Newspaper Page Text
(Cantinned from 3d page.)
CHAPTER XIX—A Dkawn Battle.
* Mr. MontmoIIin is very gracious, this after-
noon,’ said the Brookline Belle, looking archly
through her half-closed eyes at her gay compan
ion, as they pursued their promenade at the
Panacea Springs, * very graeions indeed, to for
sake the company of a rich and beautiful hei
ress, for that of a quiet, unpretentious lady,
like me!'
* Not so very gracious, Miss Helen,’ he re
plied, ‘ for I carb nothing for wealth, and beauty
is to me, the principal thing. As to you, if you
were not far more attractive than that simpering
girl yonder, 1 should devote myself this after
noon to a book and a segar. ’
‘But she has an immense fortune, you know,
Mr. MontmoIIin, and riches hide all human
defects/ replied Helen, in atone which evident
ly was designed to provoke her companion to
the expression of a contrary opinion.
‘No, Miss Helen,’he replied, ‘riohes magni
fy faults, rather than exouse them. If any peo
ple in the world ought to be justified in being
surly, ill-natured and disagreeable, it should be
the poor. The advantages denied them by na
ture, without any fault of theirs, may well make
them murmurers at the good fortnue of people
who do not deserve their wealth. Ladies born
to wealth are seldom capable of being reconciled
to poverty, whilst the poor are often ornaments
to society when fortune smiles upon them.’
‘ Then you think that poverty is not an un
mixed evil, if it renders one capable of useful
ness and goodness ?’
‘ Certainly not, an nnmixed evil, although lew
of us would choose to be poor for the benefit of
our dispositions,’ he replied; ‘for my part, in
our country of rapid changes in property, I
think it good policy to practice ourselves in the
endeavor to realize the opposite of our condi
tion in life. The rich to-day, may be poor to
morrow—and the poorto-day may take his place
a few years hence among the richest in the land. ’
‘ You do not believe that wealth is in itself
refining and noble ? Is there not a difference
in the very natures of children reared among
comfort and elegance, compared with those born
amid scenes of squalid poverty and want.’
* Other things being equal, donbtless wealth
is favorable to refinement of character, and pov
erty is decidedly unfavorable to it, but the trou
ble is, other things are nol equal!’
‘ By which you mean— ?'
‘ I mean simply this, that one may be sur
rounded by wealth, and yet have associates
more grovelling, more corrupting, more debas
ing than those that afflict the poor.’
‘That may be true, Mr. MontmoIIin, but as a
matter of fact, I do not think it is often the case.
Life, it seems to me, must be very miserable,
wnen one must toil for daily bread.'
‘And life iB just as miserable,’ he added ‘when
position in society, and all the charms that
wealth holds out, are held by a slender thread,
when a morning's telegram may bring us the
news which destroys our proper fortune, and
leaves us only beggars !’
He watched her face narrowly as he uttered
these words, for Bertrand desired to know to
what extent the proud young girl was aware of
the impending crisis m her fathers affairs. But
he looked in vain for any intimation in her
countenance. She was either unconscious of
ns talk of childish days—we are wiser now than
we used to be.’
•Surely we are wiser, if not better; but there
are memories that will not fade nor be forgotten,
although we may wish to obliterate them. Pride
is a dread avenger, and never forgives an injury.'
‘I beg you, Mr. MontmoIIin, do not revive
that child’s quarrel, now. I have told you once,
twice; more than twice, tnat the giddy folly of
a schoolgirl has been long since repented of —
please do not reenrto the painful theme again.’
‘I shall not revive it, Helen — no, I would
tear the memory from my heart, if I believed
yon were genuinely penitent’
•What ean I do to convince you, then ? My
words are vain, it Beems. You will not ^believe
me—and I cannot prove myself sincere.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘If I knew how to do so, Bertrand, I would
leave nothing undone to convince you.’
‘What then, if I should tell you how the past
may be atoned for ?’
‘Point out the way, and if I have it in my
power, it shall be done !' Her eyes were fast
filling with tears, but she turned aside her head,
and he did not see them.
•The way may not seem easy to you, Helen,
but to me, it seems little enough for yon, who
have made me what I am — almost a wreck of
manhood, even in my, prime. For yon, I would
have sacrificed my. life, once. Can you sacrifice
for me, a day, an hour of giddy pleasure?’
‘O! Bertrand ! why can you doubt me? What
if I was vain, foolish, giddy, cruel, heartless, if
you will have it so ? Have I not shown since
that time, every proof of penitence? Besides,
you cannot know what influences surrounded
me, then !’
•And now, yon are willing to renew your vows,
when I, not you, must maintain the extrav
agance and pageantry of your fashionable life?’
•it is true, Mr. MontmoIIin,’she said, rising
from her chair, and her beautiful face glowed
with a rare aD«I lustrous radiance, which dazzled
the young man, for he had never seen that air
or manner before, in her, at least. ‘It is true,
sir, my conduct is susceptible to that construc
tion, if you choose to think so. I know that
adverse fortune has overtaken my father — that
the wealth in which 1 have been reared, has sud
denly melted away — but if you think that I
have become an unprincipled fortune-hunter,
and would now resume our engagement, because
yon are rich, and I am poor—know, sir, that not
all the riches of the Indies could buy my hand,
or make me listen to one who believes me ca
pable of such baseness!’
She turned her dark eves full upon him, and
they flashed defiance, Tiuch as he had never
dreamed her capable of. Her lips turned pale
—the thin nostrils swelled with indignation,
near akin to passionate resentment. As she
stood before him, the eloquence of her sell-vin
dication seemed conclusive, for Bertrand felt
himself fast giving way before her.
‘Pardon me,’ he said, iB a tremulous voice,
‘I have wronged you, and it was a most ungal
lant word.”
‘llDgallant, Mr. MontmoIIin! Talk you of
this, as if we were sparring witticisms in the
drawing-room among fops and flirts? Ungal
lant, sir! No, it needs another name, which
your good sense will supply—I need not utter
it! If you suppose that the fickle caprice of a
schoolgirl, prompted by idle tales, however
deeply my conduct wounded yon, can warrant a
toto about the whole affair—I mean about vour
sex.’
•Indeed! Mr. Gordon; and what isyour opin
ion ?’ asked Ellen, her innocent face beaming
upon the young lawyer with all the girlish earn
estness of a nature that knew no arts of dissim
ulation.
‘ Why, I must not flatter you ladies, and pre
fer rather to tell yon his opinion. He says that
only beautiful women are worthy of our love,
and that he could never endure the presence of
a plain face. Physical beauty is his ideal, and
none but the beautiful among women are to be
tolerated at all.’
not? I do so much need some> one to tell me,
when I am going wrong, and my aunts are so
gentle and forbearing that they never find fault
with me. But you—will you be my mentor, Mr.
Gordon ?’
‘I’m afraid that 1 shonld be a sorry guide,
Miss Ellen,’ he replied, ‘I am not old enongh to
give safe advice, and I fear I should be a most
unworthy mentor!’
‘But you will be frank with me, and tell me
when jou see me doing anything wrong, or say
ing anything improper? I have been so much
secluded from the world, that I really know on
ly what I have read in books about it. I am
Oh! he does not wish to destroy the ugly j afraid I shall appear very verdant, and proba-
ones—surely not! - ! b *y ver Y 8 f n P’d to your fine people in Oglethorpe.
«Well, not that, exactly, but he has no patience i My teachers and instructors in music and pain-
with them, and laughs at me because I tell him J tiDg, and all that, have heretofore been nearly
that all women are beautiful!’ ' all the society I have seen. I am really unac-
‘ And that is your opinion ? that all are beau- quainted with the world, and I need advice.’
‘As far, as I may, Miss Ellen,’ Herbert i
The fair young girl stood pinning the orange
flowers in her hair, and Herbert f;lt that there
was at least one woman who could deserve to be
loved, even on Bertrand’s principle.
Yes, all women are beautiful. Miss Ellen,
her danger, or seemed to be so, and she gaily j studied insult, uttered in the cool, deliberate
answered:
* But to men like you, who never embark on
seas of speculation, wealth brings all of its
pleasures, and no grim spectres to disturb your
enjoyment. You ought to be a happy man, Mr.
MontmoIIin. ’
‘PerhapsI am,’ he answered, ‘butonly in ex
pectation.’
‘ Of a rich and beautiful wife—eh ? That is
language of matured purpose, then we will do
well to make this our parting interview!’
‘Helen, dear Helen !’ he f.aid in a voice of en
treaty, which Bertrand could scarcely realize in
himself, ‘forgive me—I did not mean it as an
. insult. I thought ,’ . _ •
‘Ah! you thought! Yes, you thought that
i you would have your revenge of me—that now,
reduced to poverty, I would become your slave,
all you need to complete your cup of happi- , an d crawl abjectly and kiss your hand, whilst
ness ?’
‘It may be so, in part, at least Beautiful, she
must be; rioh, well, that is not essential.’
4 Indeed ? Then you are not so ambitions as
I thought you. ’
‘ My ambition may lie in another direction.
To marry wealth, may bring me into a depend
ence I do not covet.’
‘And you would rather have the sense of ob
ligation and dependence to be felt by the lady
yon honor with jour hand.’
‘I would not word the phrase precisely that
way—but it is very near my meaning.’
* You have a little of the tyrant in your na
ture, then,’she Baid gaily; ‘but that is the lot
of women. We are tlie weaker sex, and must
always be reminded of it.’
your proud spirit would revel in my misfor
tunes, and whilst you taunted me, and lashed
me with the scorpion-whip, I would cling to
yon, and bless the hand that crushed me ! No,
Mr. MontmoIIin! I vowed once to be your
wife—in a childish whim I declined you — now,
I rejoice in my liberty, and praise the God (hat
delivered me from such slavery as your gentle
nature would prepare for me! No, sir, the de
lusion is past. You and I have nothing in com
mon between us, henceforth !’
•Stop, Helen, I beg you,’ said Bertrand, for the
proud girl had turned upon him, and was leaving
the spot. ‘Stop one moment—let me speak — ’
but she had entered the doorway, and disap
peared.
He stood for some minutes gazing after her,
* In some respects the weaker sex, undoubt- j fondly hoping that she would return. But .she
edly, but in the main, strong enongh to conquer i came not. He saw her no more that day. The hours
the bravest of men, too. It is truly pitable to ! passed slowly away until the evening came,
see how abject a creature a man in love will some- : when he watched and waited for her at the
times become.’ 1 supper table. All in vain. He sent a message
‘ Yes, but he rises grandly, when he secures ! to her, requesting a lew moments' interview,
hia princess, and has her fate in his own hands, j The note was returned under seal, but not a
' line from the Brookline Belle.
Marriage, they say, conquers love.’
‘When self is stronger than principle—and
fashion is the god of beauty—when home,
friends, and all dnties are sacrificed to display
and show—then love dies of inanition.’
* True love cannot die, Mr. MontmoIIin,’ she
replied, ‘it is immortal.’
‘ Bat does not, cannot dwell alone. The wife
who prefers the admiration of sooiety to her
husband’s welfare, will destroy the source of
her own happiness, and throw love out of
doors.’
‘Uponmy word, Mr. MontmoIIin,’ said the
Belle, ‘you talk like a philosopher—who would
think of hearing such sober Bentiment from a
gay young society man like yon ? Surely, Mr.
Gordon must have exeroised a strange influence
over you.’
* My better reason teaches me that the follies
of my own life must cease somewhere, and when
I meditate upon the grave issues of domestic
life, I cannot help seeing that a man may amuse
himself with butterflies in the parlor or the
garden, but needs more substantial companion
ship for the realities of life. Marriage is too
serious a theme for jest or experiment. The
Ritual of the Church speaks wisely, when it
says that matrimony is not to ‘be enterprized,
or taken in hand unadvisedly, but reverently,
discreetly, and in the fear of God.”
‘ Bravo ! we shall have a sermon from you yet,'
exclaimed the Belle.
MontmoIIin was really in great distress of
mind. He had once fondly loved this proud
youDg girl, but he honestly believed himself
thoroughly cured of his infatuation. The
eventB of this day revealed to him a lesson he
did not dream.of— he was still in love with her
—more passionately now than ever. Her fiery
spirit charmed him—her fierce disavowal of
unworthy motives enhanced his esteem for her
She was necessary to his happiness now more
than ever before. He resolved to humble him
self, to confess bis error in the most humiliating
terms—to Bay, to do, to promise anything to
obtain her forgiveness. The night passed away
and the slow morning hours crept on and found
him planning some scheme to pacify her, Borne
method of satisfaction which might soothe her
wounded spirit.
The breakfast hour was scarcely over when he
sent a message to her room. The servant re
turned in a few moments with the intelligence
that Miss Helen had left the place. Gone!
whither, no one could tell. But she was cer
tainly gone.
That day he, also, left the springs. He re
turned to Oglethorpe, hoping to find her there.
But she had not returned to her friends in that
city. There could be but one conclusion after
this—she had gone to Brookline—gone t > her
home, to face the new surroundings, where her
father’s loss of fortune was destined to try the
friendships which prosperity creates, but only
‘The truth does not change, even in the lips i “lenasnips -
.A’—adverse fortune can demonstrate. MontmoIIin
of folly,’ he said gravely, as he conducted her to
a chair some distance from the gay company on
the verandah. The Belle sighed gently, and sat
for a few moments picking to pieces a rose,
whose velvet leaves she scattered on the floor.
‘You are right,’ she said, ‘but how few among
us are wise enough to make tnat choice upon
which all onr future depends !’
‘And uiHuy live to regret their lack of wisdom,
wb*-n it is too late to retrieve an error.’
•Positivelj yon make me melancholy, Mr.
Mon'.moilm ! To hear you, one might suppose
that you w*-re a desolate young man, whose
matrimonial prospects were ruined— instead of
that, you have the power to win any hand or
heart you may choose.'
‘Even year own, eh?’ he queried, looking
down into the deep, expressive eyes, ns if he
would iathorn them to the bottom.
T did not speak of myself, sir,' she answered,
M the rich bloom of youth took deeper color on
cheek and brow. ‘I uttered only a general truth;
I did not expect a practical application of it.’
‘Bnt it was not always a truth, Helen,’ he re
plied, in a grave and subdued tone, ‘it was not
mlways true that 1 could win any hand or heart
—you know that 1’ ,
•Gome, come, Mr. MontmoIIin,’ she answered,
I with an attempt to reoover her gaiety, ‘don’t let
determined to follow at once, and a few days
afterward he was on his way to seek the wound
ed spirit which he felt hourly becoming more
and more necessary to his peace and happi-
CHAPTER X.—Basking in thb Scnshixh.
* A most romantic story, truly!’ said Ellen, as
she plucked one of the orange blossoms from a
tree and placed it in her dark ringlets. * I won
der if he will find her?’
‘ I hope he will,’ answered Herbert, ‘ fori be
lieve he really loves her, although he pretends
that he only feels it as a reflection upon his
honor. Bertrand is Dot the man to undergo so
much inconvenience and labor simply to apolo
gize to a witty coquettel’
‘It was very, very rude in him—your friend
ought to be ashamed of himself for acting so
ungallan'ly.’
‘ He affected to believe her only a flirt and
because her father’s fortude was lost he sup
posed she was seeking a rich husband—and he
has been soundly punished for his impudence.
Really, f think it serves him right. He would
u.it listen to me, when Isongbt to dissuade him
just as all flowers are beautiful. See, this pale
white rose; it is not so gay and brilliant as that
rich carnation, or this fuchsia—it is not so slen
der and gra;ftii&! as this lily—it is not so fra
grant as many lothers of its sisterhood; but
beautiful it is-i-fulfilliDg its allotted sphere,
contributing to our pleasure. Its very deficien
cies help to set off the brighter hues of others.
I think it no less pure, and sweet, and beauti
ful because it does not monopolize all the beau
ty, but is content only with its share.’
* * And women are like the flowers, are they ?
Certainly you are generous, Mr. Gordon, and
whether your views are correct or not, I think
we ought to be grateful lor your appreciation.’
«This would be a sad world without the
bright eyes, the pure, innocent faces, the ten
der hearts, the gentle hands of the ladies, Miss
Ellen.’
• And without strong, noble natures—vigilant
and faithful guardians—strong minds and hands
and hearts, I think the world would be a dreary
place, indeed!’
Ellen laughed gaily, and Herbert joined in
her merriment. ’Twas a dull old trnism, sure
ly: man without woman—woman without man
—well, it wonldnot be a world at all!
So these two vonng hearts thought, and felt,
as others have, since the first wedded pair walk
ed down the flowery paths in paradise.
‘And your friend is gone to seek ont the
wounded* dove ! Where will he find her?’ ask-'
ed Ellen.
• 1 cannot tell. He thinks she has gone home,
but now that bankruptcy has deprived the fam- ]
ily of all their comforts, I would not be sur
prised if she has left the city where she was
only a few weeks ago a rejoicing belle. It is so
easy in a large town to lose oneself in the crowd
I doubt if he will find her—and if he does, her
proud spirit will hardly forgive him for the
wanton injury. I am sure I shonld not, if I
were in her place. At all events he should give
me the strongest evidence of his repentance.’
‘But it seems, from what you tell me, that she
had once treated him very badly—it was only
diamond against diamond.’
‘ Yes, they were engaged to be married, and
the day was appointed. He had been very at
tentive to her, and on the morning of the day
appointed for the wedding, she wrote him a note
refusing to marry him.’
‘That was certainly very wrong of her,’ said
Ellen, ‘ a lady ought to know her own mind bet
ter than that. Perhaps, after all, he did well to
lose her.’ ,
• But.t.b.eA/.fcAcaoU.ether, Miss Ellen. Iam
sure they do/^sne had some reason for reject
ing him; she explained the cause not long ago,
but he would have it that she desired to capture
him on account of his fortune. He was not rich
at that time—at least he had not the fortune
which he now possesses. A wealthy nncle, 1 be
lieve, left him all his property, for his father,
though living in great style, was not supposed
to be very rich. Bertrand is very suspicious in
bis temperament, and thinks people are all lia
ble to be influenced more by money than any
other consideration in the world.’
‘And is that true, Mr. Gordon ? Are people
so base as to lose each other for the sake of their
money ?’ asked Ellen, her own experience hav
ing never suggested such an idea of human de
pravity.
‘Weil, to tell you the truth, Miss Ellen,’an
swered Gordon, ‘there is no doubt that many
people pretend to love the rich when it is only
their wealth that is loved. Such friendship will
not stand the test of poverty. For my part I
should think, it very hazardous for any one in
this country to place any dependence upon
wealth. Marriage is too solemn a theme to con
nect with dollars and cents.’
‘People ought only to marry for love!’ ex-
olaimed the young girl, and she looked as wise
and profound as if she had discovered a para
mount law of the moral universe.
‘ That is true,’ replied Gordon, ‘ and only stfch
marriages are happy. Bnt even this principle
requires some qualification.’
‘ How so, Mr. Gordon ?’
‘ Why, a man may, like my friend MontmoI
Iin, love a woman for herself, because she has
physical beauty. When she is faded, and has
lost her charms, there is danger that love will
depart. Then the poor, deserted wife finds out,
too late, that she has lost the or ly bond that can
bind her husband to her. But there is a higher
beauty than that of form or feature—the beauty
of the mind and sonl.’
‘Now then, Mr. Gordon,’ said Ellen, aa she
gathered some flowers into a little boquet, ‘ you
must explain that to me. I wish to know what
yon mean by beanty of the mind and soul.’
Herbert looked at the fair sweet face before
him, in all ita artless simplicity of youth and
grace, and he thought she had only to study her
self to see his ideal of all beauty.
‘Still, Miss Ellen,’ he replied, ‘there are
some qualities which are known and appreciat
ed enough, and yet are difficult to define. If
you wish to know what I think of the beanty of
the 8oul,T can only define it imperfectly. In
woman, first ot all, it is gentleness—modest un-
presuming tenderness of disposition. Purity
of purpose—kindness to all people, high and
swered, Twill serve you with great pleasure,
but I am not a very competent guardian for any
body,—and, well, we shall not have many ene
mies to overcome, anyhow, You are among
a staff, and we’ll try with staves who is the best
man.’
Robin Hood knew, of course, that the stranger
was a stronger, heavier man than himself, but
thought mayhap his tough activity would make
him a match for the other. Anywise he deter
mined to try a fair ’bout and see what would
come of it Therefore he stepped back on the
bank, went to a clump of trees at hand, and out
him a good stout stick.
‘Now/ said Robin Hood, pleasantly, ‘we'll
fight on the bridge, and whichever gets knocked
into the water will be beaten, and the one who
keeps his footing wins the day.’
‘I agree with all my heart/ answered the
stranger, heartily.’
So at it they went. Robin Hood gave the first
lick. Such a bang! It made the big man’s
bones ring. He said:
‘I’ll pay you for that,’ and cameMown with a
real whack!
Robin gave baok as good a one, and the blows
fell so fast and heavy, it sounded as if they
were threshing wheat. At last the stranger hit
Robin Hood such a lick on the head, the blood
friends, and there is no society more charming ran down his face; then Robin Hood became
than that of Oglethorpe. Give yourself no un- angry, and belaid on blows so thick and heavy,
easiness on RHy score. Obey the instincts of a the tall man’s clothes fairly smoked. He too got
true womanly nature, and you have nothing to mad, and came down with such a heavy broad-
fear. Be a true woman !’ * j side lick, that he tumbled Robin Hood into the
brook.
Herbert did not know, then, how the solar
light of his frank, intelligent lace was photo
graphing on her heart an image which not all
the experience ot mortal life could erase. He
did not know, nor did she, at that time, how
firmly fixed in her soul, were the impressions of
those balmy summer mornings and evenings,
when they stood side by side under the orange
trees—when she wreathed the flowers her hands
had plnoked from the dewy stem, she did not
know she was weaving the web of her own life’s
future, nor he, that the girlish confidences and
artlessness were growing into his soul, like the
tendrils of humble plants, searching out the
crevices of rocks, and fixing themselves for the
blooming and the fruitage of all time.
The days came and went, and each endeared
the young friends to each other more and more.
Absent, their thoughts spanned the intervening
space, and they found employment and delight,
in remembering every word, and gesture, and
tone of their last meeting. Present, there was
never a word that could be called idle, or a look
that was meaningless—and yet neither imagined
that this was genuine, imperishable love! No
such word esoaped them—for their friendship
needed no name. It was never called by any
name—but all their hours were devoted to stud
ies in the garden—to questions among books, to
enquiries among poets, philosophers and teach
ers of anoient and modern days. Opinions and
sentiments, and speculations, among the flowers
or the stars—hopes, plans, prospects, but never
6uch as revealed to them that every hope tended
to a common meeting place—every plan had a
future belonging to each alike—every prospect j
‘ Ah ! ha!’ said the stranger. ‘ Where are
you now ?’
4 In the water getting cool,’ replied Robin
Hood, with perfect good humor. ‘ You are a
brave fellow, and can hit a good heavy blow, I’ll
prove. You have won this bout, 1 trow !’
Robin Hood by this time had waded out to
the bank; he then blew a blast on his horn, and
in a few moments his band of bowmen were
around him.
‘Why, master!’ said Will Stutely, who was
next best man in the company to Robin Hood.
Why, master! You are wet to the skin.’
‘There’s the man,’ answered Robin Hood,
‘who tumbled me in.’
‘ We will duck him,’ cried out three or four
of the outlaws, starting forward, ‘ and let him
see how he likes such fun.’
‘ Stop !’ cried out Robiu Hood. ‘ Stop ! He’B
a good stout fellow, and honest withal, if one
may judge by his blows. No one shall wrong
thee, friend, be not afraid; these bowmen on ine
do wait. There’s three-score and nine; if you’ll
be mine, you shall have my livery strait. I’ll
teach you the use of the bow, and how to shoot
the fallow deer.’
‘Here is my hand,’ the stranger replied. ‘I'll
serve you with my whole heart; my name is
John Little, a man of good mettle. Ne’er doubt
me, for I’ll play my part.’
‘His name shall be altered/ quoth Will State
ly, ‘ and I will be his God-father. Prepare then
a feast, and none of the least, for we will be
merry,’ quoth he.
They presently fetched a brace of fat does,
presented itself in close suggestion with the oth- I gome good strong foaming ale, and merrily got
er’s name. That they were happy in each oth- t all ready to feast on the good things. The stran-
er’s society, the most superficial observer could i ger was seven feet high, and may be an ell in
not fail to see—that either had ever enquired j the waist, but they declared with much fun he
why it was so, or if there really existed in the ! was a sweet, jolly babe. Robin Hood and all
soul of either an attraction for the other—of
these things neither Herbert nor Ellen ever for
a moment entertained a thought.
O ! Children of earth ! when in the gray dawn
of some eventfni day, ye shall suddenly stum
ble over the truth, and waking from the sweet
evening dream of peace, shall find that nature
has created you, and circumstances united you
in the bonds of the holiest affection that exists
below the stars, beware lest some wandering de
mon of this sin-smitten world, do not strive to
work your life’s undoing.
(TO BK CONTINUED.)
From the Boys and Girls of the South.
TALES OF ROBIN HOOD.
ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN.
CHAPTER II.
low—sweetness of temper—charity to the needy,
The sick, and afflicted. Patience with the erring
—fidelity to trnth—constancy in heart, lovliness
of deportment—in a word, true woman-hood
It is a poor definition—only a part of it—but
this is at least a part of soul-beauty.’
‘And I think with you Mr. Gordon/ every
woman ought to be gentle, modest, kind, and
faithful—but have you iound any that have all
these beautiful qualities ?’
‘ That is asking a direct interrogatory/ replied
Gordon smiling.
She looked at him for a moment, with an in
quiring glance, and then, as if realizing sudden
ly, somethimg she could hardly tell what, she
turned away, and the rich flowers in her hands
were noi so radiant and roseate of hue, as was
her fair young face.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I really did not know
what I was doing.’
‘No apology, Miss Ellen/ answered Gordon,
unless it be from me. I shonld have said frank
ly—I have seen all these qualities in more than
one a oman/
'Well, then/ said she, ‘promise me, that when
you And them all in one, you will introduce me
to her—I do so love good people, and desire to
be good myself—but oh, it is so hard always to
do right. I find fault with myself every day,
because I know I have not lived as useful a life
from his revenge, as he called it. You must
know, Miss Ellen, that be and I disagreed in | as I ought to do. You will help me, will you
Robin Hood was a declared outlaw, and a price
was set on his head; so, as there was no chance
to plead bis cause with the King, he made the
best of a bad matter, and lived in the forest of
Barnesdale and Sherwood, shooting the deer,
hare or quails whenever he chose, and hiding
himself adroitly from the foresters. There
were other men who like himselfhad gotten into
trouble through the oppressions of the monks
and nobles, and these men came to him, and
proposed, as they were all compelled to hide
from such oppression, they would form a band,
of which they wished Robin Hood to be the
captain. To this he readily agreed, but exacted
of them, (each individual,) that they would
promise him .three things. First, they must
never rob the poor. Second, they must never
harm a woman; and third, everything they got,
they were to share equally with all the other
members of the band. As to the proud, rich
monks, and haughty, wealthy nobles, they
looked on them as their fair prey; and were
always on the watch to catch them on the high
way, and take from them their money, mules,
fine clothes, etc. These men who formed Robin
Hood’s band, were almost all joung men, and
could climb trees like squirrels, run, jump,
wrestle and box. Practice made them very perfect
in the use of the long bow, and they passed
their leisure hours in making fine bows of yew,
arrows pointed finely, and twisting strong bow
strings out of the dried sinews of the deer that
they killed whenever they chose. Robin Hood,
however, was considered the boldest man, the
finest shot, swiftest racer, and best jumper of
them all. He was not so strong as he was active,
but above all, he was always cool, and fearless.
The Abbot of St. Mary’s and the Sheriff of
Nottingham constantly sent out parties to try
and capture Robin Hood and bis men, but the
outlaws would slip from Barnesdale-wood to
Sherwood-forest, and always managed to escape.
They slept under the trees, hunted deer, and
lived merrily on the wines and money they took
from the fat monks.
One day Robin Hood said to his men:
‘It is fourteen days since we’ve had any fun;
I am going to the highways to see if I cannot
meet an adventure, do you tarry here, and if I
should be about to be beat, I’ll not retreat, but
sound a note on my bugle, for you to come to
my rescue.’
It was but a few roods to a brook tbat ran
through the forest Its bridge was only a plank,
too narrow for two men to pass one another on.
As Robin Hood stepped on one end of the
bridge, a tall stranger got on the other end.
Both stopped, but neither man offered to step
aside until the other should pass over. The
stranger was about seven feet high; broad-
shouldered and brawny, he scowled at Robin
Hood, and the outlaw looked him fiercely in the
faoe.
Said the latter, presently:
‘I’ll show you right Nottingham play !’ and he
took an arrow from his quiver, as if he would
fit it to his bow-string.
‘ Shoot!' said the stranger, boldly, ' if you
dare ! and I’ll liquor your hide.’
‘ You talk like a simpleton,’ replied Robin
Hood. ‘ If I bend my bow I can send an arrow
through your heart before you can get to me to
touch me.’
‘You talk like a coward,’retorted the stran
ger: ‘ to threaten to shoot a man who has only a
staff in his hand.’
‘I scorn to be called a coward/ replied Robin
Hood. * I’ll pat my bow down, and I’ll out me
his bowmen made a ring, and Stutely said as
gravely as he could:
‘ This infant was called John Little, which
name shall be changed anon; the words we'll
transpose, so wherever he goes, his name shall
be called ‘Little John.”
They all set up a merry shout as he ended,
and seven men brought out a suit of Lincoln-
green and dressed him in it, and Robin Hood
gave him a fine long bow, saying:
‘ Thou shalt be an archer, as well as the best,
| and range in the green wood with us; where
we’ll not want gold or silver, behold while
; bishops have ought in their purse, we live here
I like ’Squires, or lords of renown, without ere a
| foot of free land; we feast on good cheer, with
| wine, ale and beer, and everything at our com-
l mand.’
Then they danced and sang and played games
\ until the sun, sinking in the west, warned them
| to go to their caves for the night.
CHAPTER III.
HOW IT CHANCED THAT THE ABBOT OF ST. MAEl’s
FELL INTO THE HANDS OF THE OUTLAWS.
It was not long after Little-John became a
member of the band of outlaws, that one day
Robin Hood was strolling alone in the forest
with his bows and arrows, ready to shoot some
game. He was whistling merrily, when his
quick ear caught the sound of horses’ feet.
Peering through the trees, he saw coming up
the hill, by a narrow path, his old enemy, the
rich Abbot of St. Mary’s, with about forty horse
men following him.
‘Marry !’ said Robin Hood to himself. ‘This
will never do; the first thing I know the Abbott
will catch me, and there is not a tree in Barues-
dale that he will think high enough to hang me
on. If I get into his hands he will swing me as
high as Haman, so I’ll try and keep out of them.’
Ashe said this to himself, the outlaw ran through
the woods to the house of an old woman near
by, and entered without any ceremony.
‘Who art thou?’ said the old woman, hastily.
* I am Robin Hood, and I see the Abbot of St.
Mary’s in the woods. If he finds me he will
hang me by the neck until I’m dead; therefore
you must help me get away.’
‘ Indeed I will do all an old woman can to
help you/ replied the crone, earnestly; ‘for'I
have the shoes and hose still that you kindly
sent at All-halloween, and the red cloak you sect
me at Christmas keeps my old shoulders warm
right now.’
‘Quick, then!' said the outlaw. ‘Lend me
your red cloak and bonnet. Here! Do you put
on my green mantle and hood, pull it down so
as well to shade your face. Now swap your
spindle and twine for my bow and quiver; and
I think I make a pretty good old wife, and you
will pass for a bold outlaw.’
He laughed merrily and hobbled out, like an
old person would in a hurry. He passed right
along by the Abbot and his troop.
The Abbott asked: ‘Goody, caastthon tell me
where I will find a varlet called Robin Hood ?’
‘ He was in tbat cottage on the hill but a little
while since/ said the disguised outlaw, readily.
‘Here’s a penny for thy good news,’ replied
the Abbot * Spur on, my men, and let ns make
sure of this robber chief!'
Robin went on briskly to where his men were
practising at a target in long-bow shooting.
Will Stutely Baw him, and not suspecting who
it was, said, with a laugh:
'Comrades, see yon old woman! She looks so
like a witch; suppose I let fly an arrow at her
and see if she will turn the point.’
‘Not so fast, Stutely! 1 had rather not be the
aim of such a markmau as thou art,’ responded
the disguised chief, us Stutely mischievously
pointed his arrow toward him. The outlaws
shouted with laughter when their master threw
aside the bonnet and cloak of the old woman,
thinking the mi-squrrade but a merry jest of the
moment. However. Robin Hood soon explain
ed their old enemy was near at hand; and the
outlaw detailed his plan to capture the Abbot
with his train. Rohm Hood quickly donned
another mantle ot liucoln-green, hackled a
good blade to his side and hastening with his
men to the *>ad by which he knew the Abbot
would travel, waited screened by the bashes
from being immediately discerned by the pre
late and his train. For the iincoln-green man
tles worn by the outlaws were so nearly the
shade ot the leaves it helped hide them among
the forest boughs.
In the meantime the Abbot had ridden up to
the hut of the old woman, who sat as Robin *
Hood left her, enveloped in the long green man- j
wmmmm