Newspaper Page Text
THS GRASSHOPPER
William S. Brirge in the Independent.
;injj tee shoes of the fair quocu,
V ,• ( Mas a eonblcr of oil tho fays.
•y, >. we. aim p;.rpl?s aud greens end grays;
\ -a- p>- old fellow and merry was lie
e jit on to>- V.rib of the oid o il. tree;
merry any. hoki sat! ever so old,
U : ueard ono day wtttu this story waif told:
\ bobolink skinr isbinr over the wax,
; a il,-d to the trras.shojvjier. "Sir, good day:"-
.-.mi tno grasshopper eol-.biiug still at his shoe,
\nsivered tii'iitelv, ‘‘Tile same to you!"
\,,j nodded Uis head with a little btnv.
Though I couldn't exactly tell you how;
! or toe prince of good manners—-the grasshop
]ior—he.
,\s lie cobbled away in bis old oak tree!
••How much do you make by the day and the
weekf *
The bobolink asked with a flirt and a shriek:
"Three golden leaves of the buttercup's
flower
Three crystal drops from the latest shower;
T hree sacks of meal of the pollen's best
That the elves shake off from the cowslip's
breast;
And iliat doth keep me both well and good—
i’or I'm the boss-cobbler of all the wood!”
A barefoot boy ns he caw along
Had loitered to list to the bobolink's soug,
Aud shy a stoue, ns well as he could,
At the little boss cobbler of all the wood;
"Von cobble a sdjoe:" he cried as he laughed,
"You're the funniest cobbler of all your craft;
t\ by, vour leather's a leaf and your paste—it is
dew?
O what a cobbier to cobble a shoe!”
but the bobolink' answered with honest wrath,
As he ] stored at the boy in the woodland path,
"Each one is wisest and skillfuliest, too,
That knows just the work that he has to do;
For elfin feet those slippers are liest.
That arc made from the tiniest leaflet's vest;
While Nature’s leather seems fitted for you,
As you wear it still!” And away he flew.
MORNING NEWS LIBRARY, NO. 2 7.
FIVE OLD LETTERS^
BY MISS S. LUCY JOYNER.
[Copyrighted, 18S7, by J. H. Estill.]
CHAPTER H.— Continued.
Jan. IS.—How long it seems since I wrote
all that! Jeffrey, can it be that you do not
know what I have to tell you, as I sit alone
in my room, listening again to the wind and
rain sobbing and wailing, as if in sympathy
with my empty heart ! Yes, empty —like the
house, and all the dreary world. It is over.
lam alone. The rain is beating pitilessly
on my darling, where he lies, out in the cold.
Ob! God pity all who have ever listened to
that cruel sound as I now listen to it! God
help me to bear it, or my heart will break!
Good night, Jeffrey, dearest friend and
cousin. If, before I send this packet, I can
bear to open my bleeding wouuds, I will tell
you all. If not, when time has softened it—
they say it will—it must, or I shall die!—l
will write again.
Jan. 35. A glorious day! Sunshine every
where. The far-off hills that I see from my
narrow window are swimming in a golden
glory of light and shadow. It steals through
the little cracked panes of glass, in a warm,
glad stream over my bare floor, rests loving
ly on the flower-pots that I have neglected
so long, and plays over my black dress, and
tired hands. But not one faint ray reaches
my heart. O, Jeffrey, there is no" light for
me in heaven or earth. I worked and smiled,
and hoped and prayed, while there w'as one
to work for, one whom my smiles could
cheer, one for whom I could pray, for whom
1 did pray that God "would, at least, bring
her back to him, that he might die with his
heart at rest. Too late! oh. too lnt e! As I
write, from the adjoining room—his room
faint moans roach my ear that make my
heart ache with dread and loneliness, for
Edith is lying there—Edith, whom my
brother loved, and blessed with bis last
breath —Edith, whose wild beauty won bis
love, whose jealousy broke his heart! Edith,
who made his life one long pain with his
love and his fears for her future—she is
here, sick and alone —dying, perhaps, and I
must arouse myself and care for her, work
for her, watch by her side, as I did for him,
with that terrible “too late!” ringing in my
heart. I am weak, weak to-day! I shud
der to think how hopeless and dark my soul
has grown. O, to lie out yonder in the
quiet church-yard, by his side! O, to feel
that never again must I take up the burden
of life!
Let me try to toll you now, Jeffrey, while
mv heart goes back over these last sorrow
ful weeks. It was in the dead of night,
when I heard his voice calling to me;
“Bessie! Bessie!’’
Can I ever forget those tones? They
awoke me from happy slumbers to realities,
the bitterness of which I had never dreamed.
I was at his side in a moment. He had not
been worse, and we had parted at bed-time
most cheerfully, yet, when I saw him, I
knew what it was]
He was not afraid, he said, and there was
nothing to do. He would not have the doc
tor—he did not need him. He felt that his
life was going out, and he wanted me near
him. That was all! All? O, Father in
heaven! had it indeed come? what I had
feared and dreaded, and wildly prayed to
be spared! I had never seen death, and
could I face it thus, alone ! I did do it. For
a long time we two talked together, loving
ly, quietly, sadlv: and then the cold damp
gathered on his'brow, and I watched him,
breathing hard, looking at me with voico
less pity in his eyes, while I held his head
on my breast, pressing passionate kisses on
the lips that could no longer speak to me,
fouling, with what despairing agony I can
never tell, that he was slipping from ino,
and all my love could not keep him; that
his feet were in the dark waters, and I could
not help him! When the dawn came, and
great, ghostly shadows were filling the
room, I held him still in my arms —clasped
close—with his dear, dead face smiling up
into mine. The very shadow of doath was
upon my soul. Ido not know how long I
sat thus. I di<i not know who It was that
lifted my dead from my arms, at last, and
led me away, until I found myself lying on
my bed, and heard Mrs. O'Flannigan’s
henrtsome tones, talking to nurse.
“An’ so she wouldnx call ye. as would
save her ivory fret, intirely, if bnly ye
could, but jist set there, in the dead o’ night,
a huggin’, an’ a huggin’ o’ his poir dead
body—as if, poir thing, she could iver hug
any loifo into that cowld day. O, an’ it’s
b( 1, for shurc!” Hero I hoard a sob. “I
don’t mean to giv way, for it’s meself as
should hearten the rist "of ye, but it’s enuf
to take the heart out of a liody to think o’
how she looked whin meself aud the koind
docthrer wint in—jist a settin’ there, all
scared, loike. with nor eyas looking for all
the wurruld like two great blue stones, and
her poir face as whoite as the dead man's.
Och! Mistiness Nurse, niver, in all me days,
have I seen sich a howly and divoino look
on the face of iny human, livin’ or deoil. It
seemed to sav roiglit to mo heart: 'Ah!
M isthress O'Dlaiiuigiii, it's all roight, in
tirely, with me, now. No more scufflin'
with this warysome loifo, niver a bit of rint
to bother over here, for.’ the swate smoile
teemed to say, ‘this hear is kevvin, and this
hear is rest, and the blissid Christ and the
rowly Saints is a boinding up me wounds,
erd a pouring of oil into me heart.’ It’s
swate ard claim in tlm room, and the doc
threr'a fetched a tnino chance o’ blossoms,
and I bought a u hoite rose, and it’s Biddy
O'Klannigrtn as laid it on his broast, her own
*ilf, fur he niver held hissolf above the
jo.kos o’ mo, didn't Mr. Harrud, an' he’d al
ius a koind wurrud for Biddy, an’ sure an’
I know'd ns she ns were his dnrlint wouldn’t
niyer take it amiss—not she, God bliss her—
ho, a lookin’ that oarrum and peaceful,
loike. O, but the tears will come into these
ould eye* o’ motne whin I think o’ that poir
Ifinb. Ro j(gt pick up heart, honey, an’
don’t lie a givin’ way to ro own foelinks,
tho sure an’it’s but nat’ral you should feel
J bit rut up, fur it's koind to’ you he we.rc;
hut dry yOT.iJj’efJ and look aftner the young
luiuhrcj, an' it’s aacrilf as will help ye
ivery ininr.it I can stale from me man, fur
he s a bit graspin', is Dennis, an' none o' the
gentlest o' men to daje with.”
All! Biddy: kind, true hearted Biddy! I
wonder if anything could have touched me
as did your rough, homely words! How, at
thought of your white rose, lying on his
breast, the warm, healing tears flowed for
the first time. llow your description of tho
pure, peaceful face roused me from the
stupor of gr.ef that had fallen upon me, to
hasten to <my darling’s side. A few hours
later, nurse came to sav that a woman
wished to see me below, i shook my head,
and begged not to be disturbed. Presently
there was a knock at the door. I arose to
open it, and Edith stood before me! She
was scarcely changed. The same command
ing figure, the same colorless face, lit up
with weird-looking black eyes—sad eyes
they were, always, but now, as they met
mine, so full of horror aud pain that I could
not bear to see them, I could not speak the
unkind words that were in my heart, as I
thought of all she had made him suffer. I
only pointed to that still figure. I knew
the patient, weary face would be reproach
enough. With her old queenly grace, she
crossed the room and stood beside nim. Not
a tflettior of the proud lips, not a quiver of
the eyelids, told of any emotion. She stood
there, motionless and calm, before the man
who had been .her husband. It drove me
mad.
“Woman!” I cried, “have you no heart?
Can you stand thus unmoved before the ruin
your own hands have wrought? He loved
you, and you only; he would have died for
you, and you broke his heart! the tonderest
and truest that ever beat in mortal bosom!”
Whatever else I might have said died on
my iips, for she turned and looked at me. I
shall never forget the dumb entreaty of that
100k —its hopeless agony! I crossed the
room and lifted the sheet from his dear
face.
“Edith,” I whispered, “forgive me! If
you loved him, forgive me! He left you
his blessing; your name was the last on his
lips."
As she caught sight of the rigid face, so
still, so sweet and grand in the majesty
death sometimes lends, a lov? cry broke
from her lips, and the next moment she was
sobbing tumultuously on his breast.
“O, Harold! O, my darling! I loved you
—I loved you! I would give all the years
of my life for one word of forgiveness from
those white lips!”
I was powerless to comfort such grief as
this, and I left them alone together. ”
When I went back, an hour later, Edith
was sitting on the floor, with his hand in
her’s, talking iueoherently to herself, or to
him. I caught the words:
“Yes, I have come back to you, and I will
never leave you again—never! And I shall
never be jealous again, and call you cold
because you are quiet, for I know you love
me; oh! yes, I know it now!”
Then a wild, despairing cry:
“Too late! too late! He will not speak to
me—he does not even tell me that he for
gives me’”
Even then fever had set in, She has not
been conscious since. It is dreadful to hear
her piteous cries for forgiveness. Dr. Hawks
is very kind. I forgive her now, and, God
knows, my heart has bled for her. She has
been more quiet to-day, aud the doctor says
there is some hope. I have not spoken of
Josie, because my grief for her has been so
bitter I could not bear to speak of it.
I said my dear brother's last words were
of Edith. That was the passion of his life.
I never knew until then how much he had
loved her; how he had worn her image in
his heart, through all these weary months;
how he had watched for her return to the
very last; how perfect his love was, in that,
at imy moment, he was ready to take her
back to his heart. But quite as tender,
though different, was his love for Josie, his
“baby girl,” he always called her. It was
hai and for him to go without a last good bye
from her —hard for him, yet, oh! so much
harder for her—to have to hear the dread
ful news, all unprepared for it, as she was,
ahd so far away! When she did hear it, she
could not come, just to kiss his sweet face
once, as she so longed to do, because she had
not the means to come and return, and she
could not afford to lose her place. O, grim,
hideous poverty, how many heartaches you
have given our ill-starred family! So there
was nothing to do but bear it alone—we
two who could so much have lightened it
for each other —for Josie is brave, as well as
tender, and she is all the world to me?
Feb. 20.—1 have not had the heart to send
this bundle of egotism. It bears so many
different dates that I ought not to send it,
at all. But, somehow, I want you to know'.
Do you remember how you used to beguile
me into tolling you all my secrets? Once,
when Josie was playing “Queen Mary,” and
beheaded my prettiest wax doll, how' I sob
bed it all out on vour breast? That is your
great charm, Jeffrey—the silent, subtle
power of sympathy. How well I remember
when you first came to us, at your mother’s
death,"u boy of 12, so full of your loss that
your lips would quiver and your eyes fill at
every mention of her name, and yet strug
gling manfully to be merry with the rest of
us! I ought not to have gone back to those
dear old days. Ah! it seems like another
life! You will feel as if you are reading a
novel when you dome to tho last event in
my chapter of sorrows. How strange that
such things are happening every day in tho
world around us, and yet, when they come
into our own lives, they seem too horrible to
be borne. I am not so I was. I
do not know what I might ha™ been, but
for Biddy’s loving philosophy.
“It's yourself as has a dale o’ trouble, my
lamb,” she says to me, “an’ yet there bo
miny a heart in this gret city as has all the
throble as makes yer own "ake an’ throb,
with niver a bit o’ the blissed eomfurt; aye,
sure an’ miny a heart as is heavy with
keel's, an’ with sin an’ crime, too, for the
matter o’ that, an’ all because there’s niver
a soul to say a koind wurrud, or do a koind
dade, while it’s yourself as has the swate
mimories o’ your darlint, an’ a clane heart,
for sure, as knows it done it's dooty by him,
and not loike the poir leddy a reproachiu’ of
itself from morrun till noight!”
You nni'tjjot get tired of Biddy O’Flan
nigan’s talk, for she always says the right
thing. For all her coarse hands and red
face, she has a true woman’s heart. It is
wonderful, the tact and delicacy that under
lie some of her rough sayings.
Edith has been very, very ill. A week
ago she was better, and could sit up nearly
all day iu her room. But she took no inter
est in anything around her. It was heart
rending to see her sitting there, her great
eyes full of a settled despair, refusing all
comfort, and looking so utterly desolate.
There was little I could say to her. Once I
asked her if it would not comfort her to
talk of him, and she put up her hand, as if
I had struck her.
“Not now,” she said, “not now!”
I strove in many ways to cheer her, but
in vain. Sometimes I’would read to her,
but I knew from her eyes that she did not
hear me. One rainy day, when I had been
out, I met her on the stairs, wrapped in a
shawl from head to foot.
“Why, Edith!” I cried, “you are not
strong enough to go out; where can you lie
going?”
“1 must go to the churchyard,” she said,
hu.xkilv, “perhaps it will help me.”
I knelt down before her on the stairs, and
put niv arms around her.
“Efith! Edith! this is madness! Youaro
risking your life. Wait a few days longer,
and I will go with you. It is a sweet, quiet
sjKit. and—ah! yes, 1 know how you long to
go; but j'ou must not go yet!”
Like a tired child, she yielded, and drop
ped her head on my shoulder. I helped her
to her room, and laid her on her sofa, and
for hours sho lay there sobbing, in utter
abandonment.
I could not sleep that night. Once I
thought I hoai'd a noise on the stairs, but,
as it was not repeated, I tried hard to com
ikisc mvself. But a strange, restless feeling
quite possessed me, and finally I dressed aud
wont into Edith’s room. The lamp burned
dimly— a few coals were in the grate. 1
went very softly to Edith’s bod, to see If
she slept. It had not been touched. I
groped my ivny to the sofa. It was empty.
7 grow sick wit h horror, os the truth burst
upon r.i. Edith was gone! Where? and
for what 1 I knew oitjf W+rtM. I turned
|up the light, ana, a* TMgtcte d, there was a
THE MORNING NEW r S: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 1887.
note, feebly scrawled, with trembling
fingers; alas! for her broken heart! her
wrecked and ruined life!
“Bessie, whom my husband loved, whom
I now’ love more than anything in this life,
you have been good to me as an angel of
heaven, but even for you I cannot live. All
day and all night it rings in my ears: ‘He
loved you, anil you killed him—yes. killed
him, as surely as if you had taken his life
blood.’ When I shut my eyes I see his still,
awful face, as I saw it that day—beautiful
aud hoaveulv, but so far removed from such
as I. It said to me then, it says to me uow:
‘Woman, this is your work; there is a gulf
between us. Where God has taken me, you
can never come!’ You would beg me to re
pent, but it is too late for that. Do not
seek me, Bessie. It will all be over when
you read this. The river is near, and its
low moan lias been beckoning me to come
all day. You will see him again some day.
O, child, take him Edith’s undying love,
aud tell him she has atoned for her sin!”
What did I do? There was no time to
lose, surely. She would go first to the
churchyard. I knew that, and it was my
only hope. I called up my fearless Biddy,
and, with Dennis and nurse following at a
little distance, we hastened to the river
landing; It was not quite dark. A young
moon was struggling with dark cloud
masses, and showed us the bridge and tho
murky waters, and the weird-looking
barges on its bosom. She was there before
us. Too late! too late! again the madden
ing words rang in my ears; for the tall
figure, standing on the bridge, lifted its
arms and clasped them above its head for a
moment, then plunged into the black waters
below. But Dennis sprang after her, while
Biddy aud I waded knee-deep into the
water, ready to help him with his burden.
He struggled bravely, and presently laid
Her in our arms, and then, sheltered from
notice by the darkness, be carried her in his
strong arms and laid her, dripping aud ap
parently lifeless, on her bed.
It was long before she was conscious, and
for two days and nights we thought the
feeble spark of life would go out. at any
moment. But God was merciful, and
spared the life she had rashly taken into her
own hands.
Sho is better now—better in body and
mind, and she bos told me everything.
How the knowledge of her humble birtn,
and her husband’s unsual devotion to his
sisters, maddened her with jealousy. She
did not understand the quiet strength of his
love, and, she harbored these jealous doubts
until her whole nature became embittered.
Then, when she knew even liis generous
nature had been tried too far, and she felt
he was estranged from her forever, she
could bear it no longer. She had wanted
to go back to him, but was too proud. Had
she known in time of his poverty and ill
ness, nothing, she said, could have kept her
from bint. When she did hear it, she
hastened to his side, and reached him just
one day too late!
She had a music class in K , but last
week they wrote to iuforrn her that her
place had been supplied; the}’ could not
wait for her longer. I am so thankful to
help her. I know it is what my brother
would have wished, and I think’ he must
look down approvingly on our new friend
ship.
I will not write another page! It is ask
ing too much of you to read all this. If
you ever pray (and you know you used to)
ask God to give me patience, for I need it
sorely, sorely. Your cousin,
Bessie Harwood.
CHAPTER 111.
A few tears fall on this letter, as I fold it
and lay it away with the first. Then I shut
my eyes (my fire has quite died out) and call
up pictures from my past. How they troop
before me! —gay ones and sad ones; but one
shining out clear above the rest. A dusky
room; a few chairs; a table with a dark
green cover, and some choice books; a high
mantel, decorated with a trailing plant that
hides its bareness; a vase of hyacinths on a
stand near the window, and the smell of
violets in the room. A joutig girl sitting
in the shadow's. A slanting sunbeam strays
through a crack in the shutter, and falls on
her hair —yellow hair that looks in the
shimmering light like burnished gold, and
shines out in my picture like an aureola
around the fair face. Such a sweet face it
is! So full of all that is pure and womanly!
So full of all that is brave, and true, and
tender! Lurking in the corners of the
mouth that have a weary droop, there are
proud lines, but no bitterness. The eyes
look wistful, through all their steadfastness,
and all the sadder because they are eyes
that seldom weep.
This is my fourth letter:
, June 4, 18—.
My Dear Jeffrey: How strange to think
of your having been in this very room a
week ago! It seems like a dream—your
coming to me that evening. It was like
you to give up your travels when you heard
that I was in distress, and like me that I re
fused to let you share your fortune with
me, and made you cross. I am always
blundering. I have a haunting fear that
we are not quite as good friends as we
were. You are, and still you are not, what
I expected to And you. There was a reserve
about you that was not like your old self.
That I tell you this is proof that I, at least,
am perfectly frank with you. I cling so to
old ties. You have always been my best
friend, my bon comarade, and, as in your
letter you beg me to continue my confidences,
lam falling again into the old habit. An
other thing that annoyed me a little was
that you did not seem in the least to admire
my friend. Dr. Hawks, but spoke rather
sarcastically of the “saintliness of his bear
ing.” Now, that was not kind. But I shall
forget it all now that you are absent again.
I have missed you very much. You do not
know, perhaps, how well you talk; how
perfectly you combine the rare, gift of elo
quence with pleasant manners and good
taste. For instance, you tell me of dining
at Lord 's. You say frankly that it was
an accident, as you ore simply an American
citizen, nith no titles, or other claim to dis
tinction. I know that your patrician face
and manners (excuse * the compliment)
marked you as the peer of the proudest of
his guests, especially when introduced by
your distinguished friend, Mr. . But
you only describe the noblemen present, and
the English customs, and I bear no silly
egotisms such as this: “Lord told me
in confidence, that,” etc. “I told him if he
took my advice,” etc. I have heard several
learned travelers talk in this style, and I
rather feared it from you. I like your
modesty. Is this too much to say to you .-
But, seriously, Jeff, you must like Dr.
Hawks. I am going to confess to you, as
usual, but I am not quite sure that this con
fession will ever fall into your hands It
was two days ago. I had been unusually
busy, and, when my day’s work was over,
found it too late to go out alone. I was
tired. That morning I had received a letter
from roy sister. She was married, in the
early spring, to Lynn Wallace, a nephew of
the lady in whose family she was staying. I
had her with me a month, and then he
came; and one morning we went quietly to
the little church beneath whose shadow our
brothel'sleeps; and the solemn words wore
said that made them one. We went out
from the church in the sweet sunshine, and
stood together, for a few moments, over
our darling’s grave, while the birds sang in
the boughs above us, as if delirious with
toy: anu, though tears wars in hor eyes, 1
Knew the songs were echoed in her pure
heart 1 They left me there, and I—well, no
matter what I did —she was gone and I was
alone once more! But tho letter, fihe said
that her husband wished to offer me a posi
tion which my pride could not And the
shadow of aii excuse for refusing. Ho
wanted mo to take charge of his business
correspondence. He had found it nooewary
to have someone. and they wanted no one
but me. I smiled when I iiad finished the
long letter, so full of pleading, and of the
necessity of my going at once. It was
tempting. But alas! the pleasant work
roust b done by other bands than mine.
Nothing surer than that. I could not leave
Edith hero alone. My duty lay plain be
fore me. So I mused as I stood by the
window, in tho gloaming, watching the
doinia—heavy aria dark they were—drift
ing wildly and purposelessly through the
amber glow of tli -.unset, Like uiy life, 1
thought, and then the very bitterness of
desolation swept over me. 1 thought of my
dead aud of my living—both having drifted
beyond me. A fragment from Mrs. Brown
ing came into my bead:
“My heart is very tired- mv strength is low—
Mv hands are i nil of blossoms plucked l>efore.
Held dead within them till myself shall die."
Sweetest of poets! The words stirred my
soul to its depths, and the last barrier of self
restraint gave way. I covered my faee
with both hands, and reckless sobs burst
from me. Like a hurt child, I felt there
was nothing left mo but to sob out my pain
in wild weeping. Then a hand was laid on
my head, with a touch as tender and rever
ent as a woman’s. It was the doctor’s. I
did not look up or speak to him, but
listened, like a child again, to his quiet,
soothing tones. Not that he said much. I
scarcely know what ho said. But surprise,
grief, and most tender sympathy, I knew he
felt.
So I let him load mo to the sofa, where I
dropped my head again. The tears, once
started, seemed to flow from fathomless
depths, and I could not stay them. When
I could look at him, I was struck by tho
stern, sad composure of his faee.
“It is as I feared,” he said, “you have
broken down at last, under this unnatural
strain. You are only a woman, you see,
after all, with flesh, and blood, and nerves.”
There I interrupted him, impatiently. I
told him that I was far less than a true
woman, or he would never have seen me so
weak. I bogged him to go a wav. I said he
had no right to be there, when I wanted no
one. He took my hands then, aud held
them, and spoke to me as he never bad be
fore; with a certain air of authority that I
submitted to beca use—l could not help it.
He said he knew what this meant, that I
was wearing out my strength with the life
of confinement I led. He said (which
certainly was not true) that I was sacrific
ing the best part of my life to Edith; that
while it seemed most beautiful to him, yet
he could not boar to sje it; that I needed
change aud rest, and that I must have it.
“If you value your life,” lie was saying.
I had been listening to him with that dreary
listlessness that follows sharp pain, mental
or physical.
“I mean this very seriously,” ho went on.
“If you sot any value on your life—”
My wits were sadly at sea, for, miugled
with the passionate protest that rose to my
lips, the words an old woman had once said
to me of her littlo sick child (that had cried
out, “O, I wish I could die!” kept repeating
themselves in my brain, with a ludicrous
appropriateness.
“To think it should set so little vally on
its little life,” the woman had said of the
child, and she had laughed and laughed, as
if it were a wonderful joke 1
How we had laughed, too! not at the
child, but the woman—ah! and then there
came a picture of rnysolf and Josie in those
careless days of early youth, laughing at
everything in very gladness of heart.
“If you place any value on your life!”
The words, repeated earnestly, brought, me
back to the present. I answered bitterly.
Why should I value it? Was it so fair a
thing* I begged him again to leave me
alone. I was tired—sick of my life. I can
not tell you how those words seemed to
grieve him. He said that if I did not value
it, it was most fair, most precious to him.
Then he spoke once more of his love. He
said that only God knew what it would be
to him to have mo lor his wife, but that if
he had not seen me unhappy he would never
have asked me again. lie knew, he said,
how bitter must be the grief that could
wring such tears from me. He said he was
very lonely, but he should live all bis life
alone, unless I came to him; he could never
marry another woman, having known me.
“If you love no one else better,” ho looked
earnestly into my eyes while ho emphasized
the words, “you may learn to care lor me a
little. Bessie, my brave, sweet Bessie, am
I asking too .much* Am I grtjfving you so
much, my child?”
The foolish team were blinding me again.
Then he bent over me and said he would go
away, that I could not think how those
tears unmanned him. He askod me to think
of what he had said, and, begged me not to
let the thought of his gridf at losing me in
fluence my decision: to ask my own heart if
it could content itself with nothing better
than his great love. He said again that he
would not have troubled me if he had seen
me happy; that he would come for my
answer tomorrow, and then he bade me
good night.
And, when he came next day, I laid my
hand in his and told him that I would marry
him: that I did not love him as I had
thought I should love the man I married,
but that I honored him above all men, and
his sympathy was very sweat to me. Ido
not yet know if I have bees true to myself
and to him. How can we tell always what
is in this puzzling human heart of ours? “If
I know my own heart,” we sometimes say,
but do wo ever quite get at the bottom of
its changing moods? To-day we long with
bitter yearning for something which we hail
yesterday, but, having, did not prize!
When I am with Robert there is a quiet
sense of being tenderly protected, that, is
infinitely soothing, but with that a kind of
self-reproach, a feeling that lam receiving
very much more than I can ever give. He
seems very happy. IVe havo boon planning
some improvements in his already elegant
place. His mother died three years ago,
and he has lived there alone sluoe then. I
know that I am not good enough for Rob
ert, but I hope he will make me better. I
must always be a better woman for having
known two such stroug, sweet natures as his
aud my brother Harold’s, They were dear
to each other, and it seems but right that,
having lost one. I should look up to and love
the other, for his sake. It is wrong, is it
not, when one’s destiny seems carved out, to
have other plans or dreams* I think I am
learning to be sonsiblo.
June 17.—How I do trespass on your kind
ness! Your second letter, received yester
day, has encouraged me to send what I have
written. It is strange that you should
fauey I hud changed toward you—very
strange! I must send this now, if only to
prove how mistaken you were. It is a little
sad that we both should have been disap
pointed in that first meeting. The truth is,
you did not stay long enough to get over
the strangeness of being together. You will
come again, will you not? But will it bo
the same? Will ’anvthing be the same
when I am—there? There is a dangerous
element of freedom in my nature. I cannot
bear to settle, though I am quite old enough.
If I had been a boy 1 should have been a
sailor, perhaps. We might have sailed
around the world together. I have already
learned to be obedient.
I have loft Edith, with my work, in Rob
ert’s care, and have come to make Josie a
visit. Sho is very lovely as a wife. Sho is
a jieerless woman. There are no rough
edges in her character to be smoothed over
with ever so much trouble. She is so
thoroughly sunshiny, and radiates bright
ness in every direction. She is one of tho:e
beautiful creatures who soem born to love
aud be loved, to be happy and give happi
ness. There are such natures, and how lov
ingly the Father must regard those children
of His love,
I met her father-in-law to-day. He is a
thin, wiry-looking little man, with long,
slim legs, that twist and wind about each
other, und somehow make you think there
are more than two of them. His arm* havo
the same peculiarity, giving him, with his
little body in the middle, the appearance of
a daddy-fonglegs. Such a violent contrast
between this withered bit of aristocracy and
his fine, maniy son! He always begins to
talk as if a question had been asked him.
“Eh? Yes,” he says to me, in his thin
voice. “Harwoods, of Harwood Place!
Fine old family—very! As old au any in
the land. Money Is a great thing, my deal ,
aud not to he despised. But, as Ijfcola Lynn,
when ho set his mind on marrying a poor
teacher, say* I: ‘lf he is a Harwood, she
will do, I suppose, but I should never want
a portionless bride. ’ ”
How such on insignificant and one-idead,
but wholly harmless little being, could Im-c
formed such a character os Lynn’s, I could
not imagine until 1 saw bis wife’s )*>rtrait.
A clear-cut, flue dark face, the eyes shining
with intellect, and strength of purp*Me
stamoed on each feature. Since then the
wot Mir has beta, by what queer freak of
destiny those two should ever have been
mated". Her sou is very like her. and he
never looks so well as when near his sunny
haired wife, who sets off his dark beauty
perfectly.
.Tonie does uot seem to notice the want of
delicacy in the old man's remarksabout her
self, an"d they are both very patient toward
hi weaknesses. Yet Lynn's handsome face
clouds heavily sometimes, and I know that
it is tho regret of his life that he cannot re
spect iiis father. So you see there is no life
into winch sotno shadow does not creep!
£to be continued.]
CASH GONE AND LEG BROKEN.
Deplorable Condition of a Once
Wealthy Younif Man.
From the Few York Times.
The story that Andrew Bowno, who
claims to be a sou of ex-Congressman
Bowne, of this State, told, as he lay yes
terday on his bed in the United States
Hotol, Newark, is a peculiarly sad one, and
the addition that the officers of the Young
Mcu’s Christian Association of that city
make to it increases its interest. Bowne
was brought into the hotel a few days ago
drunk, and. on investigation, it was found
that his leg was broken. He was ragged,
and his body was covered with dirt. Capt.
Donovan, the proprietor of the hotel,
would not have taken him in except for
sympathy for the unfortunate wreck.
Bowne did not remember how he broke
his leg, but supposed it occurred in a sa
loon where he had been drinking. He had
been in Brooklyn, lie said, to testify in a
Surrogate’s case, and a lawyer had given
him money. With this he immediately be
gan visiting saloons till ho lost control of
his actions.
He got back to Newark and tried first to
get into the Continental Hotel, but there
was no room for him there. He is still sick
from the effects of bis spree, and his leg is
very painful. The man has no money left.
His story is tho old one of a rush down
hill from a high financial prominence to the
dregs of penury. Some fifteen years ago
his grandfather loft him a comfortable
ostate, which was variously computed us
worth from $500,000 to $700,000. It in
cluded real estate on down-town streets in
New York anil bonds and stocks. He was
fast, and soon converted everything into
cash and began to lead a wild life.
His wife was forced to leave him, and his
friends and relatives were compelled re
luctantly to give him up. Between drink
ing and gambling his money wont like the
wind, ami in eight years he hwi run through
his fortune. At lucid intervals ho would
realize what he was doing and rally momen
tarily, but in vain. His speculations proved
failures and the old appetite beset him with
increasing power. Five years ago ho was
wandering about tho streets of Newark,
having reached tho end of his money.
Ho applied to charitable institutions, and
some of the managers of the Young Men’s
Christian Association became interested in
him as he told the above story. They tried
to help him to reform and be a man once
more. His follies wore repeated, however,
and the funds they supplied him were spent
in drink. Finally, he obtained work as a
stableman at Whippany. N. J., and later
worked on a farm. He is also said to have
obtained employment on the New York
Central and Hudson River railroad for a
time, but could not keep his position.
He had been at Whippany for acouplo of
years previous to bis latest, debauch. His
next step will probably be into the charge
of an overseer of the poor. The New York
eliaritable institutions feel that it is useless
for them to waste money upon him. He is
now 40 years old. Capt. Donovan says he
will keep him for a time. He has been
■looking for friends of the man. A letter
was found in his pocket from a woman who
had evidently helped him, but had given
.him up. In tho letter she said his judgment
was a hard one, but advised him to go to a
hospital.
MISSISSIPPI BERPENTS.
How Four King Snakes Cleaned Out a
Nest of Rattlers.
D. B. Racket, a colored man living ten
miles east of Coffeyville, Miss., came into
town accompanied by his son, and pretty
soon a marvelous snake story was floating
around. A coirospondent sought out the
the two negroes, ami obtained the following:
Dan, the elder, with the son, lmd climbed
the hillside near their cabin to chop wood,
but after giving a few strokes on two
hickory trees near a large rock, both were
startled by hearing a terrible hissing and
rattling immediately in their rear, mid, on
turning; about:, had perceived fifteen or
twenty rat tlesnakes of ull sizes crawl from
under the rock.
“Run, Tom, fo’ de Lord, run,” yelled old
Dan, as he threw down ms ax and dashed
down tho hill with his son immediately be
hind him. After going about fifty yards,
both had stopped, and, alter some five min
utes spent in discussing the situation, agroed
to go back far enough to get a “peep at the
rattlers.” So, cutting two stout sticks to
inspire confidence, they again crept up the
hill, but on coming within sight of the rock
not a snake was to lie seen, and old Dan was
just rubbing his eyes to look again when his
son yelled: “H yi! de kings hab got’em
dad.” On looking around Dan perceived
four large king snakes approaching the
holes in the rock, and now commenced a
peculiar battle. The king snakes ap
proached the holes carefully, but when
about to enter were viciously struck at by
the rattlers, who exposed their heads only
for an instant in making the strike.
What followed can be best toid in the
negro's own words: “Wen (loin four kings
seed (ley couldn’t git in de holes widout bein’
bitten, dey consulted suh, an’ den two of
’em went ter one hole an’ two of ’em to an
other. One king would set up close and lay
still, don the other would make the old
ratller strike at him, an’ de fus’ one would
nab ’im an’ choke ’im ter death. Den dey
would drag 'iin out an’ go ter another hole.
Dey kept ilis aeshun up, sab, until ’leben
grown rattlers was layin’ on de groun’
dead, den dey left.” This was the old ne
gro's story, and as one “king” has been
known to kilt throo rattlesnakes in open
battle, it is generally believed.
AN OCEAN PROVE ROMANCE.
How a Bad New York Broker Managed
to Steal a Wife.
Jt'rqni Town Topiet.
I board,pf p vary peculiar marriage that
took place in the auditorium in Ocean Grove
that sounds almost like a romance. A young
Now York broker fell in love with a coun
try gjtl vtfhj.e summering here, but the
mother, wliij seems to have linen a sort of
she riferfoii',' objected to the suit. She had
possibly bad'some experience in her own
life, for she averred that “ail New York
men vya^Jfla&ys - ’ and would not let the bod
broker nu; her ewe lr,mb. The old lady
was very'religious, and took her daughter
to tile atldltortuhi otyj Sunday to hear Dr.
Dooms ‘pi-e.tntfe; What was her indignation
whop, in tt*,rf‘lstof a hymn, the young bro
ker entered with a friend and took up their
seats on each side of tho young lady,
never heeding the mother’s frown. As tne
service proceeded she noticed that her
daughter and the two men wore tulking a
great deal together during tho prayers, and
her indignation knew no bounds; but she
did not want to make a fuss during the
prayor. When the services were all over
she tin ned to her daughter with a snarl and
said: i
“You just wait till 1 get you home, miss.”
“But she is nut going home,” said the
young broker.
“Not going homer gasped the mother.
“Not to your home, anyway. This lady
is my wife. My friend fa a minister and
during the services he has married us.
Good-day.”
And he walked coolly away with his prize
on his arm, leaving a very foolish old
woman behind.
Young or middle-aged men, suffering
frjtin nervous debility or kindred niToctions,
slieuld address with 10c. in stampH for large
treatise, World’s Dispensary Medical Asso
ciation, Cvxi iiaui street, iiudalo, ri, Y. 1
DRV GOODS.
GUSTAVE ECKSTEIN’S
POPULAR DRY GOODS DOUSE
Will offer THIS WEEK special bargains in the following
Departments in order to open the Fall Trade.
NEW FALL DRESS GOODS.
27-inch Fancy and Plain Colored Dress j . -
Goods, suitable for marketing, shopping Ihf* Y £ll*ll
and Children's school dresses, - - - lUIUt
NEW GINGHAMS AND SEERSUCKERS,
In a hundred beautiful patterns and 1 -- .
colors, Plaids, Stripes, Checks and combi- ft!if 1 Yfirfl
nations. Prettiest goods ever produced, )
As an extra in lucement we will sell for three days only;
500 yards BLACK GROS GRAIN SILK,
600 yards BLACK SIJRAH SILK,
500 yards BLACK SATIN MERVEILLEUX,
500 vards BLACK BROCADED SILK,
AT ONE DOLLAR YARD.
These goods will be separated from the regular stock and will be sold only on MONDAY,
TUESDAY and WEDNESDAY.
Still another Inducement —One Case Each, Only:
4-4 UNBLEACHED HOMESPUN sc.
4-4 BLEACHED SHIRTING Hc.
10 4 BLEACHED SHEETING 19c.
BEST FEATHER TICKING 12!4c.
NOW READY,—Splendid Stock of BLANKETS. FLANNELS and QUILTS To start, the ball
rolling we will sell, TIGS WEEK ONLY. 100 pairs WHITE WOOL BLANKETS at $1 75 PAIR,
that you will uot he able to duplicate later on for $7.
Come and see for yourself that WE MEAN WHAT WE SAY.
EC IC ST E I N* S.
NEW FALL GOODS.
E. GUTMAN,
141 BROUGHTON STREET.
We Dave Just Opened Our New Fall Dress Trimmings, Consisting of Jets and Braids.
—also —
LACE FLOUNCINGS AND ALL-OVERS TO MATCH.
NEW HOSIERY, NEW HANDKERCHIEFS, NEW JEWELRY, NEW COLLARS AND
CUFFS, NEW POCKETBOOKS, NEW HAIR ORNAMENTS.
Our celebrated GLORIA UMBRELLA at $1 85; with Silver Handles, $2 85.
Six New Styles of 33ustles.
E . G UTM _A_ N .
LITHOGRAPHY.
THE LARGEST LITHOGRAPHIC ESTABLISHMENT IN THE SOUTH.
TIIE
4
Morning News Steam Printing House
SAVANNAH. GEORGIA.
THIS WELL KNOWN ESTABLISHMENT HAS A
Lithographing and Engraving Department
which is complete within Itself, and the largest concern of
the kind in the South. It Is thoroughly equipped, having
five presses, and all the latest mechanical appliances In
the art, the Pest of artists and the most skillful lithog
raphers, all under the management of an experienced
superintendent.
It also has the advantage of being a part of a well
equipped printing and binding house, provided with every
thing necessary to handle orders promptly, carefully and
economically.
Corporations, manufacturers, banks and bankers, mer
chants and other business men who are about placing
orders, are solicited to give this house an opportunity to
figure on their work, when orders are of sufficient mag
nitude to warrant It, a special agent will be sent to make
estimates.
J. H, ESTILL.
CORNICES.
CHAS. A 76 OX,
46 BARNARD 8T. f SAVANNAH, GA.,
—HAIfUFACTUR** OF—
GALVANIZED IRON CORNICES
TIN ROOFING IN ALL ITS BRANCHES
The only house using machinery In doing
work.
Estimates for city or country work promptly
furnished.
Agent for the celebrated Swedish Metallic
I’alnt.
Agent for Walter's Patent Tin Shingles.
CORSETS.
PLUMBER.
l. a. McCarthy,
Successor to Chss. E. Wakefield.
PLUMBER, GAS and STEAM FITTER,
I laniard street, SAVANNAH, UA.
Telephoue 474.
WATCHES AND JEWELRY.
THE CHEAPEST PLACE TO BUY
WEDDING PRESENTS
Such as DIAMONDS, FINE STERLING SID*
VERWARE, ELEGANT JEWELRY
FRENCH CLOCKS, etc., fa to be found at
A. L Desbouillons,
21 BULL STREET,
the sole agent for the celebrated ROCKFORD
RAILROAD WATCHES, and who also
makes a specialty of
18-Karat Wedding Kings
AND THE FINEST WATCHER
Anything you buy from him being warranted
as represented.
Opera Glasses at Cost.
GRAIN AND lIAY.
WE' LEAD
ON BEST GRADES OF
Northern Cabbage, Potatoes,
Onions, Apples, Turnips, Cocoanuts,
LEMONS, LEMONS
And all kinds of FRUITS and PRODUCE in
. season.
GRAIN AND HAY,
Corn, Oats, Ha/, Bran Eyes, Feed Meal,
Grits, Meal, Cracked Corn, Peas, Etc.
Get our carload prices.
169 BAY ST,
W. D. SIMKINS & CO.
HANKS,
KISSI MM EE Cl TY BAN
Kissimmee City, Oraage County, Fla.
CAPITAL - - t-VI.OOO
rpHANSACT a mg'liar ban king hurt im-s*. Glv,
I partlrnuir n ll .■-itl.>n to Florida collection,.
Convspoadence solicited. Issue famhangw on
New York. Ne ■ i rVaiiH. Savannah and
sonville. r’la. lU’Sid im Agents for Ooutts & Cos.
ami Mulville, Evans ,i Cos., of l/aidon, England.
New York comupoudoul: The ..cabuanl
National iiank.
5