Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

im FUMCIR tOlUCTWM VOL. III. JOHN H. SEALS, }g«8i. ATLANTA, GA„ SATURDAY, JANUARY 1!». 1878. m pnno i $3 TER ANNUM TERMS, 1 IN ADVANCE. NO 135. “Wc Never Missed the Waters Till the Well Run Dry.” BT J. A. STEWABT. His heart was once a fountain Of the brightest, softest trash, And his Katie's was another Of the purest maiden blush; And so full and overflowing Were the streams that sparkled by, That they never miBsed the waters Till the Btreams ran dry. So full of life’s endearments And so bright the morning rays, The future had the promise Of unending happy days; A world so filled with beauty. And with hearts so full of joy. They never thought of meeting Where the wells run dry. The morning was so beautiful And everything so bright. They thought not of the future With its sable hues of night. The wells were overflowing And the fountain’s gush was nigh, But they never missed the waters Till the wells ran dry. In the freshness of the dawning We inhaled the twilight air. And we revel in itB beauties— Its reflections rich and rare. But, in quaffing pleasant waters From the streams meandering by, We drain the crystal fountains And the wells run dry. MIMA ABWELL: Or, THE FflE/KS OF FORTUNE Bt H. W. R. When Mary Abwell received the intelligence that an old uncle had died and madehe r heiress to one of the finest and most valuable estates in Australia, she urd her young husband concluded to visit. For Charles Abwell, though in com fortable circumstances in bis native land, was yet only the second son of a nobleman, and as, at the time we write of, it was a disgrace for the son of a noble to engage in a trade, and he hail no fancy for the ministry or military, his proud energetic nature felt a yearning to escape from the thraldom of lethargy forced upon it by birth, and seek a new country where no honorable em ployment of brain and bands would be consid ered a disgrace. His brave little wife sympa thized with him in his yearnings for a broader sphere of action, and so with their household effects, they took passage for themselves and their ten-year-old daughter, Mima, in a vessel bound for Sidney. A single day, however, before the sailing of the vessel, and after they had taken leave of their friends, and gone abroad, a message came to Charles Abwell announcing the probable fatal illness of his father. The dying man pleaded with his son to come to him once again for a last farewell. The grief-stricken son could not refuse. A hurried consultation was had between him and his wife, at which it was determined that the young wife and child should continue their jour ney to their new home, Mary’s presence there being required at once, to properly secure to her the legacy from her uncle, while Charles should go to his father’s bedside, receive his last blessing, and rejoin his family bj the fiist vessel sailing thereafter. The parting between these two loving hearts, though it seemed to them their separation could only exist a few months at the most, was indeed a sad one. Mary Abwell and little Mima had a prosper ous voyage: they safely reached their new home, and were enchanted with it. And now the days were passed in familiarizing themselves with their new, strange, happy lives, and picturing the delight of the loving husband and father when he came to them. Bnt he did not come. Instead of his own beloved form there came intelligence that the vessel in which he took passage had been lost, with all on board. Ah, those were fearful days of agony that followed, to the poor weeping, wid owed mother in her darkened chamber and to the little awe-stricken child, who realized that something awful had happened, bnt could not comprehend the nature of her loss. “He will come to me; he is not drowned; his dar eyes will yet look into my own, or upon the monnd making my last resting place,” the poor, weeping wife would constantly repeat, even when months of waiting and watching piled npon each other, forming years. Mary Abwell realized that her own life could not be a long one, and through these sorrowful years tier one joy was in training her child’s mind and person to every sweet, virtnons trait, impressing upon her strength of purpose and self-reliance, that, when left alone in the world, she would not be helpless. In her twentieth year, Mima Abwell was a lovely girl, noble, brave and womanly, when her mother, feeling that her life’s mission was done, went quietly to her eternal rest. Even in her last breath her laith in the one inspiration of her life, all these years found expression to her weeping child. “Your father will come,” she said; “watch for him, and tell him that 1 waited here as long as I could, hoping to meet him.” Her presentiment proved itself true. The flowers planted by the loviDg hands of Mima over the mound that marked her mother’s resting place were blooming their first time when a foreign letter came to the faithful heart now at rest. It devolved on Mima to open it. And how powerless are words to express her bewilderment and intense flood of joy, when it revealed to her the knowledge that her father, mourned bo long as dead, was alive, and would soon be with her. His letter explained all that jwaB mysterious in his long silence. When the vessel that, more than ten years pre vious, was conveying him to Australia, to rejoiu his wife and daughter, found ered in the great ocean, he clung to a floating spar, and for many fearful honrs of thirst and hunger and suffering was beaten about from wave to wave. On the second day, when life seemed hopeless, and reason had almost deserted him, a vessel bore down upon him, and he was plncked out of the cruel waters, only to face a more cruel fate. His rescuers were pir ates, and in their strong- bold he served as a slave for ten long years, each day being a succession of abuse and suffering more pitiless than death itself. The hope of escape, the hope of once more clasp ing his wife and child to his bosom,gave him strength to live on, and deliverance came at last. His letter to his dead wife was dated from his native Eogland, and it terminat ed with the glad intelli gence that as soon as he had regained sufficient strength to undertake the sea voyage, he would hasten to his wife and child. It was a hard task to write the words that must add a great, life-long sor row to the awful weight of woe this poor, frail, suffer ing man had borne. Amidst tears of love and sympathy, Mima revealed in tenderest words to him the death of her mother, telling him of her patient love and tru-l luring a*! the waiting years, and of her last message to him. And then she told him how fondly she, as his daughter loved him, and how much she needed his loving presence and counsel, begging him to hasten to her. Caird, though using all his eloquence, conld Dot convince Mima that it would be right for her to disobey her parent, and without his con sent become his wife. “We will wait,” she said, with such a trusting confidence in their future that it conquered him. “Though years of separation should elapse, it «. — cannot change our love, dear Caird, and our duty, and a fearful horror | happiness then will be greater for having per- of this man who claimed | formed our duty iO others. to be her father. But Caird found some joy. He met Mima ire- She might have learn- quently, for every day she stole away trom her ed in time to be more home down to the hut, there to spend an hour like a daughter to him, . with the poor, stricken old man in it, and atter- but for certain out-crop- wards to walk home with herlover. 8>he could pings of fiis character, not account for the irresistible way she was termed her willfuness in not giving him, without question, doubt or con dition, the love of a daughter. Her life was in deed one of most pitiable misery, divided as it was between a desire to do her which manifested them selves after he had been established as master of his new home a week. He was tyrannical and cruel to the servants, who had been used only to kind ness from Mima and her mother. He was parsim- o n i o u s, treacherous and dishonest in his dealings. ing often speaking rudely to her, and when Caird Meredyth paid his usual visits, he was so boorish and nugentlemaDly in his treatment of him as to make it almost unbearable to that proud - spirited youth. It was only, how ever, after he learned that away in great glee. The sailor and Caird ed Mima’s sense of duty to the way. How it came about none knew, but him as a father was so I the party found themselves without premedita- great as to overcome her j tion at the burial-ground ,v ^ i ere ._ r f 8 Jfj own yearnings He fell on the grave and wept piteously. “Mima, my daughter,” exclaimed the strange j months more of such dreadful life to her would man, in sad reproach, “you deeply wound me ! kill ter. In due time an answer came from him, assur- by your conduct. Alas, have I, too, lost the love ing her that she was the only dear link binding | of my child? Have I been spared through so much suffering to feel the ungratefulness of the his heart to the earth now. He would hasten to her, that he might bestow upon her the fondest love of a father, and be near his wife’s last rest ing place. He would leave by the first vessel following that which carried the letter to her. ****** “It is more than ten years, Alima, since you last looked into your father’s face. Do you think you will know him?” The speaker was Caird Meredyth, a young only object on earth I love? Cruel, cruel fate ! why has life been preserved to me, that I may only curse it?” He sank into a chair, and holding his face in his hands, wept bitterly. Mima hesitated but a moment longer, and then, springing to the side of the bowed form, wrapped her arms about it, exclaiming: ‘Forgive me for my heartlessness. I did not mother and many others. The invalid began to read the words inscribed on the headstones that he passed, until he came to one more preten tious and tasteful than the rest, trom which he read aloud: MARY ABWELL, aged 42. He started as he pronounced the name, clasp ed his hands over his temples and repeated it slowly several times in a strange bewilderment. T'h !>'• if liqht came to him suddenly, he fell prone upon the monnd with a great moaning sob, and wrapping his arms around the stone home, that he might es- | containing that name, wept as it his heart was cape constant insults from breaking. . f . . father — that a few; Mima stood powerless in amazement. Caird sprang forward to lift the prostrate form; but the sailor stopped him with serious meaning m his face. Thus they remained for several min utes, when the weeping man aroused himselt, and arising slowly to his feet, looked vacantly upon the faces before him, recognizing none until he encountered the sailor s eager, ex pectant gaze. Then, holding out his hand to the faithful fellow, he exclaimed, with the light of reason again in his eyes: . “I have had a long, dark, learlul dream, but the clouds are all gone at last. See, here is my poor dead wife. They tried to cheat^me out^of that he forbade her from encour aging the attentions of Caird, and treated her harshly. Caird Meredyth was in agony over the way mat ters were progressing. He realized even time he saw Mima’s sad face— which Vi as 'll-. ' OVi, for he had almost ceased his sad visits to her her Thinking it all over one evening, lie determin ed to go over to Mima’s home, knowing that her father would be absent on that evening, and at tempt to induce her to become his wite at once, and thus secure his protection. It was a lovely moonlit evening, and as he ap proached Mima's home, he saw her on the veran dah, and hastened his Rteps, feeling his heart beat faster and more joyfully, as he approached the lovely girl. She did not see him; she seem ed intent in thought, and he had planned how he would surprise her, when suddenly and with man of twenty-five years, son of a neighbor, and | mean to wound you, or ever give you cause to j a startled scream, she sprang from her seat. a dear friend and welcome visitor always to Mima Abwell, as he had also been to her mother during her life. The sweet experience which rounds out and makes perfect in loveliness every woman’s nature, the experience without which her life is a failure, had already come to Mima. She loved Caird Meredyth; he was worthy of her love, and returned it with a passion strong and pure. “Know my dear father!” she exclaimed, in astonishment at his query. “I could recognize him among a thousand, I feel certain.” “Then you must have a distinct recollection of his features as you saw them last, dear Mima. Please describe him to me, for am I not interest ed in him, next to yourself?” She looked bewildered; how could she des cribe him when her only remembrance, being put to the test, was most vague and shadowy— the remembrance, simply, of a face of noble outline, of soft, tender eyes, filled with honesty and sincerity, and of a kind voice? “ His eyes will reveal him to me,” she persist ed; “then he will look so noble, so grand and self-reliant—so honorable, that I caDnot mistake him. Surely, Caird, there must exist such an intuitive sympathy between ns that we will be irresistibly drawn to each other.” He sighed deeply as he answered: “I hope you are correct, Mima,but I cannot be anything but miserable until I know him. Have you thought, darling, that he may refuse to ratify the gift that you have'given me of your self—that he may deny me the privilege of soon calling yon my wife?” Looking bravely into his eyes, for she loved him too fondly, and was too pure and innocent to be ashamed of showing her effeetion, she said: “My father will be too noble, Caird to be guilty ot anything that would make his child miser able. Besides I know he will be proud .of you, for no one who knows you can help feeling so.” When she retired to her chamber, she quietly thought over all that her lover had said and went to sleep happy and without fear. Nothing could have been more startling than the information that awaited her on opening her eyes the following morning. Her father had arrived during the night, and was in the library- now waiting tor her. How she robed herself, how she reached the threshold of that room holding her long-lost parent, she never conld realize. There she stopped clinging to the door for support, while she eagerly searched the face of the elderly man opposite her, who stood with his outstretched arms and eager face, wel- ccming her. But from that face and figure her eyes wander ed searchingly, unsatisfied, around the room, coming back to it again with an awful depth of disappointment in her face. “No, no, yon are not my dear father,” she said. “Oh, where is my father? Has he not come ? Have they been deceiving me ?” And with heart-breaking sobs, she turned to fly from the room feel a sorrow. But it is all so sudden, I cannot think—I cannot understand. Tell me, I pray you, as you hope for peace hereafter, are yon indeed my own long-lost father? Oh ! do not deceive me !’’ The poor girl’s pleadings would have touched the hardest heart, they were so pitiful. He looked up reproachfully, his cheeks wet with tears. “Alas ! my daughter,” he exclaimed, bitterly, “have you let the world usurp your mind so much as to wipe away from your memory all re membrance of my face ? What stronger proof can you ask than that which may be found in my books ? ’ “Forgive me,” he added, hurriedly, wrapping bis arms around her, as he saw the pain his words occasioned her; “I was too hasty in con demning you, forgetting how the sufferings I have undergone must have changed my appear ance. I have abundant proofs of my identity, dear child; but can you not recognize some fa miliar features in me?” She looked long and searchingly into his face. “It is like and yet not like,” she murmured in a bewildered way. Then, with an effort, she added. “I may have been willful, my father, but if you can forgive me, and bear with me, you will at least find a dutiful daughter. I do not know my own mind—I am bewildered. I need time to think over all this—time to grow familiar with your appearance and your tastes—time to know yon. Bear with me, I pray you, if it is for months that I ask it, and surely the love and devotion that I had thought were already in my heart, will come hack and be yours.” He pressed her shrinking form to his breast and kissed her, saying: “The suddenness of my arrival and your long expectation and anxiety have evercome you, my dear child. Go now to your own room, and rest yourself.” She tottered rather than walked away. When within her ewn room, she paced the floor for hours, pressing her throbbing temples,and tyring to think, to reason, to understand. But ever be fore her, like a dreadful nightmare, was the memory of that face, like and yet so vastly un like that which she expected to see in her father. The contour of the lace was in some respects similar to her ideal face, but, alas ! there was no nobleness, no true bravery nor honesty, no gentleness nor forbearance in the small, cun ning, deceptive eyes and the thin, cruel, scorn- lul lips of that man who called himselt her father. Then, and many times in every succeeding day daring the following month, Mima would flee from his presence, lock herself within her room, and throw herself down in the wild aban donment of grief, moaning. “He is not my father ? Oh, I cannot call him that!” Bat quite as many times a day she censured herself, and wept bitter tears over what she her grave even, hut I Lave tound it after a long, siarueu scream „ long search. Come, lam strong now, and we Looking hastily to perceive the cause of her j will go and ^search for my daughter, my poor alarm, be saw that a man in sailor s costume, ; little Mima. - imrutprinnii words g(i “What do you wish? I do not recognize you,” j man’s arms, but Caird held her back, realizing Mima said, trembling with apprehension. the time had not come tor that. continued “Whv von see miss, there’s a poor old man j “How came 1 hen., the old man continued, lying over here, who is very ill, and if you’d just | “I thought I could jj® come over and talk with him, I know your sweet j thread of memory » again s ° f ^ voice would do him good. When it bewitches | grasp. Ha, I do all* my <iscape 1tom young fellows out of their senses, it might be- among pirates, the mtelligen^ of my w e i witch senses into the old man. j : death, my departure to meet dau ghter ac- Caird had his hand on the man’s collar, and ; compamed by you, “y^ant friend, he showed every sign of terror and a strong de- ! on our arrival here to he my servant, and a - Sre to rca P e n y ntn 8 he learned that his cantor | by my foster-brother to whom I oftered a home did not belong to the Abwell household. j with myselt and childl, our “Won’t vou go miss?” he continued, plead- homeward, and then that fatal night when al inglv 8 most in sight of port, David Rose, my foster- “Yes I will hoping I may he of some use to ( brother, and myself were on deck alone. The J ink™?' tYebrave girl answered, night was dark, I was leaning over the taftrail, the poor sufferer,” the brave girl “Caird, you will accompny us?” The man in great delight hastened away, the lovers closely following. He led them to a lone ly spot, on which stood a log hut, in which they found, streched npon a pallet, the emaciated form of a man. His thin, worn face and gray head and beard, were a sad enough spectacle, but when, awakening from a slumber by their entrace, and perceiving them, he sprang away in wildest terror from them, guarding himself behind the sailor, and pleading piteously with the faithful fellow not to let those strange fel lows take him away or harm him, they realized that his ailment was a mental one—that his rea son was affected. What was there in that sad, crazed face, that irresistibly drew Mima to it? A great love and pity welled up in her pure heart at once for this poor,frail man, and laying her electric fingers up on his hands, she asked him to trust and love her. With a glad look of surprise the sufferer followed her to the pallet, murmuring as if to himself: “She is not one of my enemies; she will not harm me. She is an old, old friend oi mine. I recognize her now.” And then, while she smoothed his gray hairs with her magic touch, be prattled away to her in child-like, silly talk, and she answered him as if he were indeed a child. Caird and the sailor left them thus, realizing that Mima alone with the invalid could soothe him as a medicine might do. When they re turned, a half-hour later, they found that gray- head nestling trustingly on Mima’s bosom, and those wild eyes closed in peaceful slumber. Already the suffering man was much better for Mima’s ministrations. Before they left the humble hut the sailor again impressed upon them, almost with terror in his voice, the importance to the suffering master and himself that Mima’s father should not know of this mission of theirs nor of the ref ugees at the hat, lest they should fall under his wrath. They promised to he silent. when, suddenly looking up, I saw David with a knife upraised to strike me. I was too late to save myself, the blow fell, I felt myself forced over into the water, and from that moment all the rest is a blank.” .. “ I saw that awful deed, the faithful sailor eagerly added; "I dashed over into the water, got you up and got you ashore. I heard you talk about the home of yours where your daugh ter was awaiting you, and I had you brought here, for I knew the way. But ah! they were dark days that followed, for that wicked blow, though it didn’t cut deep, seemed to have knocked all the sense out of you, and nobody could find it until a sweet angel came to you.” “ A lovely girl, wasn’t she, with kind, tender eyes, soft, soothing hands, and a voice like sweet music?” the old man gasped. “The memory of her seems like an enchanted dream to me. Can I not find her to bless her for re storing my reason to me V I will love her next to my own dear Mima.” The sailor pointed to the real Mima. Already the old man’s eyes had fastened upon her in be wilderment, in amazement, and then in a tre mor of hope, of wild expectation. The brave girl who had been so patient, who had borne so much in these minutes of startling disclosure, reached out her arms pleadingly, and no longer restrained by Caird, murmured the word “father!” ... , “My long-lost daughter ! my own Mima ! he almost shrieked, realizing the truth, and rush ing to embrace her. _ , . , . At last the real Charles Abwell had his daugh ter Mima clasped to his heart. . . We need not dwell upon the happiness of hese two long-separated ones in these first mo ments of their re-union, nor describe how proud they were of each other, and how full of gen love were their hearts, and any one looking into his eyes now could see the evidence that again reason sat firmly enthroned over his mind. It was only when those surrounding him were. Continued on 8th page. drawn to this strange old man. She was hap pier with him than with any other, except Caird; she clung to him with all the anxious intensity that, a mother would to Her stricken child — learning to eagerly watch every changing ex pression of his face, and to anticipate his every Mima’s visits to the invalid were not fruitless. He grew to watch for them with painful eager ness, going into wild despair if from any reason u,™mu, n u™. us ,. lS he was delayed in reaching him - His eyes He began to be overhear- : grew to be not so wild, his t toe not so .ad, at ing and unkind to Mima, j his speech more sensible. L nder Mima s soo - inn influence reason was attempting again to assert its throne. It was most pitiful at such times to witness the efforts of the poor, weak m?n to grasp some tlireacl of memory tliat, now- ever, when he felt sure of the victory, eluded him and left him in despair. During one ot these visits to the hut, Alima proposed a walk, which the invalid gladly ac ceded to, leaning on Mima’s arm and prattling