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VOLUME VI.
A MOTHER’S LOSS.
Listen! I hear a sobbing
Out in the wind and rain.
’Tis the child miss so, crying
For her mother's arms again—
Frightened alone in the darkness,
But calling me all in vain !
My baby, I cannot come to you,
The width of your grave across.
We know how far oft is heaven
When we measure by our loss
The sorrowftHPbrrowlul distance,
And mark it by such a cross.
Oh, darling! my heart is breaking
At the thought of you, lying there
With the gloom of the grave chill hiding
The sunny gold ot your hair,
And your cry that I cannot answer
Save with my own despair.
No, child, I cannot come to you!
We are worlds and worlds apart;
And yet I can feel you nestling,
As ol old, in my empty heart;
When I dream of the eyes I loved so
Then 1 waken with a start,
And think of you out in the darkness,
With the rain on your little bed;
Oh! if I could feel on my bosom
The weight of your little head,
And forget it one brief moment,
That the child I mbs is dead !
They tell me it is but fancy—
You are not making moan—
Only the wild wind’s wailing
Over your grave’s white stone.
They say you are safe and happy
With God, by the great white throne.
Oh, if I could only believe it! * * *
Forgive me, my brain is wild.
In ray grief I forget the wsdom
Ot God. * * * m y little child,
When they told me you were dying
I remember that you smiled.
Did you see in that solemn moment
The beckoning arms of Cl rist ?
You are safe with 'he love which always
Has fer ir other-loss sufficed.
Oh, my little one, mine forever !
Bute in the arms of Christ!
Oh, thought as sweet as the kisses
Of the child I held so dear 1
My baby is safe in heaven,
With nothing of earth to fear;
Andf because you are there, my baby,
Heaven seems so near !—so near !
MISCELLANY.
ONE NIGHT;
08,
HETTY’S TWO LOYEES.
BY MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS.
*Kun dovvn to the madder lot, Hetty,
Leo is there hunting partridges, tell
him to come right up here ! Mother’s
worse, and he must go for a doctor !
Make child f —thar, don’t cry,
little gal, cryin' won't mend matters
Bor set mother on her feet agin. But
the faster you travel, the better.’
Farmer Wilson returned with a
gloomy look on his wrinkled face to
liis p >st at his wife’s bedside.
'Poor old wife/ he brush
ing away the suspicion of a tear, ‘she‘s
stood at the helm here for many aday;
shc‘s worn herself out, body and soul
toiling and slaving for us all ; and now
she's down—-and that's all it amounts
to.'
Hetty closed the oven door, with a
bang; deposited the freshly baked cak’*
on the .table ; tossi and off her linen work
apron ; and seizing her straw hat rush
ed out of the door, tying the strings
under her - chin as she wc nt. Out at
the side gate, over an immense corn
field, she bounded on and on—until
at last she reached the Tnedder lot,'
she caught sight of Leo Holmes rest
ing under a tree. She ran to him,
flushed and out of breath, Leo, Leo/
*he cried. ‘What's the matter, Miss
Hetty?’ he asked, springing quickly
,0 bis feet. ‘Mother !' panted Hetty,
'she's worse, and father says you must
go after Dr. Waites at once. Oh, Leo !
v. hat if le should die/ The young
She Wimt£.
girl buried her face in her hands for a
moment. Leo gazed at her with ad
miration, in his fierce black eyes. He
was a sullen looking man, of perhaps
five arid twenty, handsome in a certain
way—but, withal, somewhat forbid
ding, ‘l'll make haste V he said, turn
ing away. ‘Will you go back to the
house now—Miss Hetty ?‘
‘Hetty, what’s the matter ? Any
thing wrong at the house V Hetty
looked up, to meet the frank face of
Reuben Dale, who leaned on his scythe,
his forehead glowing with exercise of
reaping. They had known each other
from childhood, were almost’overs but
a coolness had sprung up between
them of late—and Leo Holmes had
been at the bottom of it; for Reuben
was jealous ; it seemed hard that this
man—who was a stranger to them,
should come between them, and brino
-l • 7 o
a shadow into their lives.
Leo scrowled ominously at the in
truder, who leaned on his scythe, and
seemed in no hurry to leave.
‘Mother’s worse/ Hetty sobbed, ‘and
I'm afraid—afraid,’ she choked back
the sobs. ‘I must go back to the house
now,’ she added, turning away.
‘Let me go with you, Hetty !’ said
Reuben, throwing down his scythe.
H*m going 1' cried Leo, savagely,
‘Mr. Wilson wishes me to go fur the
doctor/
‘Which will you choosy Hetty ?’
Reuben's face was very white, it
wa> evident that he meant
more serious than the question im
plied. It was a choice forever and al
ways, and she must make it now. Her
foolish little heart trembled at the
thought—but that same heart had long
been Reuben's. She marked the deri
sive smile that curled Leo's lip ; but
she was an honest, straightforward
girl, and she did not hesitate.
‘You can go home wit , me, Reuben!'
she said firmly; and with a glad light
in his honest blue eyes, Reuben Dale
obeyed her.
Leo Holmes stood for a moment —a
scrowl darkening his face.
‘Curse them !' he muttered, ‘I love
that girl—l’d marry her and settle
down here, and make the farm worth
double what it now turns out—but
she's chosen him, the country clod !
She'll never marry him, though—l
swear it 1'
He strode away in another direc
tion, and soon the sound of horse’s
hoofs, going like mad—towards the
village, proclaimed bis departure for
the doctor.
Mrs. Wilson did not improve. It
seemed a complete breaking down of
her worn out system. Like the major
ity of farmer's wives, her life had been
like that of an over-burdened cart
horse, which drags out a drear} 7 exis
tence, and failing at last, completely
exhausted, dies in the harness. Farmer
Wilson saw all of this now—and he
registered a mental vow, that if she
did but recover, hers should be a hap
pier lot.
For days—many days, Hetty tend
ed her mother with untiring care.—
During that time she saw little of Leo;
but sometimes she caught his burning
black eyes fixed upon her face with a
strange expression, that made the
blood rush to her heart with undefined
terror. Reuben was always kind and
attentive ; but the girl felt intuitively
that Leo hated him, and she deter
mined to watch them both.
It was late in the afternoon of a
glorious day. The sun was slowly
climbing down from the western sky,
when Hetty, with a white face and
short quick breath, flew out of the
house and sought her lover, who was
working within easy call.
f Oh f Reuben 1' she gasped, ‘l'm
afraid mother is going ! Do go over
and get Aunt Rlioda— I don’t know
what to do/
He caught her slender form in his
arms and kissed her smooth red cheeks.
‘l'll be back in an hour or two, dar
ling !' he said, ‘keep up your courage
till 1 come ! I'll ride Black Dick, and
won't be long.’
Weeping the girl moved slowly to- |
ward the house ; while Reuben caught!
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1878.
Black Dick, hastily saddled him, and
was soon out of sight.
Hardly had he gone, when from be
hind a hedge stepped Leo Holmes. His
face was absolutely pal id ; his black
eyes glowed with excitement.
‘l've got him now, curse him !’ he
muttered, ‘it's only a matter of a couple
of hours, and all will be settled be
tween him and me/ He slunk away,
like the cowardly villain he was, and
soon disappeared.
An hour passed, it seemed like an
age to poor Hetty. Aunt Rhoda lived
some five miles distant ; she would
come at once, and Hetty sitting with
her father beside the sick bed, kept all
her senses on the alert, listening for
their arrival
Two hour slipped away. Mrs. Wil
son had fallen asleep ; or was it the
stupor, which sometimes precedes
dissolution? Hetty felt that she would
soon be bereft of her kind old mother.
And, in that lone farm house, away
from any other habitation, with no fe
rn le near her, save the maid of all
work, in the kitchen ; and the near
ct of bring motherless staring
her in the face, it w s a terrible pros
pect. Three h ours dragged by, and
still Reuben came not. What could
the matter be ? Something had sure
ly happened.
Quick as thought, there darted into
her mind, the remembrance of Leo
Holmes' hatred for her lover. Hetty
could keep still no longer. She arose
and laid her hand on her father’s arm,
as she sat by the sick bed.
‘Father!' she whispered, ‘can you
stay with mother for a few moments ?
Betsy is in the kitchen if you need
anything. I believe I'll run down to
the south gate to see if there is any
sign of their coming/
‘Very well, daughter ; your mother
is sleeping now, and I don't need you.
But don’t stay long.
lie kissed her tenderly as he spoke.
Hetty was a good daughter and his
only child, and to him the very ‘apple
of his eye/
Hetty hurried from the room. Paus
ing to throw a light shawl about her,
she hastened out, down the steps of
the wide piazza, and on to the outer
gates.
Hark, the sound of horse’s hoofs.
‘Thank God,' said Hetty. She opens
ed the wide gates, and awaited the
entrance of the rider.
‘llow f ast he comes/ she thought.
The night was by no means a dark
one, but clear and starry ; everything
was plainly visible to her as she strain
ed her anxious eyes down the long
country road, which stretched out like
a huge black serpent, straight to the
distant village. A clock in the house
chimed nine ; a cricket chirped in the
grass at her feet; no other sounds dis
turbed the stillness, save the monoto
nous tramp, tramp of the horse‘s feet,
flying homeward.
‘Oh, heavens, he is alone 1' cried
Hetty, as a single horse bounded for
ward through the open gates ‘lt's
Black Dick 1’ she gasped. ‘Black
Dick—and Reuben rode him. My God,
where is my darling now ?'
In a second her plans were laid.—
This girl came of stern, old Puritan
stock, and she had fair share of what
the Yankees call ‘grit/ She led the
panting animal to the stable, and has
tened to the stall where her own horse
—Bess—was kept. It was then that
she perceived through the clear star
light that entered the building, that
the fleetest horse on the place, with
the exception of Black Dick, was miss
ing from his stall. She had not seen
Leo since suppei. Something was
wrong.
She slipped B ! ack Dick’s bridle on
Bess, and without waiting for a saddle
she sprang • n the bor.-e's back, and
dashed off like the winds in the direc
tion of Aunt Rhode's. On, on, she
flew, with wild eyes seaiching the
road before her, in quest of—what ?
All at once—just when she had ar
rived within sight of the cld farm
house, Bess gave a sudden and
sprang aside from the road. Hetty
glanced downward. What was that
lying on the green grass, with upturn-
ed face upon which the starlight
gleamed ? She sprang from her horse
and stooped above the prostrate form.
Prone upon his back by the road side
he lay—her lover. Was he dead?—
Hetty did not scream ; ghe made no
noise ; she slipped Bess’ bridle over a
young sappling growing near, and tore
open Reuben's shirt. It was thickly
stained with blood. She laid her hand
upon his heart ; it beat very faintly.
TWen springing ou her horse again, she
dkshed off to the red farm-house. She
dismounted and knocked loudly at the
door. She received no response. In
vain she beat the panels and called
Aunt Rhoda's name. No cheery voiee
answered her. At last she knew that
there was no one here ; and almost
despairing, she retraced her steps to
her lover's side. She paused, however
at the well, and finding a huge gourd
suspended at its side, she filled it with
clear, cold water, and bore it with her
to the unconscious man. She exam
ined his injuries as well as she could,
discovering at last a deep wound in
the region of the heart. A few inches
higher, and it would have been imme
diately fatal. She shuddered with
sickening horror ; and then summon
ing all her courage, she bound her
handkerchief about it as well as she
could. Then she bathed his forehead,
lifting his head upon her knee, and
chafed his cold hands until at last he
opened his eyes.
‘Reubeiq Reuben—look at me—
can’t you see me ?’
The starlight was growing dim now,
out he turned his face towards hers.
'You—Hetty V be murmured feebly;
‘why, how came you here ?’
‘I found you/ she sobbed, burying
her face on his shoulders as he rested
in her arms ‘Tell me who did it/
‘Leo Holmes/ gasped Reuben faint
ly ; ‘I found no one at your aunt's and
—he spoke slowly and with difficulty—
‘l then started to return. Leo rode up
on the rode—and seizing my bridle—
stabbed me—iu the back. Where is
Black Dick V
‘He came home. That was how I
know that something was wrong—
though I felt uneasy all the time.—
Oh, Reuben how shall I ever get you
home ? You are not able to ride
Bess ?'
He groaned and shook his head.
‘We’ll have to stay here till morn
ing/ said Hetty decisively. ‘There’ll
surely be somebody passing who will
take you home/
She threw her shawl about bis
shoulders and bathed his head again.
She feared with a feeling of horror, a
return to unconsciousness. And there
she sat the livelong night. Just as
the first streaks of dawn began to red
den the east, the slow, lumbering of a
wagon fell on their ears. A few words
sufficed to explain her strange position.
The driver lifted the young m n, with
some into the wagon. Hettie
mounted Bess, and so they soon ar
rived at farmer Wilson's.
She found her father in consterna
tion at her unexplained absence. She
found her mother still alive ; and what
was more, there was hope of her ulti
mate recovery, since rest was really
all she needed—that rest whiich so
few hard-workihg farmer s wives attain
this side of the grave.
Reuben did not /lie —thanks to a
strong constitution and Hetty’s care
ful nursing. Of course they were soon
married, and mother Wilson was able
to sit in a large arm-chair and witness
the ceremony. So there was great re
joicing on the old farm, for the two
wonderfully snatched from the jaws of
death.
Hetty took charge of the household
henceforth, and life at farmer Wilson's
grew very pleasant and cheerful. Leo
Ho mes was s**en no more, and surely
ii’ 'body regretted fiim. But Hetty,
though she lived to be an old woman,
never forgot the adventures of one
night.—\Sunny South.
Sentimental youth—My dear girl,
will you share my lot for lifel
Practical gal—How many acres is
your lot?
Farmers’ Boys.
Farmers are frequently heard to
complain that their sons leave the farm
for other occupations. Coutinually,
the brightest, most intelligent son, the
one to whom the old gentleman would
like to bequeath his farm, with the
hope that for at least one more gene
ration, stranger's hands shall not gath
er its sheaves, nor garner its grain, is
taken with a notion that he must go
to town; lie must measure calico or
sit in an empty office and wait for the
cli nts or patients who, perchance,
may never come.
In fact, (our out of every five boys
raised on a farm are eager to leave
the old homestead and become one of
the toilers in overcrowded towns or
cities.
Farmers, of all others, most deeply
lament this, and yet we think that
they, themselves , help to make it so.
There is too much ot the ‘good enough
for farmers' at home (or the boys
They would like to be among and one
of the people for whom such things
are not good enough.
Farmers are careless as to how
their boys dress for Sunday, as it is
termed. They do not look to it that
when their hoys go out into the world
that they should be neatly and taste
fully arrayed. They are not careful
to have their homes adorned with books
and papers and their children learned
to appreciate them; and farmers' homes
of all others most need these things.
They don £ t think it worth while
that vines should twine around the
verandah, flowers bloom in the yard
or pictures hang upon the walls. Peo
pie seldom come except the neighbors
and it don't matter about that. No
need to have music and songs; they're
not party folks. And yet for these
very things are the boys anxious to
leave the farm. For no one will deny
that these things help to refine and
ennoble us, help us to more self-respect
and make us feel like life is worth
living and not bestowed upon us as
an inevitable evil that we must bear
as best we may.
And then farmers are careless about
teaching their children the graces and
annuities of society. They don't seem
to think these things become his work',
ing clothes. They tell them something
about dress is not the man, instead of
teaching him to be a man, yea, a gen
tleman, at the plow or in the hayfield,
as well as behind the desk or counter,
and that the courtesies that mark the
gentleman at the one place mark him
at the other. The boys, when they
grow up large enough to mingle with
the world, miss these things solely,
and attribute the lack of them, not
without cause, to the fact that they
are farmers 1 sons.
If farmers would make their homes
more pleasant, make the long evenings
times of something besides weariness,
the boys would not be so ready to
leave them for town.
For, I cannot believe that it is al
together the wish to mingle in the
endless toil and endeavor ol the busy
town that makes them leave; but that
there is, mingled with it, the desire to
be something more than they are raised
to feeling that the- are; the earnest
desire, indeed, that they may bear
without abuse the grand old name of
‘Gentleman/
Johnny’s Composition on the
Sheriff.
A man wich the sherif of a jail
his prisners kept a gittin out nites
steelin hens cos the jail wasn’t strong
enough for to hold em inside. So the
me said, the man did: ‘lie put a stop
to that little game, my hartysP and
he had another cote of paint put on
the jail But the artist he had put
some salt in the paint, aDd some cows
come a long and licked the paint ol oflf
and then the prisners got out a other
time and steeled more hens When
the sheriff he seen wot they had done
he was so angry he said: 'Tois ain’t
no place for theefs, you bet; so you
fellers has got to either behave your
seifs or lite out, and rustle round for
your hash the best way you can/
Even a barrel hoop turns when trod
upon.
Too many peas in the broth —"A
pick-pocket picking a pickpocket’s
pocket.' 4
♦.
A communication to this paper be-*
gius, “ I had no idea,' 1 etc. The rest
of the communication proves it.
- ■ .
A wit assigned as a reason why so
few borrowed books were returned,
that it was muoh easier to retain the
books thau their contents.
Episode in a political convention at
Titusville, Pa. : The chairman—The
chair will not dispute the point with
Mr. Carter. Mr. Carter—The chair
had better not, unless ho takes his
coat off/
‘This is meat and drink,* said the
sailor, who sat on the gunwale sipping
his grog, following his remark by
tumbling backward in the water.—
(Aye, and there's washing and lodgs
ing* said his messmate.
The question ‘why printers did not
succeed as well as brewers,* was an
swered thus: Because printers work
for the head and brewers for the stom
ach, and where twenty men have stom
achs, but one has brains.
G’m ashamed of the age in which
we live/ said a Lowell maiden ot 38.
‘You may be ashamed of 3 T our’s, but
I'm not of m ne,' replied a 19-year old
companion. And it wasn't much ol a
nose that went up, either. — [Lowell
Journal.
The editor of the Worcester Press
has a pocket for his gold and one for
his silver. That was the policy wo
adopted when we commenced the
printing business. Those pockets are
just as good to-day as they ever were,
hut we have worn out a half dozen
pairs of pantaloons.
Bill—l say, Mary, run and ask Jule
to come and play with us.
Mary—You know, Bill, mother says
you ain’t to call him Jule; his name
is Jul-ius.
Bill—Well, what does she call mo
Bill for, then? I sha'n't call him Jul
ius until she calls me Bili-ious.
A picture of human agony—A bash
ful young man who climbs out of the
upper berth in a sleeping-car, at what
he supposes to be midnight, to get a
drink of water, and when he steps
down in the aisle is horrified to see it
is about 9 a. m., and everybody in the
is up and looking at him pleasant*
ly.
Beauty—Still a bachelor, count; why
do you not marry ?
Count—Veil, it is not zat I am dis
inclinationed: but your American mees
sue is so beautiful, and ven I see a
pretty face I tie one knot in ray neck
pocket-handketchief, and ven I see ze
next I tie anozer, and at ze last, ven I
shall to marry, it is all knot and no
vile I
‘Ten dollars fine for riding or drivs
ing over this bridge faster than a
walk/
‘What does that mean?' asked a
little Indianapolis boy, who was riding
with his father.
Father explains: ‘if we whip up and
go fast the police will stop us and take
us to tbs Mayor, and he will not let
us go till we pay $lO/
Silence in the carriage. Meditat*
ing boy speaks:
‘Papa, if it weren't for the police
mans and God, what lots of fun we
could have, couldn’t we?'
NO. 15.