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t For ' rl >e Sonny South.]
THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY.
BY K. c. WAKELEE.
Well, here I am, and almost dead!
I’ve shut the windows, barred the door;
Life is to me a constant dread,
In years divisible by four;
But “sink or swim, survive or die,”
I’ll not surrender—no, not I.
The day is gloriously fair,
Light breezes thro* the casement steal;
I long to breathe the outer air,
And catch the merry water's peal,
To watch the softly changing sky;
Some one will catch me if I fly.
Bright birds are glancing in the sun,
Like rainbows, on their jeweled wings;
I dare not woo a Bingle one,
Lest like a carrier dove, it brings
®°me message from a lady fair,—
I know how cunning they all are.
White roses, with their fragrance sweet,
Coquette along the slender vine,
Like dancing girls with white-wing’d feet;
I dare not press their lips to mine,
Lest neath my wooing breath should spring
A fairy with a wedding ring.
I love the darlings, one and all,
And know as well they all love me;
If I could win them, great and Bmall,
'Twould be a different thing, you see;
But one bird from the nest to win
And leave the rest, ’twould be a sin!
i More than one change passed over Madeleine’s
j face as she read this note. Her voice was hollow
I when at length she raised her eyes to Esther’s
and said:
[Written lor The Sunny South.]
FIGHTING AGAINST FATE;
OK,
Alone in the World.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Tearless and self-repressed, but utterly deso
late, Madeleine leaned back in the carriage,
hardly conscious that she was borne rapidly
along till the aristocratic quarter of the town
was reached, and the stopping of the carriage
aroused her to find herself in front of her own
home. She sickened at heart as she pictured
her solitary room and the torture of bitter and
lonely reflections that awaited her there. Lean
ing from the carriage, she directed the coach
man to drive on to the street and number where
Esther lived. This last wave of the tide of dis
enchantment that had swallowed up her fair ,
ideals had brought her this straw of hope—the j could have meant the evil she wrought.
\ “Let us go.”
She was silent through the drive, hut the
i white, mute anguish in her face appealed so pit-
| eously to Esther, that she drew close to her and
| encircled her with her arm, expressing by that
! act the sympathy she refrained from uttering.
She found it neeedful still to keep her arm
around the trembling figure as they alighted at
Berrien’s little cottage and stood waiting an an
swer to their summons. The door was opened
at length by a middle-aged, dignified woman,
who silently conducted them into an inner
apartment. As they entered, a solemn and
mournful scene met their eyes. On the low,
white-draped bed lay the emaciated form of Ce
cilia Gonzales, white as she would be under the
coffin-lid, her lips drawn over her ivory teeth,
the purple A-eins distinct on her temples and on
the transparent lids that were dropped over her
hollow eyes. Her hands were crossed upon her
! breast, her long, light hair scattered over her
j pillow. Wax candles burned at her head and at
her feet. A black-robed priest stood near her
j on one side, while on the other, with his arms
folded over liis breast and his grave face graver
and paler than was his wont, stood Berrien.
The two visitors had come in softly, hut the
sick woman caught the slight sound of their en
trance. She opened her eyes, unnaturally large
and bright, and fixed them upon Esther. Mad
eleine had drawn back into the shadow.
“I am glad you have come,” she said in a
husky whisper. “I have wanted to see you so
often, and to-day, when I know I have so few
hours to live, I felt that I must see you and say
farewell to you, and ask you to pray for the re
pose of poor Sylvestre’s soul. I pray for him
unceasingly. For myself, I wish to make my
peace with God; the priest is here to give me
the blessed sacrament. But before it touches
my lips, there is one tiling I wish to do: I want
to see the lady my Sylvestre loved. I want to
make myself look into her fair face with no
shadow of wicked an esentful feeling—I want
to take her hand and forgive her. as I pray God
to forgive me. I think—I trust I could do this
now—if she were here.”
“She is here.” Madeleine said, coming sud
denly forward and sinking on her knees beside
the bed.
“Ah, Blessed Virgin?” uttered the invalid,
involuntarily clasping her hands over her eyes
and shuddering. But she withdrew her hands
instantly and fixed her great, hollow, mournful
eyes upon Madeleine.
“Yes, it is she,” she whispered brokenly;
“but changed—so pale, so sad, yet so beautiful
still. To look at that face, it does not seem she
it J'O
Hue
possibility that the two friends she had hon
ored and lately distrusted were after all wor
thy of her faith. The swift insight sho had had
into the wily, insidious nature of AVerter, had
thrown a gleam upon other things, and in the
whirl of emotions that made confusion of her
breast, one of the many thoughts that came was
I did not—oh, I did not mean it!” breathed
Madeleine eagerly. “I meant to bless, not to
destroy. I thought to delight myself with the
society of genius, while I made myself loved and
looked up to as its benefactress. I was vain and
unthinking and selfish, hut oh ! not guilty of
deliberate wrong to him—to you. Do you be-
that the evil insinuations of AVerter against Ber- heve me • ^ - on believe me.
rien and against Esther were without truth— i She leaned forward earnestly, her pale, pas-
framed by him through the same motive that ! sionate face, her parted lips and outstretched
led him to the indelicacy of exposing to her her
husband’s falsehood. If this was, so she had
wronged them by her suspicion, and her wonted
hands close to the emaciated form upon the bed.
Cecilia tried to speak, hut her choked lungs
refused her utterance. She gasped for breath;
generous impulse was to make amends. Ber- her features were distorted convulsively; she
nen, it is true, was self-estranged; hut Esther
she had herself exiled from her confidence. The
thought of her friend came to her now—her soft,
sad eyes, her proud, patient, pathetic face, so
waved her hands back with the gesture that
says, “Stand back; give me air—I am suffocat
ing.” But Madeleine mistook the gesture. She
thought that this was death, and that even in
sharp a contrast to the voluptuous animal beauty ’ Jh® a " on . v dissolution Sylvestre s wife waved
*1,,. rtntnrrtnn ” nu ATiiil pi pin a Lit- her from her with an impulse of unforgiving
terly
rest!
had
charm
clasping arms of this young girl: and now it
seemed that these more than anything else could
comfoit her in this wretched disenchantment.
There was a plain carriage at the door of Mr.
Dodd’s little house as Madeleine alighted before
it—a hired carriage, so the driver informed her,
and also that no one had come in it—he hud
only brought a note to a lady who lived in the
house. Madeleine groped her way through the
dim passage and ascended the stairs. At the
much to excite you,
see my sister again to-night. She is receiving
the blessed sacrament. She begged’ n*e to tell
you that she believed you—that she thought
wrong of you no more.”
He wrapped the shawl carefully around her as
he spoke, and accompanied her and Esther to
the carriage.
He was himself again as be bid them good
night — cold, courteous, self-repressed. Only
once a softer emotion camq' into his face—as
Madeleine, after all adieux had been spoken,
stretched out her little hand silently, pleadingly.
He took it and held it in a brief farewell clasp.
Afterwards, there was a comfort in the memory
even of that slight kindness.
The stars were bright in the soft June sky.
The quiet and coolness of night Lad descended
upon the hot and dusty city. Its soothing spell
wrought upon Madeleine’s over-tried heart, and
with her head pressed against Esther's bosom,
she found sweet relief in tears.
She found Mr. Harte, contrary to,his usual
habit when at home in the evening, up and
waiting for her. He looked at her as she entered
with an angry, suspicious glance, such as she
had never seen in his eyes before. But she
merely noticed it; her heart was too full of vari
ous emotions. And beside, she felt as if hence
forth he had nothing to do with her life. There
had never been any congeniality between them;
the only uniting bond had been spun by her
imagination, which had endowed him with
ideal attributes. These were now ru lely broken,
and she realized at last how utttei iy dissimilar
they were. At last she felt
“ Shamed in all her nature to have l^ved v Iot a thing,”
and the paramount feeling’ “in ' her confused
mood was an impulse to withdraw the current
of ber life as far as might he fiora Lis. She was
passing on, but he stopped io his walk about
the room and confronted her.
“ AVhere have you been till t.o late ?” he asked
harshly.
“To visit a sick lady,” she uhswered.
“That’s too thin a dodge,” he said, sneering.
“Yon were seen to drive to jour particular
friend Berrien’s door, where my carriage and
horses were standing at last accounts.
Some one had followed and watched her, Mad
eleine thought. The indignant blood rushed to
her forehead, but she said calmly:
“It is Berrien’s sister who is dyin ; .and who
sent for me this evening. Ask to-int rrow, and
yon will see this is true.”
Her quiet hauteur disconcerted him. He had !
no reply ready, and she was passing on with a
slight bend of the head, when his irritated feel- |
ing again found vent in words.
“ It seems you can find no other female asso
ciate than that Bernard girl—a proud, insolent
beggar, as I told you before, and now I hear that
she is something worse. I have given you your
way all along, because I don’t like to be bother
ed, and I thought you had sense enough to
keep out of mischief; but I find if I give you
rope enough you will hang yourself .rid me too.
So from this time out I will draw the rein tighter.
I’ll not have you disgracing my name by associ
ating with an adventuress and a drunken printer,
who has got himself in jail for attacking a gen
tleman.”
Disgrace him ! Disgrace the man whom she
had seen but a few hours before with his arm
around a creature of that race whose merest
touch as a lover upon the hand of the humblest
white woman of her land would be felt by her
to be horrible shame and pollution. For an in
stant the proud blood burned in her veins, then
contempt took the place of resentment.
“ I shall he glad for your sake if your associ
ates are always as honorable as mine,” she said
with quiet scorn in her low voice and in the
believe
The last words trembled faintlj' on her lips; a
spasm passed over her face; her head sank upon
the side of the bed near which she knelt.
The convulsion that had seized Cecilia was mo
mentary—one of those suffocating fits that come
so often in the last stages of consumption. As
it pussed, aDd Berrien, who had raised her in
his arms, lowered her head at her desire to the
pillow, she caught sight of Madeleine’s motion-
top, she found Esther, wearing her hat and just less figure and murmured:
drawing her shawl about her. A flush rose to j “Tell her I believe her—I forgive her; I think
her forehead when she saw Madeleine, hut she
spoke to her quietly, regarding her with a calm,
self-respecting air that was not encouraging.
But Madeleine waited for no encouragement.
One sight of that face swept away any lingering
mist of suspicion. Her hands clasped her
friend’s, her eyes met Esther’s pleadingly.
“ Forgive me,” she said. “I have been mad
and cruel enough to doubt you, but the mad
ness is over forever. Forgive me—take me back
to your friendship.”
Esther smiled drearily.
"I forgive you easily,” she said; “hut as to
renewing our friendly intercourse, that must
not be again. I warned you that my compan
ionship might do you harm with your world,
with your friends.”
“I have no world, no friends—only you. I
am unhappy; you must not keep away from me;
sav you will net.”
“I cannot tell. I am a feather in the hands
of destiny. Circumstances may make me seek
you. I was about to do so when you came. I
was on my way to your house—on my way to
take you with me to—a deatli-hed.”
“A death-bed?"
Esther took an envelope from the pocket of
her dress.
“ Something strange and sad—a secret I have
known some time, hut was not permitted to tell
you -is about to he disclosed to you now. Hear
it calmly as you can; do not suffer yourself to
he too much agitated. The persoD who is dying
is Berrien’s sister—the widow of Sylvestre Gon-
Deadly pallor overspread Madeleine’s face.
She grasped the arm of her friend for support.
She looked wildly into Esther’s face.
“Sylvestre’s wife is Berrien’s sister, and I
never knew it. Berrien never told me, and he
has so long pretended to he my friend! Oh!
now I know what a mockery that friendship
was! And I believed in it so; I gave my fullest
trust—I laid my heart bare to my bitterest
enemr- I* was cruel; I can never forgive it. It
was aserpent-like design to creep into my heart
and sting its inmost core.”
“I do not think that, Madeleine; I believe the
contrary. Some time I will tell you why. But
even if‘it were so, you must forgive him; forgive
as you may yourself wish to he pardoned for a
wrong, or a seeming wrong. There is one who
wishes to forgive you-with her dying breath.
She held out the note and Madeleine took it.
She was a long time with her eyes fixed upon
those brief, cold lines in Berrien’s writing, in
which he simply told Esther that his sister, be
lieving she was near her last hour, had so urg
ently implored him to send for herself and Mad
eleine, that she might say good-by to one and
foririve the other, that he felt constrained to
obey her wishes. He had sent a carriage ac
cordingly, asking that she would see Madeleine
and that they would both grant his sister the
brief interview she desired.
After the signing of his name, these *ines were
added underneath: . , ,
“ If Mrs. Harte is still uninformed concerning
the existence of my sister and her identity as
the wife of Gonzales, let her be told as gently as
mav be. Once, I believed that a knowledge of
twould be a severe shock to her; recently, I
have reason to think that I overrated her sensi-
ness.”
no wrong of her now.”
Berrien turned hastily to Madeleine, as Es
ther, stooping over her, found she was uncon
scious.
“She has fainted,” she whispered to Berrien.
“Carry her into the next room if you can, and
let us keep your sister from suspecting what has
happened.”
While he lifted the light figure in his arms, • knock Mr. AVerter off his horse tmd got put in
'delicate, appewzing little supJieA which
seemed hurt to find that her distress couh
could* aol
eat.
“Put it down, mammy, and come here please,”
said Madeleine, in whose ears one remark of her
husband kept ringing. “ I waut you to tell me
if you have heard anything about Charlie Morris
being in jail ?"
“I hear it dis evenin’, first time, child. Mr.
AVerter told marster.”
“Mr. AVerter has been here, then?”
“ He was here not half hour ago. He come
walking up with marster, alongside of a fine bay
horse. He had de rein over his arm, and dey
stood talking at de gate, and come in and had a
glass of wine. He praised ilf^wine mightily,
and gave marster some cigars—‘mighty fine Ha-
hanas and dey walked out anti smoked on de
gallery, and as I take away de glasses, I catch
Charlie’s name, and listen and find he done
she bent over the sick woman, spoke to and
fanned her with the broad fan of white feathers
which she held before her eyes. Then the nurse
took her place and Esther hnrried into the next
room, where Berrien, bending over Madeleine,
chafed her hands in his. He turned a look of
anxious alarm upon Esther and instantly re
sumed his efforts to restore consciousness to the
marble-like face upon the pillow, with the con
traction of cruel pain seemingly chiseled on the
beautiful lips and brow. His hand trembled as
he felt for the pulse at her wrist. He bent down
to listen for her heart-beats, and his face, when
he raised it, was almost as colorless as the one
that lay upon the dark-red cushion of the couch.
“ I hear nothing,” he said. “Ifear—you know
she has a malady of the heart. If this should
he ”
He did not say death, hut his look, as it went
hack to Madeleine’s face, told his fear. Esther
thought that in that look she read a secret she
had faintly suspected before—a secret she was
sure Berrien would have died rather than reveal.
“ Her heart beats and she breathes,” she said.
“It is only a swoon. Leave her with me; I
think I can revive her.”
She saw that this calm, stern man was moved
out of his usual self-control. She herself, know
ing her own fragility, was not without alarm,
and she uttered a prayer of thankfulness when
at last a shadow of color crept into the marble
cheek; the lips fluttered, and with a soft, deep
sigh, Madeleine unclosed her eyes. A\ r hen she
could speak, she smiled faintly, saying:
“ Don’t be frightened, dear; I have these seiz
ures sometimes, especially when I have had
much to excite me, as I have had to-day. The
heart is the trouble, you know. It’s a pity hearts
were not left out of our organizations. We
women would he better without them.”
Then, suddenly recollecting and shuddering
and growing pale, she asked:
“Is she dead?”
“No; it was only a suffocating seizure. The
nurse thinks she is no worse now than she has
been for several days. But you, Madeleine—
you are suffering still. You must go home and
lie down.”
“Yes, that is best,” said Berrien, entering at
this moment. “I am sorry I subjected you to
this. It was unwise, I knew, but I yielded to
my sister’s wish.”
“I am glad, very glad I came. If I could only
have come before ! If I could only have been of
use to her in some way all the long while she
has been ill! If I could have only known ! Oh,
it was cruel in you to keep this a secret; and all
the while I believed you were my friend, while
you carried this in your heart, burning there
like a smothered fire—the fire of scorn and hate—
whenever you looked at me.”
Berrien did not reply for a moment. His voice
was low and unsteady when at last he said:
“ You are mistaken—but—we cannot spare
time to think of this now. You have had too
I jail. Mr. AVerter give the poor, pretty boy a bad
name -had! ‘I haven’t told Mrs. Harte,’ he
say; ‘I am afraid it would distress her. De fel
low was such a protege of hers. I told her he
was vicious and hadn’i no talent; but women
icill set a store by a handsome face and beaux
yeux. You had better not let her know; she is—
impulsive’—dat’s de word. ‘She might do
something rash. I’m afraid it’ll go hard wid de
boy. He can’t give bail; nobody won’t stand
his s’curity. He’s give hisself such airs since
he’s been so spoiled by de women dat his own
class stand off from him.’ Dat’s what I heard,
child; and then marster swore ”
“Never mind what he said, auntie. Don’t tell
me any more. AA’ind up my hair for me, please,
and give me mj T dressing-gown. I am tired and
ill.”
What were her thoughts wliVn at last she was
alone ? She felt that there wau not a hope or a
purpose remaining to her in life. And there
was no comfort in the past; it had all been hu
miliating failure. She had fulfilled none of her
ideals; she had attained none of the standards
she had reared in her poetic dreams; she had
exerted no beneficent influence <jn her husband
or her friends; she had blighted where she had
attempted to benefit. She seemed to herself to
resemble that insect of the tropics which stings
and kills whatever it lights upon.
The last intelligence she had bea r d filled the
measure of the fateful day. Conscience hissed
in her ears, “You, only you, have ruined the
life of this hoy.” And yet she had meant no
harm to Charlie Morris. AVhen she encouraged
him to visit her house; when she sang and
played for him and talked to hin of poetry, of
art, of music and of the stage; when she took
him with her to opera and theatre and lavished
on him books and flowers and pretty, playful
compliments, she told herself she was actuated
only by a desire to refine his taste and stimulate
his ambition. The pleasure she took in this ap
peared to her only the gratification that comes
from the kindly act of assisting another—a pleas
ure naturally more intense whjn this assistance
is in the form of developing a quick young in
tellect. She was hardly conscious that mixed
with this was a thrill of delight at feeling herself
the patroness, the mental cicerone of a hand
some, unsophisticated boy of a class outside of
hers, and of knowing that he looked up to her
and acknowledged her influence.» There was no
charm in reflecting npon this to-night—only
humbling sadness and keen self-upbraiding.
What had her friendship brought to him? It
had found him a merry-hearted, energetic boy,
whose natural tendency to wildness had been
held in check by a mother’s influence and by
the absence of opportunity and temptation. Her
friendship had opened the gates of temptation,
and there had come to him restlessness; discon
tent with his pursuits and his associates; long
ings after the life of ease and beauty, glimpses
of which he had in her parlor, in her society,
and in the books she gave him; the hereditary
craving for strong drink, that he had hardly
kept at bay, now readily fastening upon his fe
vered mood; and lastly, a mad passion (a boyish
fancy, Madeleine termed it, forgetting how
strong and unreasoning are the fancies of ardent
youth), from which had sprung irritability, mor
bid resentment of slights and a sullen jealousy.
She did not doubt, whatever might have appear
ed npon the surface, that this last was the cause
of the attack upon AVerter, by reason of which
Charlie was now the inmate of a prison, while
his mother wept beside her lonely hearth over
the failure of the stall'that she had hoped would
support and comfort her widowhood.
Self-reproach stung Madeleine to resolve. This
evil at least might be partly amended. Charlie
must first be released from prison; afterwards,
she would do what she could to obtain a situa
tion for him in some other town. Some one
must be found who would go securitj’ for him
upon bis bond that he would appear in court at
the time appointed for his trial. AVho should it
be ? she asked herself; and she could think of but
one she dared apply to—her husband’s lawyer,
a courtly and gentle-hearted old man, with whom
she was something of a favorite. She would
see him as early to-morrow as possible, and get
him to put his signature upon the bond, secur
ing him against risk by leaving in his hands the
amount of money the bond called for, whatever
that might be. She opened the little malachite
box in which she kept her valuables, and counted
out the money it contained. There was not as
much as she had hoped there would be, but
here were her jewels. Their glitter at this mo
ment seemed to satirize her wretched mood.
Here was a garnet set that had been hers before
marriage—fine, large stones in heavy, old-fash
ioned setting. She might deposit these with
her jeweler and borrow a fourth of their value,
perhaps.
She decided, as usual, impulsively, and acted
promptly npon her resolve. Her arrangements
proved practicable, and by noon next day Char
lie was free.
It was the afternoon of the day succeeding
Charlie’s liberation that Madeleine lay listlessly
back upon the velvet cushions of her easy chair,
drawn close to the window-, for the day had been
intensely 7 hot, and the atmosphere seemed every
moment to grow more sultry. The flowers
drooped in their vases of gold-colored glass of
Venice; the birds were silent in their cages; the
Maltese pet fretted and panted at her feet. AVith-
out, not a leaf stirred; the odor of many flowers
came up warm and sickening in their sweetness;
the sun shone with a dull, lurid light, and the
green-crested, snowy, exotic water-fowls that
splashed in the stream from the fountain ever
and anon stretched their long, graceful necks
and uttered a harsh, discordant cry. Every
thing in nature presaged a storm.
Madeleine’s little maid brought two notes to
her, which she read at once—one with a mixed
expression of sadness and pleasure, the other
with deeply agitating emotion. One was a short
note from Berrien, thanking her in his sister’s
name for some grapes and flowers and wine she
bad sent, and saying that Cecilia had rallied
slightly 7 from her last attack. The other note a
foolscap sheet, blotted as with tears and written
in a trembling, old-fashioned hand.
“I make this plea to you, because in my deep
trouble I catch at any straw of hope, and because
I cannot think your heart is so hard as to wish
evil to my boy, although you have been the
cause of his downfall. Yes, y 7 ou have been his
ruin, though you may not have meant to do him
so much wrong, and you may repent of it now.
If you do, I pray 7 you for the love of Christ’s
swett mother to help me save my boy. He is
my all my baby—the child of my old age the
only one remaining to me out of five, whose
graves even I shall never see again. And now.
must 1 lose him too Or must I see him go
down to ruin worse than death ? AVill there be
none to close my oid eyhs? Oh ! pity me, father;
let this cup pass from riie.
“Let rue 1.11 you calmly. In the next r-ioni
my 7 boy is lying. He will not speak to me. As
I listen at the door, I hear his—groans his mut
tered words. He is wild with shame and de
spair. If he had money 7 he would rush at once ;
and buy the accursed drink in which to drown j
his grief. He says he is disgraced; that his j
friends have forsaken him; that no one cares for
him; no one will employ him, even if he had j
the courage to ask for employment. Ho has no !
heart to go away even if he had means to go; j
but, alas ! we have no means even to buy food. j
“Oh ! what a change! My boy was such a
comfort to his mother; so merry and contented, j
so frank and confiding ! Then I lost my influ
ence over him. Another took his love, his con- j
fidence from me. She still has power over him; ;
he mutters her name in his sleep; he cherishes j
the books she gave him; the withered flowers. :
Yes, though it cuts like a knife to my heart, I j
know you have more influence than I. I pray '
you to use it now for his good. Save him from j
despair; raise his spirits that the shame of being :
in jail and scorned by his mates have crushed :
to the dust. My fear is that he will lake his life, j
Just now, I found him with a loaded pistol ly
ing by him. I took it softly away while he lay
with his face hid in his arms. But I do not
know what he may do next. Come to see him.
His mother pleads for you to come and use all
your power to save him. ”
Not once did a doubt that this letter was gen
uine enter Madeleine’s mind. Its words went
to her heart like a stab.
‘ Oh ! God pity 7 me ! Save me from any more
all dressed in your black silk suit, standin’ in
de middle of de floor.”
“It was imagination, Aunt Abbey; you saw
my dress hanging there.”
“ No, child, it was you, just as you stand, only
wid your black silk on and your face white as
dat marble bust on de library mantle-piece. It
was a warning !—it was a warning! Oh! Miss
Madeleine, for mercy's sake don't go out to-day !”
“I must, but you shall go with me and tako
care of me, auntie.”
“ I can’t’fend off de death-angel’s hand; no
body can. Oil! surely. Aliss Madeleine, you are
not goin’ to wear dat black silk ! Put it‘ down,
honey; it’s temptin’ Providence. Here's plenty-
others. I’ll never bear to look at dat dress
again.”
“Nonsense, Aunt Abbey; go down and get
you a cup of strong coffee. Your nerves ure
shaken. Be ready to go with me when I come
down.”
And in spite of threatening sky and supernat
ural warning, Madeleine, attended by her faith
ful slave, set out upon her mission.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
YOUNG FOLKS’ COLUMN.
[For Tho Sunny South.]
KISSING PAPA’S SHOES.
Birdie stood beside my chair,
Little sprite of years but two;
Lovingly she clasps .her hands
Bound a soiled and dusty shoe.
.ess
.sated
“■>
Huger still contrasts that foot
With the tiny, wee-wee maid;
‘ I kiss papa's shoe.” she smiled,
And the hearty tribute paid.
Loving, little, precious soul—
What a picture for my Muse!
True and trusting as the stars,
Soft and gentle as the dews!
Soiling all her snowy frock,
Kissing papa’s dusty shoe;
But within that tiny breast
Dwelt a soul all pure and true.
[For The Sunny South.J
MISS SPOT’S DISOBEDIENCE.
A Story With a Moral.
BY “COUSIN ANNIE.”
AA r ay down in the shadiest, greenest portion of
farmer Day’s meadow, under the trees, through
the thick boughs of which the hot, afternoon
sunshine scarcely dared peep, a group of cows
lay stretched out, lazily chewing their ends.
Now, these same cows were the happiest, most
contented animals imaginable; well pleased with
themselves, the world, and everything in gen
eral. There was Mother Brindle, who, in respect
to her years and vast deal of experience, was
looked up to as quite an oracle by the younger
portion of her family. AA’hatever Mother Brin-
dle said was sure to be true. No young cow,
who followed her advice, was ever known to get
into difficulty. Then there was Father Bos,
who came next in age to Mother Brindle, and,
like her, also, noted for his wisdom. He always
knew where the best pasture was to he found,
and all who followed close in his footsteps were
never known to sufi'er hnnger. Then came Mad
ame Crumpledhorn, Mrs. Cherry, Airs. Mnley-
Lead, Aliss Sukey, Aliss Blossom, and last of all
little Miss Spot.
Now, Miss Spot was a frisky young animal of
some twelve months old, “quite a baby yet,”
older heads declared to her, hut she herself
chose to consider otherwise. “She knew how
to take care of herself,” she declared. But
alas, her frequent troubles, the numerous little
“scrapes” she was always getting into, proved
the contrary. Then, too. I am sorry to say,
! Aliss Spot was inclined to he rather disobedient,
i and poor Airs. Crumpledhorn had a sad time of
! it, indeed, try ing to manage her willful, head-
' strong young daughter.
Upon this afternoon of which I am writing,
! while the other cows were happy and contented,
j a feeling of restlessness and discontent took
possession of Miss Spot. Not far from the
meadow, and plainly in sight, was a fine, well
growing pea patch, belonging to Squire May-
field. Now, Miss Spot, not satisfied with the
nice, tender grass all around her, and the bundle
of hay or oats she was sure to get at night, often
cast longing ej-es in the direction of this pea
field. By some chance one or two of the fence
rails had become loosened and quite an opening
made, and thus Aliss Spot, the more she gazed
at it the more she came to the determination to
see, if w-ith the help of her short horns, which
had just taken a start to grow, and of which
Aliss Spot w-as awfully proud, she mightn’t
make the opening still larger, and so avail her
self of the coveted feast. So, full of this reso
lution, she started up and tried to slip away
unobserved, for she thought the rest all fast
asleep. But Mrs. Crumpledhorn was not. As
all good mothers ought to do, she had been
keeping watch from between her half-closed
eyes upon her willful and headstrong young
daughter all the while. As Aliss Spot started
up, she opened her eyes uneasily.
“ AVither away now, my dear?” she asked.
Somewhat taken aback by discovery, Aliss Spot
stammered out:
“I'm going to break in through that crack in
the fence yonder, and get some of those peas.”
“Oh, no, my dear, don’t do any such thing,”
and Airs. Crumpledhorn got up in her alarm.
“It’s very dangerous. The Squire would set
evil consequences of my vain and thoughtless ! his dogs upon you.”
acts !” was her wild prayer as she paced the
room, crushing the letter in her hand. Then
she summoned Aunt Abbey and read the letter
to her. The mulatto slave had a right to her
confidence. She was all that remained to her of
her father’s household. She had tended Alade-
leine as a baby; she had nursed her in sickness,
scolded and encouraged her when she was an
ignorant child-wife, and in her arms Madeleine
had wept away many of her childish troubles,
and even those of maturer years. She soothed
her now.
“AVe’ll go to see ’em to-morrow, honey. I
know where dey live. Charley’s a good boy,
and he just needs heartening up a bit. Ail tings
look black to him now, and everybody against
him. AVe’ll cheer him and de good mama up
to-morrow.”
“Oh ! let us go to-day, Aunt Abbey—this very
afternoon !”
“ But it looks like a storm is cornin’ up, child.
It’s been too hot for anything, and now, just you
hear de low thunder a muttering, and see de
clouds cornin’ up.”
“Oh! it -will pass away as it did yesterday
evening—blow off clear in a little while. I can’t
wait, Aunt Abbey. Something awful might
happen, that I could prevent. Just go in my
dressing room and get out my black silk walk
ing suit and hat, and then order the carriage—”
“ Master’s got de horses riding wid Mr. AVerter,
you know.”
“ Then, we can get a cab,” Madeleine said,
her face clouding anxiously at the mention of
AVerter’s name. Vaguely, she feared him; she
had no premonition, however, that he was at
this moment, in the revengeful venom of his
nature, binding a deadly coil about her.
Shaking her head dubiously, Aunt Abbey went
into the dressing-room to obey her mistress’
orders. An instant after, Madeleine heard her
scream. She rushed into the room and encoun
tered Aunt Abbey’s scared, distended eyes and
horrified face.
“Dere! it’s gone; but I saw it!—I saw it
standin’ right here!”
“Saw what?”
“A ghost!—oh, child, de ghost of yourself,
“I’m not afraid !” Aliss Spot declared with a
dignified toss of her short horns, and away she
trotted.
“Nay, nay, Spot, dear; oh, do come hack !”
the mother cried in alarm. But the willful Miss
Spot kept straight along.
By this time the other cows had been aroused
from their slumbers, and as soon as they of wll».
stood what was going on, began to entreat a
“Come back, Spot, that’s a dear, and ni.ud
your poor mamma !” Madame Cherry said.
“Oh, dear, the dogs will kill you !” Miss Sukey
cried.
Bu f headstrong Miss Spot only tossed her
head in defiance.
“ AVhat a very willful, headstrong young crea
ture !” motberBrindle sighed.
“Yes,” father Bos said as he turned his cud
around in his mouth, “and some of these times
her disobedience will bring her into trouble.”
Father Bos’s words seemed as a prophecy soon
to be fulfilled, for Aliss Spot bad no sooner by
dint of a great deal of exertion made ber way
into the field, and whisking her tail round and
round with delight began tasting of the peas,
when suddenly there came a sound that struck
a chill of terror to the heart—the barking of dogs
coming nearer.
“Run, John ! run quick !” the Squire cried;
and John did “run quick,” with a half dozen
great, ugly, fierce looking dogs close at his heels.
Poor Miss Spot! Before she could make her
escape they were down upon her, their sharp
teeth bringing the blood at every bite. Hither
and thither she ran, the pain making her so
blind she coaid scarcely tell which way she was
going. She got out at last, but not as she went
in. She carried the scars of the big dog’s teeth
to her dying day. “ She was a wiser, though a
sadder calf.” Yes, Miss Spot had learned a les
son she never forgot. Neither Atotlier Brindle,
Father Boss, or Mrs. Crumpledhorn ever had
cause to complain of her disobedience again.
She became a model calf, and grew up at length
to cow-hood, an honor to her mother and all
who knew her. Now, children, can’t you find
the moral to this story ? AVell, here it is: Moral—j
Mind Motheb.