
books, Fred believed himself to be a
most impartial student of human na
ture. His cousin Betty was a speci
men of a genus unknown him. lie
dignified his curiosity with the name
of philosophic research.
One day alone with her in the wag
orq he began to use Ills probe again.
‘I have good news for you Betty.
The day before we left home I heard
that Torn was certain of a seat in
Congress next term. I have no doubt
when we go back we shall find lie lias
been elected.'
‘Very like. I know nobody who
can represent our part of the State
except Mr. Sevier/ dropping her eyes
to her book again.
‘I believe in my Betty, Tom’s
only reason for wishing success is to
give you a taste of life in Washing
ton He has no ambition but to make
your life happier/
‘Most men, I make their
wives the first object of consideration 5
(ca’mly turning a page).
After this Fred used to watch with
wrath and pity Sevier's behavior to
his wife. Day and night his guardi
anship was anxious, depre
cating Tem was the most frank,
hearty human being in the world; but
with his wife he never was at case; a
chill in body and soul seemed to fall
on him whenever she looked at him.
Yet there were little incidi nts now'
and then which made Keyes laugh to
himself. There was something ab
surd to him in the spectacle of a man
vehemently in love with his own wi. ; e
and she both middie-aged and homely.
One night the men occupied the
same ioom in a mountain-cabin, and,
as Sevier undressed, a long tress of
red hair fell from his breast. Fred
as he handed it to him, saw that it
bad belonged to bis dead child.
‘Yes/ stammered Tom, ‘I try to
keep little Lou near me. It’s a hor
ribly empty world since she went,
Keyes/
‘You have Butty/
'Betty! She died to me years ago!'
lie said passionately. There was an
awkward silence. Even Fred, curious
as he wae, was sorry for this outbreak.
Tom came to him the next morning.
‘I must explain what 1 said to you
last night, Keyes/
‘No, not a word. X shall never
think of it again/
‘Bui 1 prefer to set you right. The
trouble is but a trifle, after all. The
truth is, Betty and I were married
hastily. I had bt-en waiting on her a
longtime, but with no hope; and she
suddenly changed her mind and mar
ried me. She is very fond of me. I
don’t want you to think, Keyes ? that
she is not fond of me—the most amia
ble, .careful wife—and a capital house
keener; there's not a duty she has
neglected. But there k not that sym
pathy between us, in taste or opinion,
which I could wish. I have tried,
too, to accommodate myself to her;
I’ve tried ever since the day wc w'ere
married. But I can't —I can’t hit the
key-note, somehow. I shall some
please God/
The young fellow, glancing furtive
ly into his face, saw that which made
him feel for this sluggish, cahn-blouded
woman a cordial hatred.
They had gradually ascended range
after until the vast spurs of the
Blue Ridge and Nantahelu swept
downward from them, and the clouds
lay billowed like a sea at the base of
the heights which they Fad reached.
Late one October afternoon they came
to the little village of Waynesville,
a drowsy hamlet hung upon the edge
of a lofty summit shadowy peaks
rampart ng it—the sky, as it seemed,
threatening to sink down upou it at ev
ery moment
Duiing the last two days Mi's. Se
vier liad grown more aud more silent.
Naturally, she had a keen eye for odd
phases of character and a shrewd lit
tle turn iu humor which had brought
out every ludicrous point of the jour
ney, greatly to Fred’s amusement
She had ceased to notice anything
now, and moved and spoke like a wo
man in a dream. Her eyes were con
tracted, her features settled into dark
lines.
Mr. Sevier watched her anxiously
and vainly brought out one little vial
of homeopathic jails after another.
‘The evil spirit of the mountains
has laid his hold on you/ said Keyes,
laughingly, to her as they entered the
little inn. ‘She has been here before/
he said to himself, nodding sagacious
ly. ( Whatever ghosts it is that she!
sees in these mountains, is more real
to her than poor Tom or all the years
he has given her/
The tiny inn with porches as largei
as the interior, was wrapped in mist
as they opened the outer door. The
hostess, a guant, slab-sided, friendly
eyed woman, sat beside a roaring fire
with one or two cronies, all with twigs
in their mouths enjoying a cozy bail/
of siuifl and gossip. She led Mrs.
Sevier up stairs, while Tom and Fred
with half a dozen negroes, went out
to the stable.
‘We’re powerful full of company
to-day ' she said. ‘There's two gen
tlemen from Georgia hyah, a-huntin*.
But Fil give you uns the big room.
Oh, you've bin hyah before/ as Mrs.
Sevier hastily passed before her and
opened the door. ‘Jes’ make yersel's
at home thin, and I'll send Samanthy
to yheys up the fire/
Mrs. Sevier stopped, looking slowly
about her. She stood in a small,
square room, the floor covered with a
faded rag carpet; dirty patches of a
blue wall paper with gigantic (lowers
clinging to the delicately-grained walls
of poplar planks. A log smouldered
on the hearth. Outside of the little
window opened a spectral country of
diiving mists and dizzy heights. Ail
ordinary apartment enough in these
mountain-regions; but some secret
jm sence in it seemed to grasp and
hold the woman who had entered it
with power. Her chin began to quiv
er; she closed her eyes as if to shut
out a sight that pained them.
She was neither a weak nor a bad
woman, and the force of this old j>as
sion which had laid hold on her since
she came into the mountains shocked
and alarmed her. What was it to her
that is this very room, years ago, her
life bad risen to heights which it could
never touch again? Was she not
Tom Sevier's o ife ? She told herself,
too, that she had been a faithful, affec
tionate wife to Lira. She had never
been ablo to make a companion oi
him, perhaps because she was loreed
to compare him continually with a man
of much higher type. But that was
not her fault.
This old memory should not make
her less faithful —
‘Curse the gunF
There was a crash, as if the weapon
had been dashed to the ground.
At the first sound of the voice, Mrs.
Sevier shivered as if she had been
struck, and stood motionless.
Tne looms were eeparated by a
thin partition of planks, and the door
between was unlatched, Two men
were cleaning their rifles after the
day's hunting. The with an
oath, gave his a kick as it lay on the
floor.
‘I shouldn’t let a bad day’s luck put
me out of temper, colonel/ the cither
dragged out, lazily.
A l never had any but accursed kick
in this place. I told you I did not
want to come here/
The young man shrugged hie shoul
ders. The colonel, half drunk and in
‘a humor,’ was not desirable as friend
or foe.
‘l'll go down and see to feeding the
dogs,’ he said, and left the room.
Colonel Chaplin yawned, and walked
to the fire. The colonel strutted,
though it was dark, and tlierc was
nobody to see him.
‘Missed that buck at twelve paces,
by G eel' rolled the bloody current ol
his thoughts as lie drove his heal at
the hack-fog. •'Hands grown** shaky,
longiv.As getti / thick’ Did age, l_y
Gee] This yure mountain whiskey
tastes insipid's water. Can’t hum,
can't drink—nothin' left! What’s left
me? Proputty, negroes, gone to the
devil! Women—' lie laiscd his
nodding head as if awakened by a
sudden thought. ‘Why, the woman I
loved best in the world turned her
back on me in this house/
llis bloated face grew a shade
darker purple, the small black eye
kindled.
‘Fine woman, Elise Voncida!' with
a chuckle.
The next moment he stood erect,
with a gasp of astonishment. The
door was pushed open, and Elise stood
before him in the very spot where she
had parted from him, flushed and
trembling with anger, ten years ago.
Iler face was pale now, and dropped
on her breast; both her white hands
were held out him
[Concluded next week. 3
Senator Lamar‘s position on ths
finance question reminds us el thp
traditional individual who sacrificed
his peace of mind in order to have
peace in the family, llis conscience
told him that he ought to bring his
c fildren up in the Presbyterian faith,
but his wife was a Baptist and insis
ted that the scions of their house must
take the regulation Evangelical plunge
bath of that denomination. Finally
the old man compromised by letting
bis wife have her own way, as is usual
in such cases; but he desired to re
serve the privilege of conducting fam
ily prayers in the Presbyterian lan
guage. To this the wife readily asr
sen ted, remarking that the baptism
would save the sou’s of the children
aayLow while as tc the prayers, they
would not make any difference, be
cause God would not be influenced by
them. Thus, Lamar compromises with
his unanimous constituents, and agrees
to baptize the silver dollar with his
vote, merely reserving the light to
make his speeches in the dialect of the
other faith. The two cases present
several striking points in common.
Am I to Blaine?
‘Am [ to blame, mother V asked $
young lad the other day, who had
joined a temperance society. llis
father and mother and brothers seem
ed to be displeased with him. After
a long silence, the boy broke forth,
Am I to blame ? Sister Mary lias
married a drunken who abu
ses her every day ; sister Susan's hus
band was intemperate and has gone
off and left ; and you are obliged to
take her home and take care of her
childrc n. Brother James comes homo
every night drunk ; aid because I
have jo'ned the cold water army, and
y u are likely to have one sober per
son io the family, you are scolding
me. Am Ito blame, mother V
The overcome by the argu
ment of her replied, ‘You are
rjglit, my boy. May God bless you
and help you to keep your good reso
lution,*
Whisky Done It.
‘I took the pledge/ said an old mau,
‘at the foot of Hue gallows wliene I saw
a 3’onng man hung. The sheriff took
out liis wa’eh and said; If you have
anything to say, speak now, for you
have only five minutes to live. The
young man burst into tears and said ;
I had only one brother; he had beau
tiful blue eyes and flaxen hair, and l
loved him.' But one day I got drunk,
and o ming home, found hiwgath< ring
beriies in lhc* garden, and I ecan*e an
gry without cause and killed him with
a rake. Whisky has done it—it has
ruined me. I have biit one ig? re word
to s ty —newer, never, NEVER touch
anything that is intox eating !/
An tfcxporii need editor (-can always
t‘il at sight the mac who comes in
with Aim .first attempt .-at original jxh-
Jtry. He w/odke am tqitoe, and looks
as Jb. pgli he had just passed a 04m*.
t< rfiL bill oi-st.angl J.-a bal-y.
m 5.