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KVHNING SONG.
Behind the hilltop drops the sail,
The eatled heat falters on the eand;
White evening’* oehers, one by orje*;
Lead in the gueiits of twilight landF
The lird is silent'overhead,
Beiow the beast has lain birr. down;
Alone the marbles watch the dead,
Alone the steeple guards the town.
The south win ! feels its arnorons coarse
To oioisterod sweets in thickets found;
The leaves obey its tender force,
And stir ’twist silence and a sound.
John Vance Cheney, in the Century.
THE SEXTON’S GHOST.
Sumon Grayberry, the old sexton of
Uushport, was dying, liushport was
■ respectable little fishing village,
perched on a sauey-looking bluff right
over the Mean; at its foot was a snug
little cove, reaping up a sandy beach
to the very base of the rocks, where
the fishing crafts laj dozily at anchor,
wlieu they were not scudding over the
waves miles away, or rocking idly to
the iniislcof the ilsh-lines and thr dan
cing of the porpoises.
Uushport hail one church (Metho
dist) and one graveyard, where Simon
Grayberry had, for years too many to
remember, supervised the departure j
from eartli to earth of the sires and
graudsires of the hardy young lislier
men who were now growing up around
him.
Simon had grown gray in the ser
vice of the dead, among whom, ten
years before, he had deposited the last
remains of his faithful wife; and now
the gathering shadows of the final
summons told him that lie, 100, must
prepare to join those silent ones in thei r
last resting-place.
Three years before Simon had parted
with his only son, a hardy sailor, who
on a whaling voyage. Six
newn had oome that Iho
BUi in the northern seas,
gSmßynt'l perished.
RSWfV: iwu!
■r jT'>f.<rl>
SPrf.'rvwird i.. si: up u •,
Hmncxt day following \\ is
apWmml for thtj funeral services
Olil Simon's cottage was near the
graveyard; hi* body lay on the bed
where he had slept for forty years, and
the little sitting-ro nn next to it was
occupied on the watch-night by two
old crones, who had volunteered for
the purpose.
A bright tire blazed on tlio hearth;
the table, with two lighted candles,
vtoxl beside it; the teakettle sung
noisily on the hob; and these two, sit
ting C, mfoVtably in their Hoston rock
ers. were inclined to take the night
easily, and chatted over the merits and
peculiarities of the deal, the strange
oceurrnc. i of his last moments, and any
thing that turned up in the way of
village gossip, as those will "who
accustom themselves to such duties.
- Meanwhile, the snowstorm that had
been promising a visit had all day been
busy, and now was' drifting into white
nia sos through the street, was whirl
ing in blinding clouds through the air,
while not a single being in the whole
village was out of doors, and in the
houses warm fires and hot drinks did
their best to make things cozy and
comfortable.
So the hours wore away, and, as
the evening grew late, the two old
crones, grown tired of gossip, bad
nodded their frowsy old heads at one
another until both had gone off into a
profound and noisy sleep.
Kow down the street, a short dis
tance from Simon Grayberry’s cottage,
there was a tavern, and in the bar
room. where a huge wood-fire went
crackling and hissing up the wide
mouthed chimney, there were congre
gated, as usually congregated there on
winter nights, a dozen or so of the in
habitants of the village, who met thus
nightly to enjoy their punch and their
pipes in social communion.
Tiiis night, in particular, punch and
pipes were in extraordinary demand.
The season had been so open and free
from storms that this was really the
first occasion that had offered for such
a gathering, and it had been taken ad
vantage of by more than .the usual
quota of jolly weatherbeaten tars, who
sat and canvassed, sententiously, such
objects as came before them.
Among these, naturally enough, the
question of Sexton Grayberry’s re
markable utterances at his off-going
was brought prominently forward.
| “Ularst my eyes!” said “English
Bob,” as he was called, a burly, good
| natured-looking fellow, who leaned
! hack against the mantel, and talked in
a husky voice through a cloud of “the
| essence of old Virginny,” “I’ve a hidca
the old chap’s been priggin’ summat as
lias laid ’eavy on 'is conshuns.”
“ Nonsense answered the landlord,
seeing no one else was likely to take
itup; “old Simon was as honest as
they make ’em; and, beside, where on
earth could he find anything to ‘ prig'
in this consumed poor place V’’
This was unanswerable, and the
vlllfler of the dead was silenced for a
moment
Presently, a long, lean, slab-sided,
lantern-jawed peddler, who had come
in belated and put up for the night, put
in ids word. He was dressed in a
faded, seedy-looklng suit of black, and
presented anything but an inviting ap
pearance. He had been silent thus
far, had heard the story of the death
bed scene told and retold, and now, as
he satwith his legs crossed, and his
[II ted back, he drawled out:
wl. I’m a stranger here, and
go* no call to meddle with things
B consarn me, but if it was so
U any interest in thesf parts, I
■e kinder lookin’ tarfmd alter
■lyjeweiry, and it the live peo-
■ ng.
day
IKBBFT the aforesaid vehicle.
Home, and appropriately named
PRutebird,” started \ aliautly forth,
of the atahloyard in a narrow
Erect in the suburbs of Boston, and,
" ith three passengers inside for way
stations, and one passenger outs.de for
Bushport, took its way along the high
road. inti direction north-and by-east
ward, through what was alrgjaly a
respectable snowstorm, hoping to
accomplish the journey before the
roads liecame so blocked up as to utterly
preotude wheeling; for the snow’-
storm had come on suddenly, and the
“Bluebird's" runners were at Bush
port.
The first tep miles were made In two
hours and a half, and there the last of
the "insides ’ left the coach, rejoicing.
Eleven miles to go, the snow drift
ing heavily, and a blinding wind driv
ing in the faces of the driver and the
one "outside,’ who said he was a
sailor, and laughed to scorn the idea of
“going below ou account of a little
snow squall.”
Seven miles further on the “Blue
b rd” stopped to change horses and
driver and "outside” went into the
little tavern to get supper.
A fine, stalwart, sailor-looking fellow
was the “outside;” tall and handsome,
with chestnut curls all over his head
and down on his white forehead; laugh
ing blue eyes shining through the drops
of wet that hong on his eyelashes; rosy
cheeks, that glistened after the pelting
they had received.
Driver and “outside” were both
urged to put up for the night; but the
driver was* plucky, and would not be
bluffed off bridging his mail in, and
the "outside” sudd that he would get
to Bushport that n'ght, if he had to
walk there.
brain
lucidly, and
||gs aU right I should—
■Upy suspicions 1”
Biat that, and tlm
&g|. 1 to support
ifriend, had
& call the
nvarea to
his
Hit
kring
Hr
iHi
jE9 ni.-ii
V weel,,
BPf.-n ing
Rternoon,
1 in about
■Erupted of a
Prevent safe and
So the supper was eaten, and, with
I two lighted pipes in mouth, driver and
“outside” mounted on the box, and the
whip cracked, and away they went
again into the driving wind and
j through the drifting snow.
It was now past nine, ar.d, though
the coach pressed gallantly forward, it
j made hut little headway, the smoking
I horses having desperate hard work to
! keep on a fast walk.
| Two of the four miles had been
pas-eel over when, as the coach made a
sharp turn round a bend in the read
which the wind had blown dry, the off
fore-wheil struck a tree, which an un
lucky blast had blown across the road,
and with a jolt and a heave over went
; the “ Bluebird,” and away flew driver
j and “outside” into a drift, where they
disappeared, to crawl out again, shake
, themselves, and stare lugubriously at
| the down-fallen vehicle.
! Fortunately, they were near a farm
house, and thither both betook them
selves, and obtaining assistance the
horses were soon housed in a comfort
able bam.
Tiie driver then announced his in
tention of accepting the coniial invita
-1 Gon they both received to remain all
j night, but the “outside,” game to the
last, resisted every solicitation, and
i after warming himself by the lire,
swung a bundle which he carried over
h’s shoulder, and, with a stout stick
in his baud, plunged resolutely into
the snow again.
The farmhouse door close behind
him, and as he gained the road, marked
only by the long white lino between
the fields and woods on either side, he
almost felt inclined to give it up; bat
’"MaKI? coura geous fellow, this sailor,
the momentary weakness
indulged on.
It was past eleven when the lights
of the village appeared, and, with a
sigh of relief, he stepped more lightly,
thinking of the wiwm reception which
was to repay him >r this night’s in
convenience, and many other nights’
peril and adversity.
The straggling house* of the viUage
were passed; theoid church leorned up
in the darkness; a cottage near by was
lighted up In one room, and he leaned
for a moment an the railing of the
graveyard and hesitated.
Suddenly, as his eye glanced over the
well-remeinbered stones, he si.w some
thing move. A chill, more piercing
than the cold blast he had 1 een under
for so many hours, almost froze his
blood, for the sailor-mind is proverbi
ally superstitious. But he stood still,
gazed and waited.
It was a tall figure; white —oi course
everything was white—and It Jittered
weakly toward the gate near which he
leaned. Presently it reached him,
opened the gate, and as he stood with
his tongue dinging to tiie roof of his
mouth, and his hair bristling with
fear, he knew who it was—it was
Simon the sexton of Uush-
lie the
. while lie shouted
* Springing me t Don't
old man in his
to him:
•• Father 1 father It
you know me 1 It’*
Tom I” .
Then tiie old sexton stood rve
holding up his finger,* whiperedm-p .
“Hush! don’t speak
robt,’ Thrsfiflyr- W sorry
you won’t tell any one?" /
To put the little box xrhljh his
father gave him carefully in hisjricket;
| a dim idea of the truth poss<yi#him,
land taking the Jv 1 hi *
he stepped witiy-xb’' burden to
■he’’ 0 f the tarfrn, which j was
■heart- than the oertage. and whey-’ he
Fsaw a light burning; and so jus t as
1 the landlord had madothe remark eon
cerning the lat ness of the Boston
coach, it happened that the tavern
door opened, and a stout figure,/ In a
sou’wester, and covered with know,
staggered in, bearing in his amps the
body of dead Sexton Orayl erry.l
“ Bear a hand ! Boys, it’s rat, Tom
Or ay berry, and this is my father. I
found the old gentleman wandering in
the graveyard in his nightclotties ; he
must have been out of his
Such a start as that crowd ofi fisher
men got may be imagined. They re
treated back into a corner, and! looked
at Torn and the prostrate form at his
feet as though both were ghosts.
Finally the landlord clapped Tom on
the shoulder, and said:
‘•You're Tom 0 ray b'rry, that I’ll go
bail; but the old man's dead; and we
left two women a-watch ing of him up
to the cottage; he died last night.”
Tom had risen up and stood looking
at him for a moment; then he stoop and
down, tore open the long gown that
wrapped the old man, and placed his
hand over his heart. It had stopped
beating.
“He is dead now,” said Tom.
••Come with me, some of you;” and,
raising the body tenderly in his arms,
lie strode through the door, over the
way. and straight on to the cottage.
The landlord ran ahead and opened
the door, while the crowd followed at
a respectful distance.
As they entered the sitting-room
the two women rose, screaming cut of
their sleep, frightened at this sadden
inroad.
But nothing recked Tom, as he car
ried the body straight past them to
the bedroom, and laid it on the empty
bed)
The whole matter was plain now;
the window was open, and through it
the old sexton, awakened from his
swoon, had taken his fearful course.
Tom said nothing about the box of
jewelry, and two days after the old
sexton was quietly buried in the little
j graveyard. Tom staid in Bushport
many months; and when the'spring
opened he and sweet Alice Scott were
married in the old church.
And the good people of Bushport
never knew anything more definite
than the peddler's * suspicions,” and
their own imaginings, about Simon
1 Orayberry's deathbed speech, or the
true story of the “Sexton's Ghost,”
WITH THE APACHE SCOUTS.
SOMETHIN Q ABOUT THE IHDIAH
AUT.TEfI OH THE TBOHTISH.
Physical and >1 mlul Chararlerlstics of lap.
Indian Scout*— How They Live on the
Starch and In Caau.
A New York Herald correspondent
has been traveling with the Apache
scouts, advance guides of the United
States troops on the Mexican frontier,
and wilting about their peculiarities,
he says:
Their chests were broad, deep and
full; shoulders perfectly straight,
limbs well proportioned, g'.raigbt ’and
muscular, without a suggestion of un
due heaviness. Hands and feet are
small and taper, but wiry. Their
heads are well shaped, and their coun
tenance! often lit up with a pleasant,
good-natured expression, which would
be more constant, perhaps, were it not
for the savage, untamed cast imparted
by the loose, disheveiei, gyp -y locks
of raven black, held awav from the’
face by a broad, flat band of scarlet
cloth. Their eyes are bright, dear and
bold, and, if a little experience enables
one to judge accurately, are frequently
expressive of the greatest good humor
and satisfaction. Uniforms are issued
to them, but donned upon ceremonial
occasions only. On the inarch each
wore a loosely-fitting shirt of red,
white or gray stuff, generally of calico
in some gaudy figure, but not infre
quently the somber article of woolen
raimint issued to white soldiers. Tills
came down outside a pair of loose cot
ton drawers reaching to the moccasins.
The moccasins are their most important
article of apparel. In a fight or on a long
march it is said that they will discard
all else, but under any and every cir
cumstance will retain the moccaun, A
leather belt encircling the waist holds
forty rounds of metallic cartridges,
and also keeps in place the regulation
blue biouse and pantaloons, which are
worn upon the person only when the
Indian s :out is anxious to “paralvze”
the frontier towns or military posts by
a display of all his finery. The other
trappings of these savage auxiliaries
area Springfield bi* mil-loading rifle,
army pattern, a canteen full of water,
a butcher knife, an awl in a leather
case, a pair of tweezers and a tag.
The awl is used for sewing moccauns
or work of that kind. With the twee
zers the Apache young man carefully
picks out each ami every hair appear
ing upon his face. The tag marks ids
placs in the tribe and is in reality noth
ing more or lesi than a revival of a
plan adopted during the civil war for
the identification of soldiers belonging
to the different corps and divisions.
Each male Indian at tiie San < ’arlos is
tagged and numbered and a descriptive
list corresponding to the tag kept,
with a full recital of all his physical
peculiarities.
Tiie rate of speed attained fy the
Apaches in marching is about ah even
four miles an hour on foot or not quite
fast enough to mane a horse,trC They
keep this up for about lifteen miles, at
the end of which distance, if water be
encountered and no enemy be sighted, -
they congregate in bands of te\ to
hide in some convenient
cigarettes; cimi
in th e siH||
! light, it
fire they kindle one >vftm-dnM||HUe
they have any with them ;
rapid twirl between the palms of a
hard, round stick, fitting into a circular
hole in another stick of softer fiber,
will bring fire in forty-five seconds.
Theaoouts also paint the face to prevent
the hot winds from blistering It; for
this purpose they make ute of antelope
blood, or the juice of the roasted
•‘mescal” (century plant.)
The short morning rest of the
Apaches was broken by the shrill cry
of “ Choddee ! ChodJee P* ( Antelope I
Antelope !) and far away on the left
the dull “slump! slump!'* of rides told
that the Apaches on that flank were
getting fresh meat for the evening
meal Ten carca-s* showed that they
were not the worst of shots, and your
correspondent takes pleasure in assert
ing that they are not by any means
bad cooks. When the command
reached camp these restless, indefati
gable nomads built in a tries all kinds
of rude shelters ; those that had the
army “dog tents” put them up on frame
works of willow or cottonwood sap
lings; others, less fortunate, improvised
domiciles of branches, covered with
grass, or of stone and boards and
pieces of gunnysacks. Before these
were finished smoke curled gracefully
toward the sky from crackling embers,
in front of which, transfixed on
wooden sp'ti, were the heads, hearts
and livers of several of the victims of
the afternoon’s chase. Another addi
tion to the “ spolia optima ” was a cot
tontail rabbit, run down by these fleet
footed Bedouins of the ’ Southwest.
Turkey and quail, it is asserted by
those who know, are caught in the
same manner. Meantime a couple of
scouts are making bread, the light,
thin “tortillas” of the Mexicans,
baked quickly in a pan, and not bad
eating. Two others are fraternally
occupied in preparing their bed for the
night. Grass is pulled out by hand
fuls, laid upon the ground and covered
with one blanket, another serving as
cover. These Indians, witli scarcely
an exception, sleep with their feet
pointed toward little fires, which they
claim are warm, while the big ones built
by the American soldiers’ are so hot
that tliey drive people away from them
and beside attract, the attention of
any lurking enemy. At the foot of
t his bed an Apache is playing upon a
hosse-mado “fiddle,’' fabricated from
the stalk of the Arneri an aloe. It h;’s
four strings ansi produces a sound like
the wail of a cat with her tad caught
in a fence. Enchanted and stimulated
bv the concord of sweet sounds, a partv
of six is playing fiercely at the Mexi
can game of ■• monte,” the cards em
ployed bring of native manufacture,
of horse hide, covered with barbarous
figures and welt worthy of a place in
an* museum of curiosities.
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