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[For The Sunny South.]
QUESTIONS.
BY CLARA DARGAN M ‘LEAN.
What shall I say to thee, my sweet ?
What may I say to thee ?
I love thee ? Say, those were but light
And foolish words for my love's might;
I would Bay more to thee.
What shall I give to thee, my love ?
What can I give to thee !
Youth's buds and blossoms all are dead;
But there is ripe fruit in their stead,—
That will I g.ve to thee.
How shall I pray for thee, my own ?
What dare I ask for thee ?
A life of joy—a path of flowers—
So care or pain—no clouds nor showers,—
Will God give this to thee?
Ah! not thus will I pray, beloved,—
Too small such boon would be;
“ Father, let us go hand iu hand
Together to the distant land!'’—
Heaven’s both for thee and me!
Yobkville, South Carolina.
Having “set things to right,” Copley pro- a scant mustache and a medical-student look,
ceeded to dress himself more carefully than was Esther instantly recognized Zoe, the bewitching
his usual custom—brushing his well-worn suit
almost fiercely, coaxing his thick, unruly locks
equestrienne and trapeze performer, who had
been the cause of Harvey’s sudden infatuation
to keep the desired position, and standing for ; for the circus,
several minutes before the little square dressing- 1 Esther saw the girl change color as she met
glass, trying to adjust his necktie to suit him. his stern look, though she nodded in a laugh-
r Writ ten for The Sunny South.]
FIGHTING AGAINST FATE;
OR,
Alone in the World.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
CHAPTER VIII.
That walk under the softest of starlit skies,
through the beautiful Southern city ablaze with
gaslight and full of busy motion and wonderful
commingling of sounds, and faces, and draper
ies, and picturesque occupations—such as fruit
vending, flower selling, chestnut roasting, and
corn popping all carried on in the open air, —that
walk was full of enchantment to Esther’s inex
perienced eyes. She had come provided with a
vail, but she threw it up impulsively, and threw
off care and dread for the moment. “ Even bats
Then, he surveyed his brown, homely, honest
face with a dissatisfaction that was new to him,
and heaving a sigh, turned from the mirror
and took the guitar from its case. He examined
it carefully, tried the strings, and wiped every
grain of dust from the wood-work with the old
j red silk handkerchief that had been wrapped
i around it. Then, he consigned it again to the
I case, which he proceeded to muffle up in paper
before taking it with him, for there were teasing
j youngsters among the boarders, who were in the
| habit of joking tiie little local concerning his
| musical propensities.
He found Harvey in Esther’s room, lying on
the lounge in his dressing-gown, and smoking
lazily as he watched Esther's deft fingers mend
ing a rent in bis coat. Copley had stealthily set
down the guitar in Harvey’s room, and as he sat
looking at Esther and trying to answer her
friendly questions, he was revolving in his mind
the best way to introduce the guitar to her con
sideration and acceptance. Harvey broke into
his plans by going into his room for a fresh
cigar and stumbling over the bundled-up instru
ment.
“What in the mischief is this?” he asked,
gently pushing it to the door with his foot.
“Did you bring it here, Copley ?”
“Oh, pray don’t!” cried Copley, starting up
and coloring violently. “Don't be—be so rough
with it!”
“ Why, what is it? An infernal machine, ora
corpus '! Have you turned body-snatcher, and
are you on your way to some Dr. Knox? Thun
der ! I believe it’s alive ! Wasn't that a groan ?”
and he gave the bundle a push with his foot.
“Pray — pray don’t, Harvey!” appealed the
little local, in an agony of apprehension and em
barrassment. “I—it’s my guitar. I thought I
would bring it for you to play on.”
“For me to play on? Why, you know I never
touch a guitar.”
“ I mean your sister—Miss Esther.”
“Certainly,” Esther said, coming to his relief;
“I will play for you with pleasure.''
“Then let me unwrap the mummy,” Harvey
said; and he proceeded to take off the paper
mufflings, open the case, and lift out the really
pretty instrument. Copley was delighted when
ingly defiant, yet lialf-deprecating way.
Copley noticed nothing of this little episode.
He was going over in his mind the most off-hand
way of excusing himself for not going in, as hav
ing no ticket beside the one he had given Har
vey for Esther, he could not do. At length, as
if struck by a sudden thought, he said:
“I believe I will have to leave you here, after
all. I have an engagement that I must positively
The curtain rose again, and the buzz of voices i
was silent. Copley saw Esther’s mouth quiver
and her brow contract in the effort to suppress j
the pain caused by the scene through which she ;
had just passed.
“I am afraid you are no better,” he said.
“Would you like to go home?”
She rose without speaking, and put her hand I
upon his offered arm. When they were half-way
home, he ventured to ask her:
“Was that gentleman a friend of yours?”
“He was the best friend I ever had beside my
mother, and I have lost him forever,” she an
swered in a faltering voice.
Copley felt profound sympathy for her, though
he failed to fathom the cause of her distress. He
fulfill. I’ll meet you here in a couple of hours.” i longed to know if this tall, handsome, fair-haired
stranger had not been more to her than a friend,
“Take Esther in yourself: I have but he would probe no further.
I TO BE CONTINUED. )
No,” said Harvey, thrusting the ticket into
his hand.
something to attend to just now. I have a few
words for this fair lady here,” and he strode
across to the side of the little equestrienne and
grasped her by the arm.
“What do you want with me?” she asked,
turning pale, but trying to laugh as she drew
away from him. “Dr. Somers, I appeal to you !
Will you stand by and see me treated so?” |
“What do you mean. sir. by intruding your- : Angel as she is, woman is pretty generally at
self ” began the young man, but Harvey cut the bottom of all the trouble, and then, woman-
[For The Sunny South.]
LOVE UNDER THE ( ODE.
BY H. K. SHACKLEFORD.
<;ome out of their hiding places and fly about '•
and enjoy themselves at night,” she thought. !
So she enioved the scene to the full of her largely j
receptive nature, admiring without envy the ; l jre | t .v instrument. Aopley was rteiig
bright dresses and jewels and the beautiful faces Esther took it and praised its tone,
of the wearers.
They passed an illuminated building, around
which swept a broad gallery, adorned along its J
whole length with boxes containing tall, bios- j . - „ . , ,
soming plants,-cape jessamines, roses and ole- overhead and the stream of people flowing below,
anders. Interspersed among these, were small j E^er P la >ed and «“»g until little Copley
was exalted into the seventh heaven of delight,
“ Let us go out on the balcony and serenade
Mr. Schiff, the old clothes dealer across the
street,” Harvey said.
So they sat out on the balcony, with the stars
h were seated figures and faces that, seen [ when at last he had said good-night, and was
e soft light among the roses and jessamines, going away, Esther called to him:
ed beautiful and dream-like.* “ Enough so ‘‘^ ou are leaving your guitar, Mr. Copley.
Interspersed among
tables glittering with silver and glass, around
which
in the w w
seemed beautiful and dream-like.* “Enough
to serve as a tableau of the gods feasting on
Olympian heights,” thought Esther, as she
looked up and saw them. They were only ordi
nary mortals eating their ice cream on the gal
lery of the “Grand Saloon” for the sake of the
fresh air, by no means too cool ill this semi
tropic city even in October—so Copley assured ;
her; and he ventured to ask'if she would not go
in and have a plate of ice cream, though it was a
luxury he had never allowed himself in all his
life. His earnings as local attache of a tri-weekly
paper just struggling into notice were rather mea
gre, and, after paying for his lodging and very
simple meals, they went to the support of a wid
owed invalid mother and young sister in the .
country.
Esther declined the ice cream. She preferred
to listen to the music of the orchestra, that
floated out from the theatre not far away. As ■
they walked on, her passion for music was
feasted from another source. Zerlein’s Temple
of Music was lighted up and thrown open, and 1
around and inside it a little crowd had collected
to listen to a German performing on one of the
grand pianos that with harps, organs, melodeons
and other instruments, were exhibited for sale. |
The performer was short and thick, with an ab
surdly huge nose, that nearly touched the keys
as he bowed his head and swayed his body to
keep time with the music, with the usual profes
sional abandon. But Esther hardly noticed his
ludicrous motions or contortions of visage, so
absorbed was she in the grandly tender symphony j
he was playing. She listened with her fine brow |
thrown up, and her eyes lighted. At the close,
she pressed Harvey’s hand and looked at him
with glistening eyes.
“You love music even better than I do, Es
ther,” he said. “Y'ou should hear some of our
really fine performers and singers. Strakosch
will give a concert in a day or two. He has
Madame De Williorst, Madame Strakosch, and a
younger sister of hers, a youthful prodigy, with
him. The music will be glorious. You must
hear it—mustn’t she, Cop?”
“Yes, indeed,” responded Copley, fervently;
and he resolved that he would manage to convey
to her, through Harvey, his own ticket, which, j
as a member of the press, would be furnished
free. It seemed to him to be a duty as well as a
privilege that he should interest himself in Har
vey’s sister. He had fallen into the habit of
looking after Harvey, —of helping him out of
difficulties, lending him money when he could
spare it, and taking care of him when he had
one of his periodical “spells” of dissipation.
He had given up his cot to Harvey many anight,
and gone to bed supperless that he might set an
appetizing meal before his erratic charge, and
keep him away from the cafe or drinking saloon,
whither he tended. When Harvey returned
from his short escapade with the circus troop,
and coming directly to his friend’s room, as
usual, told him that he had brought his sister to
the city to stay with him, and that he intended
to mend his ways and be a comfort and support
He turned around and looked at her appeal
ingly.
“I—I didn’t intend to take it home,” he stam
mered.
“You don’t want to be troubled with it to
night? Well, I’ll take care of it until you come
for it. ”
“lam not coming for it at all—never!’' said
Copley, with energy; “if you, I mean if Harvey,
would be so kind as to let it stay.”
“Oh, yes !" laughed Harvey, who understood
the situation; “ we'll give it house-room. Come
up occasionally and see if we keep it in tune.”
CHAPTER IX.
On the night of the Strakosch concert, Copley
presented himself in Harvey’s room an hour be
fore the time. He had to wait. Harvey was out,
and when he came his 4 friend s«w at. a ghmee
that he was in one of his gloomy moods. He
spoke shortly and cynically. He had a ticket
for the concert, of course, he said, and he sup
posed he should have to go to report about it, :
but it would be a deuced bore —going to see a
lot of painted men and women scream and make
hideous taces. He had rather go to bed by half.
“But your sister?” urged Copley.
“She has no business there. She has no
money, in the first place, to buy a ticket ”
“I have brought one for her,” said Copley, i
taking from his vest pocket the only ticket he ,
had been able to procure.
“ Then she has no dress fit to wear to such a
place, and I shan’t have her making a spectacle
of herself.”
Coplej' glanced at Esther, who had just opened
the door and now stood in the entrance. In his i
eyes, she looked elegant enough, as she stood
there in her gray merino dress, to attend a ;
queen’s ball.
“I care little about going,” she said, quickly
noticing the cloud on her brother's face and
dreading the probable cause. “Come, bring
your violin, and let us have a concert of our 1
own.”
“No,” he answered, “I am going to-night,
and I wish you to go, too - if you care for it.
But your dress ”
“Never mind. If that is all, I can perhaps !
manage so that you will not be ashamed of me,” j
she said, shutting the door between them.
Then she took out the black silk, her only
other dress. It was a thick, soft fabric, trimmed ;
with black lace, with soft white tulle at the throat ;
and waist. She clasped it at the neck with a
pin made of a single coral branch, and with an
other spray of coral, she fastened a rich black
lace vail upon her head. Unfolding from its
small bundle a crape shawl that had been her
mother’s, and which still held the sandal-wood
fragrance of the box in which she had been wont
to keep it, she shook out its soft, creamy folds,
wrapped it around her, and opening the door of
her brother’s room, she said:
“Ready, Messeurs.”
Harvey was surprised out of his sullen humor,
to her, Copley shed tears of joyful congratula- and went to meet her, exclaiming:
lation, and felt his pity and kind feeling at once
go out to the motherless girl who was a stranger
in the wide city, and hail only such a frail reed
to lean on as “poor, dear Harvey.” At first
sight of her sweet face, he was filled with admi
ration, and when she smiled on him kindlv as
“Shade of Cinderella ! where did you conjure
up all this magnificence? Not frem the depths
of that solitary satchel, surely ! Cop, hasn’t she
got handsome eyes ?”
Copley crumpled his hat and twisted his coun
tenance into various shapes in his effort to ex-
her brother's friend, and looked at him with press himself in a manner to do justice to his
those great, dark eyes half-proud, half-appealing
in their expression, she bound him to her a slave
for life.
He hurried through his work the next day that
he might go to see Harvey in the evening and
take the guitar lie designed as a present to Es-
feelings on the subject. He tailed to elicit but a
single word, and that the very last he intended
to say. He could have strangled himself for ap
plying to the eyes, of that grand-looking girl
such an epithet as “stunning.”
It was too early for the theatre, and Harvey
ther. He had finished his frugal supper of advised his sister to go down and get a cup of
bread and toasted cheese and a cup of excellent
He prided himself on making good tea,
tea. As she took her place at the table at mad-
ame’s right hand, that lady was profuse in com
plimentary smiles and nods.
“I am delighted to have you go to-night, to
hear such good music,” she said, “ you sing so
well yourself. Harvey tells me that musical talent
is a heritage with you both, from your mother.
He is a musical genius himself, if he would but
study. Did he tell you that we sang in opera
together once ? I was so charmed with liis voice
and his acting that I have been under his spell 7
ever since. He could secure a good paying en- seeing his seat occupied and himself unnoticed,
tea.
and the tiny tin pot setting on the little stove
emitted the true fragrant aroma. He proceeded
to clear away things in his usual neat, particular
way—tucking his scanty stock of crockery,
nicely washed, under the chintz curtain which
was tacked across a box nailed against the wall—
at once a shelf and receptacle. The box was
neatly papered on the outside, and the chintz
curtain was bright and clean. So was a cracker
box also papered, and furnished with a lid, w _
which set iu a corner of the room, and into gagement here in any of the orchestras' during j had d'rawn back a step, saw her gesture and in-
him short.
“I don’t want a scene, young fellow,” he said,
with a flash of his steel-blue eye; “but if you
interfere, I’ll be sure to knock you down.' I
want only to speak with this girl' for ten min
utes; after that, she may go to Beelzebub, for
aught I care.
He drew her away as he spoke. She went with
him, tossing her head a little and looking back 1
j with a contemptuous grimace at her quondam i
escort, who was standing still, cowed by Har
vey’s determined look and tone. As the two
stepped out upon the street, Harvey looked back
and cried out to his friend, who was staring dis- j
consolately after him:
“Go ahead, Copley ! I’ll lie in after awhile.” j
Copley offered his arm to Esther, and she took
it in silence.
“ We had better go in,” he said. “ It will do
no good to follow him; he will have his way. !
; That unlucky girl! I thought she had gone with
Blaine’s circus to California. It's too bad for |
her to turn up now, wipe-. Harvev is doing so
well.” '
“Mr. Copley, is she—what kind of person is
she?” asked Esther, hesitating?
“She's a Spanish girl, come over from Cuba
with her brother. I don’t think she’s really bad, ;
but she's a flirting, giddy thing. She has a bad
influence over Harv ey, and has got him into i
more than one scrape. She is not the sort of j
girl for him to associate with, much less to
marry.”
“Marry!” thought Estlier. bitterly, as she re- I
called the devotion of peor, neglected Ellen.
She hardly gave a glance at her novel sur
roundings—at the lofty, carved ceiling, the fres
coed walls of the theatre, the tiers of faces, the
classic painting upon the curtain that swayed
before the scene. Her eyes were full of care and
the shadow of foreboding. As he looked atlier,
Copley—who also had strong misgivings about
Harvey—heartily wished that Zoe had broken
her neck in a tumble from her favorite trapeze, or
from the back of “Desert Wind,” her “Arabian”
horse (he had never sniffed a breeze of Arabia),
that always figured on the show placards as a
gigantic steed with fiery eyeballs, flying at wild
speed, with Zoe dancing a pas seal on his back.
When the curtain had risen, however, and the
performance begun, music exercised its wonted
spell over Esther, gradually absorbing her. to
the exclusion of all personal feelings. She lost
herself in the enthusiasm of the true artist, and
leaned forward, listening, the vail that had shaded
her face thrown back in her unconscious earn
estness. * _ .t __
Suddenly, the magnetism of a gaze drew Tier
eyes from the stage, and attracted them in its
direction. She met the earnest, grave eyes of
Dr. Haywood. Her heart gave a wild bound; a
thrill and shiver passed through her frame that
caused her companion to look up quickly into
her face.
“You are not well,” he said. “What shall I
do for
air, or
“The water, please,” she answered faintly.
As Copley made his way through the crowd,
the curtain fell and the hum of voices filled the
room. Dr. Haywood rose, quietly approached
Esther, and sat down beside her.
“I have found you,” he said, in an under-tone
full of concentrated emotion, while (mindful of
the eyes around him) he took up her fan and
began quietly to fan her.
“Why have you done s*o?” she asked in a pas-
■ sionate whisper. “ Why have you followed
me—tracked me like this? What right had
you?”
“ The sacred right of friendship—the right
imposed by a mother’s dying charge.”
“ Your following me is useless. I would not
return to Haywood if I could. I would not
leave the protection I am under. ”
“What is the nature of that protection, Es
ther ?”
She was silent, and he continued:
“I discovered where you lodged; I went there
an hour ago, and learned you were here. I
found ”
“ What?” she asked, in deep agitation.
“That you boarded there, under the care of a
man who called himself your brother. I knew,
Esther, that you had no brother.”
“No.” she answered eagerly 7 , “not my brother;
my lover—my ”
“Not your husband, Esther?”
“Not yet; but he loves me. I will not leave
him. Have you—have you seen him?”
“I have seen him more than once since arriv
ing here, but not closely. I shall see him face
to face before the rising of another sun. I shall
demand an explanation of his attitude to you.
“Do no such thing,” I implore you, for pity’s
sake. He would resent it; he would be angry.”
“If all is right, why should he?”
“He would resent the interference. Oh !” ex- '
claimed Esther, making a last appeal, “will you
not let me be at peace a little ? If there is an I
altercation, exposure, there will be disgrace for j
me here. I shall have to leave my lodgings—to
hide myself anywhere,=—in the grave is best
swear to you that I will not leave him, and your
seeing him will do no good. Promise that you
will not speak to him.”
“Y'ou leave me no alternative after that ap
peal,” he said, after an instant’s hesitation.
“I promise,—I will comply with your entreaty.
Good-by, Esther. God pity and protect you.”
He clasped her hand and pressed into it a roll
of bills as he rose to go. She thrust the money
back into his hand instantly, turning on him a
lc ok in which sorrow was blent with indigna
tion. It was unlike John Haywood’s usual deli
cacy to bestow a gift in this way. She felt that she
had fallen far in his esteem. A rush of painful
feeling made her tremble and turn deadly pale.
Copley, who had returned with the water, and
like, will weep over the mischief she has done.
In all ages past, and in those to come, she has
been, and will ever be, the magnet of the affec
tions, the sunlight of man’s existence, and the
idol for which men will freely shed their life
blood. “She is God’s last, best gift to man;”
and for her virtues, her love and sympathy, her
| soul-cheering smiles of encouragement, her con-
■ stancy and uncomplaining endurance, her lin-
! gering tenderness in sickness and unfaltering
faith in death, man will ever adore her. Still,
with all her angelic qualities, she sometimes gets
up a “tempest in a teapot.” To her I am in
debted for my first insight into the practical
workings of the “ code.'
It was twenty years ago—whew? how time
does fly !—in one of the beautiful little villages
of Middle Georgia, when “corn-shucking songs
were heard in the land,” and peace and plenty
abounded. Mattie Crenshaw was not the belle
of the village, but she was a splendid girl for all 1
that. Fair, fat and twenty, she was, blue-eyed
and brown-haired, with rosy cheeks, red lips and
teeth of pearl. She was never without admirers
among the village beaux. Like many ether vil
lage maidens, NIattie prided herself on being
the first to receive the attentions of every new
dry goods clerk the village merchants were able
to entice from the larger cities, to preside over
the yard-sticks in their modest establishments.
Mattie was generally the most successful at
angling in Cupid’s stream, and enjoyed her tri
umph when escorted to church first by the new
comer. Mattie had tact. She was smart, pert,
industrious, good-looking and lusciously gush-
ing, when she chose to be; lienee her success as
an angler.
Among her beaux was one Ned Simpson, a
conceited coxcomb and would-be dandy, who
had only one commendable trait of character—
viz., perseverance. He fell heels over head in
love with the gushing Mattie, and resolved to
make her Airs. Simpson at all hazzards. With
him, to resolve was to do. His indomitable per
severance had made him a fixture in the store of
Jones A Co., at a good salary, and now he
brought all his energies to bear on the gentle
Mattie. He became her shadow. She couldn’t
shake him, try hard as she would. He wouldn’t
be shaken—a sort of human opossum—and at
last she had to endure what could not be avoided.
He was so polite, so generous, to her, that she
‘ began to think him a good fellow, after all. As
the constant dripping of water is said to wear
; away the hardest stone, so Ned Simpson wore
i out the patience of Mattie, and she accepted
lu^u—to get— yid. of him' Don't laugh, gentle
“Oh, I understand now,” and Charlie looked
grave for a few moments. Then, with a hand
some smile on his face, he said:
“See here, Bob, don’t you think he’s making
a ninny of himself? She had a right to do as she
pleased, you know,”
Bob scratched his head and looked ashamed
of himself, and suggested that Charlie appoint
a friend to meet him and let them manage it.
Charlie appointed Jim Ward as his friend, plac
ing the challenge in his hands, at the same time
whispering:
“Don’t let him make a fool of himself, Jim.”
Jim and Bob went and talked the matter over,
and privately agreed to load the pistols with
blank cartridges, there being no other way of
preventing bloodshed. The time was as desig
nated in the challenge, and the writer, determ
ined to see an “affair of honor’’once in his life,
walked the entire distance, concealing himself
from observation, and was rewarded for his per
severance.
On the ground the seconds measured the dis
tance (ten paces), and tossed for choice of posi-
; tion. Charlie won, and Ned, almost as white as
a sheet, and trembling like an aspen, was occa
sionally discouraged. Charlie took position, in
his shirt-sleeves, and as cool as a encumber.
Ned beckoned to Bob and whispered:
“ I withdraw the challenge, and ”
“No you don’t, sir!” interrupted Bob sternly,
“or you’ll have me to fight. I won’t be dis
graced that way—not if I know it.”
“ But see here, Bob, I —I —I ”
“Re a man. Xed Simpson!" hissed Bob, “and
don’t show the white feather;” and- taking him
by the arm, Bob conducted him to his position,
placing the pistol in his right hand, and then
left him.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?” called Jim, in a
clear, ringing voice.
“Ready !” promptly responded Charlie,
straightening himself like an arrow.
“ Fire ! one—” and Ned wheeled and took to
his heels like a scared deer. Charlie fired, and
Ned leaped five feet or more, squirmed, wiggled,
and twisted about like a contortionist, and then,
seeing he was not hurt, turned and deliberately
aimed and tired at his antagonist, exclaiming:
“There, blast you, take that, and mind who
you shoot at next time !”
Every man on the ground, save Ned, dropped
to mother earth, as if shot through the heart,
rolling over and over on the grass iu convulsions
of laughter. Such a scene was never before or
since seen in Georgia. The boys went into hys
terics, and Ned calmly surveyed the scene a few
moments, and then, comprehending how he
had distinguished himself, hurled a volley of
oaths at the crowd and “vamoosed” the town,
county and State, as he was never afterwards
heard of in that section.
[For The Sunny South.]
OLD MAIDS.
BY ZELLA HARGROVE.
reader, for womeD have committed even greater
follies than marrying men to get rid of them.
They were engaged to be married, and the en
tire village had knowledge of the fact within
twenty-four hours after the “popping,” for volu
ble Ned could not contain himself for joy. He
at once began to lavish his entire salary on his
. , , fiancee, who began to think she had made an ad-
1 'i° U n t i ' - ^ 0U ° n ^ack into the fresh ; m [ ra [,i e selection, one who would make her first
r shall I bring you some water ? _ , in heart and soul in all time to come.
j Time flew swiftly by, and in the next month
but one, they were to be married. In the mean-
i time, a new clerk—Charlie Winslow—had been
imported into the village, and was domiciled in
1 the store of Simonton A Ellis. Charlie was
handsome, manly, but very quiet in deportment,
with a “love of a mustache” that was ahead of
“any other fellow” in town. He came on a
Wednesday, and on Saturday following, Mattie
Crenshaw visited the store, made a few trifling
purchases and the acquaintance of the new clerk.
I The next day Ned had the high old jumjiing
| toothache, and Charlie escorted Mattie to church,
| to the intense disgust of a score of other village
| beauties. She found him so ditterent from Ned.
so gentlemanly, so well-read in literature of all
kinds—particularly poetry, which she adored—
that she went back home all out of sorts, as the
printers say when “strapped.” Charlie was so
well pleased with the gushing maiden that he
engaged her company for that night, and never
left her until the “wee sma’ hours ayant the
twal. ”
The next day the news of her going on with
the new-comer reached Ned Simpson, and the
green-eyed monster at once conjured up a little
“hell on earth” for him. Between that' and
the toothache, Ned was in anything but a good
humor. He didn’t have courage enough to have ;
the tooth extracted, and suffered on in intense
agony, with but little sympathy from his dear
Mattie. In the meantime. Charlie “improved
each shining hour,” and knelt at Mattie’s shrine
udtil somebody told him she was “mortgaged
property.” He asked her about it. She intima
ted that she wasn't married yet, and that she
was just the kind of a girl to do as she pleased, i
Charlie winked “over the left” and pushed things i
so fast as to gain the prize. .Indeed, Mattie
1 >ved him at the first sight, and owned up at :
proper time. The time was set for their mar
riage, but kept a profound secret; and one morn
ing the village was startled by the announce- ;
ment of their elopement. Ned Simpson swore
“great guns,” vowing a terrible vengeance on
® j the guilty pair when they crossed his pathway !
* again.
Well, at the end of the week they returned,
and commenced boarding with one of the pro
prietors of the store. Ned Simpson promptly 1
ealled in Bob Wilkins, and sent him to Charlie !
with a challenge to meet him in mortal combat.
The challenge was a singular document, and not
exactly in keeping with the usual tone of “notes
under the code. ” It read thus:
“J// - . Charles Winslow:
“Sir,—Y'ou can make no apology for your
conduct that would be satisfactory; therefore, I
demand a meeting on the county side of
Flint river, at sunrise to-morrow’ morning. My
which he put the sauce-pan, his only cooking the winter, if he would be steady and reliable.
utensil. The few books were bright and well
dusted, as were the cheap prints upon the wall.
All the arrangements of the room, though se
verely economical, betrayed neatness and order,
with perhaps a single exception,—the cobwebs
on the ceiling. Copley declared he had not the
heart to demolish them, since he had lain in his entrance hall of the theatre, Esther, who had
bed during a long sickness and watched the her hand on Harvey’s arm, felt him suddenly
patient industry with which the little manufac- start, and looking up, saw that his eyes were
wove them hour by hour, and the care with - fixed upon the dark, sparkling, laughing face of a
But—you know your brother, my dear,” con
cluded madame, with a shrug of her plumn
shoulders. 1 1
“We are waiting for you, Esther,” said Har
vey, looking in.
As they stood a moment inside the pillared
they mended a broken thread.
girl who was hanging on the arm of a youth with
dignant look, and spoke at once to Dr. Haywood:
“Let me pass, if you please.” Then in a lower
tone, as he caught his arm: “I think you are
annoying this lady, sir. By what right ”
John turned and looked at him earnestly with
his grave, keen blue eye; then he bent his head.
“You look like a true man,” he said. “Be a
friend to her; she will need one;” and he passed
out.
The whole scene had passed quickly; the words
had been so low, the gestures so quiet, that it
had escaped any special observation.
friend, Mr. Wilkins, will arrange matters in my
behalf. / want blood and will have it.
“I am, sir, Ned Simpson.”
“Why, what does this mean, Bob?” asked
Charlie, as he read the very singular note just
handed him.
“I guess it means fight, Charlie,” suggested
Bob, “as Ned is roaring around like a wild ,
hyena, swearing he 11 kill you and make Mattie to „ et k er bundle up the^unbeams of terrestrial
a widow, or be made food tor worms himself, ; ex f stence; and ca8 t them bountifully at our feet.
Of how many blighted hopes,broken dreams and
demolished air-castles the words “old maid”
tell,—often of a wasted youth, reckless flirta
tion. a gay, coquettish nonchalance to high and
sacred things— and then, oh ! then after a nar
row, cold, unhappy old maidhood, a restless,
discontented life; distasteful home; an utterly
insipid existence; a faded, colorless, and almost
useless bloom upon life’s tree.
There is one class of old maids who are ever
angling in the matrimonial pool; who deem
matrimony the chief end of life, and yet, never
accomplish their mission—those fixy, airy, over-
polite creatures, good and kind in company 7 ,
extra agreeable—conspicuously so, to the sterner
sex; but the furrow of a cross, sour disposition
can easily be traced about the mouth and eye.
Why these are old maids is a difficult problem;
most probably because they never met with mu
tual congeniality, or, in the technical terms of
Hymen, played their cards badly. They gather
precious little morsels of gossip here, and a
! sentence or half-expressed sentiment there, to
feed imagination and become “newsy.” Why
blame them for that? Woman’s heart must love,
and when deprived of the natural altar of their
affection, matrimony, they turn, often, to the
nearest or most convenient object: too frequently
their education or home-training raises them no
higher than gossiping. This class of people
excite much laughter and ridicule, and but little
sympathy.
.’ . . “ Pale primroses.
That die unmarried ere they ran behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength.”
Still, they are in need of great sympathy and
forbearance for their very weakness. Misfor
tunes of others should never be derided.
There is another class which we woud scarcely
think or dare to style “old maids;” those pure,
high-toned, intelligent, unmarried women who
so often help to make life tolerable—who, by
patience, forbearance, a holy resignation to all
things as ordered by Providence, teach us that
I even in single combat the battle of life is worth
fighting; that life is not a failure; that the mere
act of breathing, regardless of the multitudi
nous blessings of earth, is worth the exertion,
when considered a part of, or prelude to, the
blissful rest beyond. These are they into whose
hearts love, like a consuming flame, entered in
a bright, happy youth, and chill disappoint
ment paled the coruscations. All the potency of
Cupid ever after proves insufficient to replace
its beauty; the first flame flickers slowly upon
the sanctuary of souvenirs, with ever and anon
a beam of light from Hope’s blue eyes, that
some day, along life’s dreary path, the sanctuary
may be relighted, and again the flame of affec
tion burn brightly; but, alas! alas-!—that beam
of light soon faded away before the misty vapor,
and a pure, holy resignation hovers like the pil
lar of fire in the wilderness over the loving
heart, and arouses the mind from lethargy, ami
fills the soul with aspirations to noble, useful
employment, that render life sweet and happy.
Without these pure, reliable ministering angels
in the sick-room in the dark hour of trouble,
and gloomy days of bereavement and sorrow,
to what would the world degenerate ?
When the name of such an one is upon the
list of friends, she can be trusted in disappoint
ment or sorrow; she is patient with wayward,
childish freaks, and gentle with the erring; she
can reprove severely, with a kindly smile that
stings more deeply those inclined to be thought
less; is always firm and speaks ever gently.
How would many little nieces and nephews
live without “auntie?” They, in their great
love and sweet innocence, forget she is growing
old, and love her better for the “silver threads
among the gold. ”
The infirm parents, and frequently orphaned
sisters and brothers, cared for and guided by an
elder one, whose life is sacrificed to them and
devoted to love-labor and forgetfulness of self,
bless from the depths of loving hearts the “old
maids,” that carry peace and light into every
crack and crevice wherein their influence falls.
Do these aged pilgrims and little sunbefims of
earth ever ask why this love-laborer is unmar
ried, or, rather, “old maid?” No. She so fills
their lives and hearts with the quintessence ot
earthly bliss and thankfulness, they forget, or
never know her as an old maid.
God bless these pure, patient unmarried
women and innocent prattling children, who
“What does he want to fight about, Bob?’
“Why, about Mattie, of course.”-
“ About my wife !”
“Yes; she was engaged to him before she
saw you, you know, and he thinks you did
To extinguish a kerosene lamp, turn the light
up to its full power and blow a sharp puff' hori-
7 ^ _ zontally across the mouth of the chimney, and it
wrong to come between him and her, and there- will lie extinguished safely and without after-
fore wants to have it out with you.”
smoke or smell.