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VOL JOHN - K SEALS, ] pROPRXEroR? ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY. DEC. 25, 1875. frp-RTVfq f $3 PER ANNUM, IJkttMb, | IK ADVANCE/ NO. 32. [Tor The Suouy South.] JO IIX. BY SUTLTVE. She eat by the window watching,— He camo up the graveled walk; She wondered why he was coming, With his dull, old-fashioned talk. They sat by the window chatting, While the tedious hours crept on; He left her silently thinking. When shadows were all agone, If he thought he could induce her To marry a man named John. She sat by the window watching,— He came up the graveled walk; She smiled as she saw him coming, With his fascinating talk. They sat by the window chatting, While the happy hours flew on; He lelt her silently thinking. In the lonesome door, alone. She would like, if worth the asking, To marry a man named John. She sat in the window watching,— He came up the graveled walk; She smiled as she saw him coming, With his ever-welcome talk. They sat by the window chatting, While hours forgotten swept on; He left her silently thinking. When his last foot-fall was done, How he asked her, when she promised, To marry a man named John. She sat by the window watching,— He came up the graveled walk; She llew to hasten his coming, And to catch his winsome talk. She met him upon the threshold, While her lips just met his own, And the sound that broke the stillness Is made by a kiss alone; But it told her rich contentment To marrv a man named John. [Written for The Sunny South.] ZILLA, THE WAIF; J •JR. Dark and Bright. BY BELLE BERNARD. CHAPTER L “I wish I was dead — that’s what I wish! What’s the use f>i my living, anyhow? I’ve got no home, no lather, no mother, no nothing! Yes, I do !—I wish I was dead !” The slight, coarsely-clad little figure of the speaker trembled with emotion. The black hair hung in tangled masses, almost blinding her as she sat with her face bowed on her hands, while her breast heaved and great sobs almost choked her. Only the cricket’s low chirp and the clear, sweet whistle of a partridge in a field beyond seemed to answer the angry words and grievous sobs, for she sat on the door-step of a low, shabby dwelling, all alone, as she thought. The door of the house was locked, and the key in the pocket of the owner. A sense of loneliness and fear mingled with the child’s anger, and when she felt a hand laid on her bowed bead and beard a voice saying, “What is the matter, child?” she started and arose to her feet, but the kindly voice said in a softer tone: “Don’t be afraid, little girl. I have never in my life harmed a child; you shall not be the first one.” The child grew calmer and pushed back from her brow the great mass of hair and fixed her eyes on the stranger's face. Oh ! what a kind, loving face it was ! Very plain, hut the dark-gray eyes were full of pity, and the miserable little child read great depths of sorrow there, too. Her dress was made of some plain mourning mate rial, while the dark crepe collar she wore was fastened at the throat with a small jet pin. Her bonnet was of plain black straw, with trimmings of crepe and black ribbon. She fanned her flushed face with a large palm-leaf fan, as she stood under the shadow of a great chestnut tree which shaded the door-way, for the evening was warm. Seating herself on one of the broad, rough steps, she gently drew the little girl down at her side. “What is it, my child? Why do you wish yourself dead? Do you not know it is a sad, sad thing to die and be buried away in the cold, dark ground, where no sunshine can reach you ? ’’ A shiver shook the little girl’s figure as she re plied: “Oh! yes. ma'am; but then I was mad and ’fraid and hungry. You’d wish you was dead, too, if you was a little child like me, and was made to go without your dinner and stay here at this lonesome, ugly old place by your lone self. ” “ You must have done something wrong, child, or you would not have been punished so se verely. ” There was a tremor in the kindly voice of the sad-faced woman, and a strange, yearning ten derness for this lonely, neglected child, for in deed the coarse, soiled 'dress and tangled hair told a story of neglect and mistreatment. “No, I didn’t, neither ! Bessie told her mother a lie on me, that’s what she done!” and the an gry light burned in the eyes again. “She turned the churn over herself, and then said I done it. And this is just the way she and Bob are always doing. They lay everything on me, and then Mrs. Davis she beats me and starves me for it, and I just don’t care much what becomes of me! Now, this evening all of ’em went over to Mrs. Hinton's after some nice June apples, and left me here locked out of the house. Even to Bruno, Bob’s dog, went; but they don't treat me half so good as they treat the dog, and I won't stay here, neither! I mean to run away !” Hush, my child; don't talk so! What is r name ?” “ My name is Zilla Grey, and they try to spite me about that, too. They say I ought to he named ‘Old Zilla Black.’ I know my skin is ugly and black, and ; my hair is coarse and tan gled and black; but it is none of their business! I didn’t make myself; if I had, I would be pretty and white. God made me black and ugly; ; how can I help it?” The dark, sallow face was still flushed, but it grew crimson again when the lady asked in the same soft tone: “Do you not get angry sometimes, my child, and strike these children ?” “Y'es’m, I do, for I hate ’em, and I wish some times I could kill ’em, and you’d wish so, too, if they was to treat you so !” “Oh, no, my child; the good book says we must love those who treat us wrong fully. Little girl,” and the light of a sudden thought shone in the clear, kind eyes, “if I sit here with you un til Mrs. Davis returns, and ask her for you, will you be my child and go home with me? I live some eight miles from here, but there is my wagon at the gate, with little Johnnie Walters, waiting for me.” The child looked up, and for the first time saw the lit tle spring wagon, the large, iron-gray liorse and the boy driver. The lady’s question, so kindly and tenderly ask ed, seemed to bewilder her, and after gazing for some moments at the wagon be fore tbe gate, she fixed her eyes on the stranger's face again and asked absently: “ What did you say, mad am e ?’ M rs. Greyson. for thisjKaB. the name of The iady ."repeateu the question, and a glad light irradiated the plain, dark little face, making it almost beautiful, as she answered eagerly, almost breathlessly: “Go with yon! Oh! will you let me go, ma’am? Ah ! if I could only go ! But you won't howl cant think whether I “ She said this in a low, piteous tone, that made just dreamed this or not my heart achp . As the ^ an plnced his hat on m ’u St hl * heatl - and said ’good evening, ladies,’she ha e lived at that place be- handed him her little, slender, dainty-looking fore I lived with Mrs. Da- hand , bay i ng; * * vis, but it has been such a ; —Good-by; God bless von!’ long, long time I cant re-] "I did not return home that night, for my htis- member. ] band’s mother was with my ohildren, besides The lady felt her interest | their father, and I felt that I could not leave the increase in the strange, pale i poor, dying creature. She had a trunk along; little thing. She longed to ; so I undressed her, putting a night-dress on her, know the whole history of a | and one on the little girl, who nestled down life which, short as it had ! lovingly in the bed by her mother. She was a been, she knew contained ! wee, winsome little thing as ever I saw, and my some mystery. She had I heart aches every time I think of her. been told that day by the | “About midnight, the lady awoke from a dull, friend whom she had visited j heavy sleep, murmuring: for the first time in a num- j “ ‘Zilla Grey! yes, thus she shall be called; her of years, that just one : she shall never more bear her cruel father’s year before the commence- j name !’ ment of the late civil war, ] “I looked down at the white face and saw that while she was at the house j death was coming on. She was growing cold, of Mrs. Davis, “though,” ] and her brow was damp, while her breathing said the lady, “I seldom go j grow shorter every moment. I hastily called to ^hat house- never unless ] Mrs. Davis, who, entering the room, and walk- some one is ill: and that | ing np to the bed, looked at the lady, and put evening my husband came j her fingers on her pulse. in and told me that one of j “ • She’s a dyin'; that’s the way to tell it,’ said the carpenters who was help- j the coarse woman, in her rough way; ‘and I’d ing to build a room on to ; just like to know what's to become of that child!’ our house, and who was] “The poor creature heard every word, and star- brother to Mrs. Davis, told j ted up, wildly exclaiming: him her baby was very ill. j ‘“You say I am dying? Oh, madame, there is I put on my bonnet and j more money in my trunk! Take care of my walked over, for it is only a ; poo r little child. Oh ! Zilla, my poor darling ! short distance from here. I i If you cannot keep her, send the money to had not been there more some one else who will take care of my poor lit- than twenty minutes when a tie baby. Yes; I am dying ! I am cold ! The little wagon drove up and ] fire here,’ and she raised her hand to her head, stopped before the gate, j <j s nearly out. Oh! Reginald, how you have | wronged mo ! Warren, forgive! Lord—have- mercy !’ “The voice had grown so weak that she only whispered this last prayer the poor lips ever ut tered. The black eyes rolled wildly for a mo ment, and the soul of the strange, suffering woman was with her God. The little child slept sweetly, and taking her from 1 eside her dead mother, I laid her on a lounge in one side of the dingy room. I then took a rich blue silk dress from tbe large trunk and put it on the dead woman, and she lay there on the bed next morning looking so calm and beautiful that the little child smiled as she stood by the bed and lisped ont: Bob Davis, who was a very little chap then, come in and told his mother to go ont— that a woman ont there was sick and wanted to come in. “‘Well, she jest can’t come here unless she's got money to pay me, that’s what! and you go along back ont thar, Bob, and tell her so,’ Mrs. Davis replied, for she had her sick baby in her arms, and didn’t wish to lay it down to go ont herself, so I said: THE LATE VICE-PBESIDEXT HEXBY WILSOX. tort, when Mrs. Greyson laid her hand on the small arm and said: Don't speak, child; they will not have it in “.‘Let me.go, Mi s "-Davis; “ ‘Mama sleep. Don’t wake her.’ T can deliver your message •* Poor mile ctina i rwr, uiuiuhuom let me go in your nice little wagon with this their power to harm or harass you again. John- dirty old dress, will you? And I don’t reckon -nie,” and the lady addressed the bright, bsuid- Mrs. Davis would let me have my clean one, she j some lad, “ can you not let my little girl wear is so mad with me.” | your new hat home? The sunshine is too warm “Yes, my child,” Mrs. Greyson replied, “ I j for her poor little bare head, ill take you just as you are. I have some little “Certainly, madame; the will dresses at home which I think will tit you nicely. ” “Oh! ma’am, do you think Mrs. Davis would let me go? starve there it is in that pa per. The lady reached the paper, and taking out message perhaps better than Bob can.' “ ‘Well, go, then,’ she an swered, and I was at the gate in a few moments. “I shall never forget the sight that met my eyes. In a shabby, rickety wagon lay a lady well- dressed—indeed, her traveling-dress of gray pop Hers has been a weary life since that day. I begged Mrs Davis to let me take her, though God knows my heart and hands were full with my own children, but I did feel so sorry for that friendless baby. “ ‘ No; I’ll do no such of a thing !’ she replied. The woman give her and the money to me, lin was elegant. By her side sat a little girl ■ and you ain't a going to git neither.’ about two years of age, and her dress was rich and dainty like the lady’s; but oh! that lady’s face—pale, hneless as a corpse. I almost feared she was dead, until she opened her eyes and looked at me, saying: “ ‘ I am very ill! Can I get out and spend the “ - ” Oh! ie go? I know you would never beat and the broad-brimmed straw hat, placed it on the ; night? I have money, and will pay you. e me, and she says she is tired and sick of , child’s head, saying: ! let me stay; I am almost dying, now!' But then, she will be so mad when you ask : “ There, now," Zilla; this will keep the sun off ] “ There was a wild, weary mournfulness i They tell me the child is badly treated, and I believe it. The sister of Mrs. Davis, who was a kind-hearted woman, taught her to read, and was something of a friend to her, hut she died some two months since, and ah ! I do pity the poor thing now ! I mean to try to do something for her, for last night I dreamed that the beauti ful, pale lady, her mother, stood beside my bed, in the ] and fixing her wild, sad eyes on my face, said: “‘Do not let them kill my baby !’ Oh! do something for her!’ “And now, Mrs. Greyson,” she said, in con clusion, “go by there, please, and see after the child.” Mrs. Greyson thought over the whole sad story while the child was talking so eagerly, me. _ her for me ! Ah ! there she is now !” j nicely. I will line it to-morrow for Johnnie, : beautiful black eyes, and I felt the tears fill my She drew closer to the stranger as a coarse- ' because he is such a kind, obliging little fel- j own as I answered: ] looking woman and two children entered the low.” ! “‘Oh! yes; you can stay. This is not my | gate and paused as they reached the steps and “ Thank you, ma’am ;”/tnd the boy’s snn-burnt j house. Oh ! I wish yon were there, but you need saw the strange lady with the child whom they face was radiant as lie,‘tapped the sleek gray i rest sadly now, and if yon will assist me, sir,’ I j hail been tormenting all the morning. Mrs. horse with his whip. “Get np there, Byron, i said, turning to the rough-looking driver, ‘we Greyson arose, and bowing politely to the woman, old fellow. Mrs. Greyson, I think we will be j will carry her in.’ _ ^ : said: ] right late getting homk Don't you think the ! “We lifted her out, and the man carried her as j Giat she replied calmly: “You are Mrs. Davis, I presume, and I have sun will be down when we get to Richmond?” lightly as he would have lifted a baby, into the ] •<My house, little Zilla, is only a plain farm- i been waiting for you. I have a favor to ask of “I expect so, Johnnie; but you know we will 1 house, and laid her on a bed. Consciousness ] fi ou8e( but it is cool and clean. I think you will you, and I hope you will not refuse me. I want ' have only two miles to travel then. It is well I had deserted her, and she lay so pale and still be happy there, dear.” \ this little girl;” and she again placed her hand we made onr purchases this morning, for we j that I put my hand over her heart to ascertain j know I will 1 Oh! I feel almost happy on the head of the child at her side. “May I ! shall not have time to stop.” j whether or not it had ceased to throb. [ now,” and the child gazed around once more, have her ? I am lonely—I have no child of my j The little girl looked hack to see if the dis- ! “ ‘Dear creature,’ said the man, while he wiped ] breathing freely the pure, fresh air of that sweet l o\sn, and ber^ lips quivered as she added, “ I 1 t a noe she had already traveled had taken her out a tear from his honest eyes with the sleeve of his j June evening, while a smile played over the I want this one. (1 f sight of the miserable dwelling in which she ! rough coat, ‘ she aint altogether straight, ma’am; wan, pale teatures. She gazed around silently her head and turned up her great, freckled nose, view, the angry light died out of the great black | fnl-like to carry her to my house, and then j ma’am?” which nature had already made too retrousee, eyes, and a feeling of peace and security entered j bring her to Richmond to-day; for, says she, ‘I j “Because, dear, a lady was telling me of you and answered: | the little heart as she looked up again at the j don't want to get on the cars no more; the whis- j this morning, and I felt so sorry for yon. Then, “ Well, I think things is come to a pretty pass kind, tender face of the woman who had so sud- ! tie makes my brain whirl so. A fire is in my when I drove to the gate, and saw a sorrowful that I couldn't leave that bad, good-for-nothing j denly and strangely constituted herself the pro- ] head anyway, and that whistle blows it up and | little girl sitting all alone upon the door-step, child here without having other folks to come teetress of a hungry, dirty, ill-used child. Even j makes it burn all the more.’ She kept talkin’, { wishing herself dead, I thought this is the child a-meddling with her. What do you want with j the pines and the sandy roads of Chesterfield | too, ma’am, about somebody’s striking her on I wish to see. The lady had told me your name, her ? She don’t do nothing but set in the shade seemed magnificent to this poor little waif, who 1 her head, poor thing ! I was tryin’ my best to ] but I wished to be quite certain, so I asked you. and read “ Cinderilly ” and “ Rabian Knight,” had been confined for long years within the nar- i get her to Richmond, for she’s got money, and I ; Then I thought God has taken my husband or whatever you call it. I know it ain’t nothing row precincts of a dirty, shabby farm. True, thought I would find her a comfortable boardin’ and my little Lilia, the only child I ever had; but trash—all a pack of foolishness. I’ve had she had seen pines and sand in abundance there, ; house, whar she could stay until maybe her , I am lonely, so is this little girl; I will take her her now these seven years, and she ain’t never but the little heart was ever full of sorrow and friends would cum for her. Thar’s somethin’ j for my own little child. You are nine years of been no count to me yit; and long as you take bitter anger. “Even the sunshine,’' she after- i strange ’bout all this, ma’am. I don’t know ' age, so was my darling when she died; her little ~ what—’and he added in a lower tone—‘she’s shoes, dresses, all will fit you, my child; and such a powerful fancy to her and want her so wards told Mrs. Grey sod, “seemed hateful shin bad, why, yon jest pay me up something for my ! ing in that low, mean dwelling.” And as she sa trouble, and you can take her along with you. there enjoying the easy 1 I wish you joy of your bargain, too. “ How much, madame, shall I pay you?” Mrs. Greyson asked coldly. “Well, I don’t care. Pay me twenty dollars, I or something nigh to that.” “Here it is, madame; it is all the money I have with the exception of a few’ small notes, but vou can have it.” sat the easy motion of the little wagon, with the air and the sunshine playing over her rude garments, she forgot the coarse ness, the dirt and the tatters; she only knew the holy instinct of her nature told her that life would be sweet with the low-voiced, tender-faced woman, who would take her to her home and her heart. ! For an hour she sat silently dreaming, won- And taking from her dress pocket a small port- dering how the home to which she was going monno!e, she handed the ill-bred, low-looking would look, when Mrs. Greyson once more laid ! keep you unless you can pay me.’ 1 now, as she gazed on what woman a twenty-dollar bill; then said even more ; her hand on one of the slender little arms and j “ ‘Oh, yes, indeed !” answered the sick lady; novel. cornin’ to now.’ ! your eyes look so like hers. W hen I see you “ I had been Lathing the beautiful, pale face all ' in her dress, I shall almost fancy I have my the while, and she opened her eyes and asked j child again. I am glad, so glad I visited my mildly: i friend. I think God sent me for you. ’ “ ‘ Where is Zilla, my little child ?’ ! They had reached the town of Manchester “ ‘There she is,’ I answered, as I pointed to the I now; the sun was setting, and its golden, de little one who sat on a low stool near the window. ! parting rays gilded the houses and streets of “Just then Mrs. Davis came in, and walking up 1 the town which was then shabby with its ill- to the bed, asked, in her rough way: j built, time-worn houses, but even these seemed “ ‘ Well, ma’am, if I let you stay here, will you I beautiful to this child of the woods. She had pay me? I am a poor woman, and can't afford to forgotten hunger, harsh blows, angry words, all ’ ’ ! * ’ ' to her was so ‘I will pay you. Here,’ she said, ‘is a bag | of gold in my pocket; take it ont, please !’ and coldly than she had before spoken: asked: “ Good evening, madame. Come, my child.” “ My child, of what are you thinking?” And she clasped the slender, dark little hand j All the angry flush had faded from the face she fixed her wild, pleading eyes on my face, within her own, and they walked to the gate, now, and a pitying look came into the eyes of I “I found the gold, which was in a little leath- As she lifted the child into the wagon, she heard the lady as she noted the extreme pallor of the ern bag. ‘Pay Mr. Martin,’she said, looking at the Johnnie, you may stop a moment there,” and Mrs. Greyson pointed to a grocer's store just in front of them. The boy drew the reins, and the gentle horse stopped stilL Now, my boy, take this, and get some crack- Mrs. Davis mutter out: sunken cheeks. TBe large, blRck eyes, though, “ I wish I hadn't let her go. Nobody would were very beautiful—but for these the little face man; ‘ then hand the bag to the lady—she can ers and cakes for Zilla and yourself. My little be willing take my Bessie, and feed and clothe would have seemed homely indeed, and now, as have it all, only do not send me away ! I am so girl has had no dinner to-day,” and Mrs. Grey- her for nothing.” she raised them to the stranger’s face with an sick ! so sick ! And oh ! I cannot go on the cars ■ son handed him a small note. The lady seated herself quickly, half fearing innocent trustfulness, a sweet fearlessness of ex- any more. They startle me so, and the whistle The black eyes of the child danced with de- the virago would rush up and drag the child pression. blows np the fire in my brain and makes it burn , light as the boy returned with cakes and crack- frorn the wagon. “Iam thinking, ma’am, that I am going to be so fiercely.’ ers. She did not know, nntil she began to eat, "Drive on now, Johnnie; we are all ready, I happy with you, and I am so glad, so glad you I “I could see then a gleam of madness in the how sadly hungry she was. believe.” have taken me away from Mrs. Davis! I was beautiful eyes, and I said, soothingly: “My child,’’ the lady said, as they drove on, And as they started off, Boh and Bessie thinking, too, of how your house will look, for I “ ‘ Go to sleep now; I think a nice nap would “I hope you have been hungry for the last time, screamed ont: so often dream of a beautiful white house, where greatly refresh you.’ Oh!" she murmured to herself, “how could “Well, now, if that ain't cool! Old Zilly everything was nice and clean, and pretty flow- “‘Goto sleep !’she said wildly. ‘Ah! ah, that woman have been so hard-hearted, so cruel Black’s gone off without even saying good-by !” ers blossomed out in the yard before the nice God ! I cannot sleep. Mr. Martin, I thank you to a motherless child.” Again the angry blood surged up in the child’s white porch. I was wondering if your house is for your kindness. Oh ! everybody is kinder They were crossing now the long bridge < face, and her lips were framing an indignant re- like this. I wish I could remember ! But some- than he—than my husband !’ the James, known as “May’s Bridge;’ and instinct print