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Miivoiirneen—A Ballad.
The days are dark and frowning,
The nights are aloora.v now;
\ml yon”and I. my darling,
To cruel fate must bow.
And von and I my darling,
To' cruel fate must bow.
A mighty beetling mountain,
A river deep and wide,
This hand from thine, my darling,
ThVself and me divide.
Thi« "hand from thine, ray darling,
Thyself and me divide.
But mighty beetling monntains,
Nor rivers deep and wide,
Shall e'er mv soul, my darling,
Mv heart from thine divide.
Shall e'er my soul, my darling,
My heart from thine divide.
In some future golden honr,
Some happy sunlit dell.
I’ll call thee mine, my darling,
Thee whom I love so well.
I’ll call thee mine, my darling,
Thee whom I love so well.
Beyond time’s purple monntains,
On heaven’s jewelled strand,
We'll walk together, darling,
Forever hand in ha d.
We’ll walk and love, my darling,
Forever hand in hand.
THE LAST LIN k IS BROKEN.
BY MISS MAEY E. STEVENS.
, tbo beach with swiftsteps, around the bluff; and
! there where the cliff and dense foliage of
' shrubbery shut out the world,he sat down. The
j sigh of the sea, as it beat against the rocks, seem-
! ed but the sigh of his own bosom. He felt that
| something terrible was about to happen, which
: he had not the bravery to meet. His bent head
j rested upon one band, while in the other he
clasped his child’s trinket. He heard the flut-
! ter of a dress near him, and looked np. With a
I face pale as the dead, and a wild stare in the
| eyes, he started from his seat. Before him stood
a woman of slender form, and of dark beauty.
| Tha dark eyes were fixed upon him; the whole
’ face, looking proud, calm and defiant, and the
white, slender hands clasped tightly together,
j ‘In ez,’ said the faltering lips, ‘how came you
here?—speak and tell me.’
j ‘How? I came just as any one else would
come to the sea-shore. Bat. you have no right
j to question me about my coming and going. It
seems that my presence awakes fears within
you. It is well it may.’
‘For God’s sake, Inez, go away and leave toe
I alone. I hoped we might never have met again.
Why did you cross my path ?
‘I looked upon you last night, as you stood in
! the full light, seemingly so gay and happy. I
1 was in the shadow, and alone. I wondered if
you had forgotten all. And I resolved that you
should look upon a scene which I feel as well as
| see. The scene is within my heart. Now look!
| as I tear aside the pall. One year ago I buried
you here, from sight of all the world, deep down
in my heait; and there you will lie forever en-
; tombed. You came with a false, treacherous
I tongue, with a handsome, smiling face, and won
! me. heart and soul. God forgive me for loving
you so—I made an idol oi you; though I knew
well enough it was an idol of clay -that some
day it would shatter into atoms. I believed you
were all that was true and good; and against my
father’s will, I married you; for which I was dis
inherited, an outcast from the home of my youth.
For a while von made me happy, very happy;
Ralph Leighton, with Annie Morton leaning
upon his arm, was walking along the beach.
Tbe stream stretched out from the white srnd-
bar- like a sheet of molten silver, as the sum
mer’s moonlight fell shimmeringly over the
broad expanse of water. The sott sea-breeze
^ently swayed the feathery foliage of the adja- I hut soon your false heart proved traitor, and in
cent shrubbery, whose greenness was silvered j your treachery you deserted me—and your
over with the rays of the night-queen. j child. Yon coolly told me to go back to the
•Will you trust me, Annie?’ asked Ralph home, and to the father I had deserted, that you
Leighton, in a low, mellow tone, bending his had wearied of me, that you had no love for me.
head till his drooping moustache swept her ; What I have suffered since then you will never
cheek; ‘trust your happiness in my keeping?’ he j know.’
added, ‘I will be true to the trust, I solemnly
vow. ’ !
The young girl, with her fair, fresh face i
turned toward the sea, hesitated a moment, j
then lifted her eyes to his, with so much ear- ;
nestness in their depths.
‘Do not press me for an answer now,’ she said; j
‘let us talk of something else.’ j
‘Why put me off that way?” returned he, in !
a voice so full of pleading, full of chiding.
‘Annie, my darling, you must know I love you
—love you more than my life. Nor can I be
happy till yon say you will be mine. Be my
wife, Annie darling, won’t you?’
•If I knew we would always be happy togeth
er, Ralph—happy as we now are—I would pro
mise te be your wife; but—’
‘But what, darling?’ asked he, as she hesita-
‘O, Inez ! have you no pity for me,’ exclaimed
the man, pale with terror, as he listened, shiv
ering, trembling.
‘Can you need pity from me’—an outcast from
all love, from all that gives life, light and
warmth. I cannot believe that.’
‘You are as cruel as death, and as cold as an
iceberg. Inez, remember the man yon once
loved—that you once called husband; will not
that remembrance soften your heart toward
me ?’
A cold, scornful smile curled the lips, while
the face remained calm in expression.
‘To me, Ralph Leighton, you are forevermore
dead; you can Dever touch my heart again, nev
er awake a single echo of love there. Do not
start and shudder so; it can make no difference
to you.’
‘It makes all the difference. O, Inez ! take
ted, pressing his lips to hers.
‘I have a vague presentiment that sometime I me baok to your heart, and to your love again,
in the future something might come between j I now, for the first time, find I love you—love
into hers, Inez ealmy loosed his arms from
around her, and stepped backward.
“Farewell! Ralph. ” she said, as she waved
her hand to him, a cold smile playing about the
pretty, fine mouth, looking like the rays of a
winter s sun falling aslant on an iceberg, glitter
ing and cold.
A moment more and she was gone ; and with
her all hopes, ail light, of Ralph Leighton’s life
went. What was there for him to live for now ?
With a strong, swift tooch something had un
locked the fountain of love in his breast ■ and
he loved his wife with that deep, heart-felt love
which brings agony to man when the object
that makes it is denied him. The world, and
ail its pleasures was nothing to him now.
Long and wistfully did Annie Merton look
for her lover that day ; but he came not. When
the hour of appointment on the beach came, she
stole down there, thinking perhaps Ralph had
purposely avoided seeing her till the hour he
was to hear her answer. She thought she must
have made him suffer more than she had sus
pected, by not promising the evening before to
be his wife. Her heart was growing tender to
wards him now. She reached the trysting spot;
no lover was there. Her grief, and fears grew
great and alarming ; and after waiting and
watching in agony an hour she returned to the
house. She went up to her room, and locked
herself in. She did not know what to thmk of
her truant lover; she wondered if anything had
happened to him. Tears came to her relief,
she indulged in a hearty crfr, next day Annie
overheard a conversatiod between some of the
boarders. One said that Kfclph Leighton had
not been seen since he lett the hotel the mor
ning before ; when another qaid he was seen late
in the morning away down on the beach talk
ing with a woman, and that both had disap
peared. This intelligence wounded Annie to
the quick. He had not cared for her at all, or
he could not have gone off with another, she
thought.
Inez Leighton went on her way, living a hope
less, aimless, desolate life, drifting adown the
tide of time as a dead, helpless leaf upon a
stream—with no object in view. All the sun
shine had been taken out of her life ; and her
once tender and loving heart had been rendered
cold and embittered by cruel coldness and harsh
treatment from the ones who should have loved
and protected her from the cold winds of the
world. Husband and father both had thrust
her from home and love, out upon the cold
main, to drift whithersoever she could. The
helm of her bark had been placed in the hand
of one who had deserted it ; and now alone, she
had to struggle with the waves and rapids
across the stormy sea. Yet the time had come
when both, father and husband, needed her love,
craved it; but they could never more thaw the
ice which had gathered around her heart ; and
in coldness she turned haughtily, proudly away
from each. She could not forget unredressed
wrongs, whicu were burned into her memory in
indelible characters ; and rather than accept
love that had once been denied her, she would
go on her lone way, an outcast from warmth
and love, forever more.
After meeting with his wife, Ralph Leighton,
in whose breast love had for the first time come
in all its strength and power, knew he never
Wliat They Dirt at Brady’s.
BY MARY E,'BRYAN.
isail ^ aDd Wear wrinkles ia tbe cheek—that
iom ea “r^i le ; theLiterftry Clnb were having a
.1 ly. good time at Brady’s. That gentleman
! r re f 1V ' D ? his S«ests in a robe de lhamWe of
‘Where now, Sue?’ said John Ingram, lazily .“ t broca de, loosely bound at the waist
raising his eyes from the book, over which he j a 8 ! ,kfm ^ sash in the Turkish style the
had been trifling, to look up at his sister, who . . lmself on bis eccentricity in dress
had entered the room cloaked and hooded, and ?? a 8 mn S » careless grace to his fine figure
laid her little hand upon his shoulder. a ?” B0 ^ e ’. dark i°°hing man of thirty-
‘ To auntie’s, John, and I want you to go with a tace that betrayed the blase man of
me. I wns to see her this morning, and found “® 5!.’. , en 14 Wfls not disguised, but he
her quite lonely and depressed in spirits. The j u tb an y mask he pleased. He could
Doctor came while I was there, and said she! a d insinuating, or modest and un-
needed cheerful company and something to di- I i> D g- or courteonsiy cool, so as to repel,
vert her mind. So 1 promised her we would ottendmg Without compromising
go over after tea this evening and play and sing :y point ® d attentions, he played the
for her. You know how dearly she loves music, j a B* eeable generally to all the marriageable
and the piano has never been opened since , mft nouvenng mamas, and touched
Clara’s death. Wont you go, John?’ ! - ls , ba , wltb a respectful smile to all old ladies
‘Not to night Sue. It is the night for our in bombazine and overshoes, or elderly gentle-
club to meet, you, know, and I must not miss j men m spectacles, as well as to the market wo-
it. Make Fred go with von.’ men and and the street-sweep. He spoke with
‘ Oh ! John, but I want you to sing duetts * ee eloquence, of the immorality of the age
with me. Aunt will want to hear Antioch you ;° *>iamai«s, who thought him a model of vir-
know, and your bass suits my voice so well.— i complimented married ladies on their
Then auntie will be so pleased to see you. She al bloom; he patted the heads of all the
asked me about you when I was coming away, i children he aiet and gave them sixpences and
and said yon never came to see her now, and : sugar plums, he won the hearts of all mothers
I told her I would be sure to bring you to-night.’ . y all0 * in g their greasy-fingered cherubs to
‘Well Sue, I am really sorry to disappoint j P u| l_bis hair and moustache; he conciliated the
vou, but this club meeting is an engagement , minister by his attitude ot profound attention
that we are bound to keep. I saw Brady this i dnrmg service, and the same night excited the
afternoon and promised I would be there, with- . admiration °1 tue ‘fellows at Daloionieo's, by
out fail. Yon would'nt have me break a prom- ■ caricaturing the parson and burlesquing the
ise, would you. 9 ” and he reached up and drew’ se ^i no ? * b bls m08t . ludicrous manner,
the little hand quite around his neck and looked ( r, ratly s popularity seemed only the inevi-
into the troubled eyes of his pretty sister. tab ® re8u “ ot a naturally insinuating manner,
‘ I think you would be more usefully em- ; but he had toned hardly for it, and sacrificed
ployed, giving pleasure to one who has been so
kind to ns. Somehow, I don’t like Brady,
though I know nothing about your club mat
ters. What is it you do there John ?’
‘ Improve our minds by literary conversation, .
select readings an ^criticisms of various books. ! a g rtte with their tastes, so often wholly unlike
To-night, one of our number reads a literary j , 8 own - Lut Mr. Lradyaimedatcongre8sion.il
much. For his pride was acutely fastidious,
and he had a cynical hatred for his race under
all his air of genial bon hommie. It cost him
much to mingle with the mass and humor their
caprices—adapt himself to their manners and
essay of his own preparation, and we are to have
something of the kind every week. It’s nearly
the hour for meeting now, and I must be o-p-h.
Take Fred with you to auntie’s and present my
love and excuses. You know how to fix up such
things. Good-night.’
He patted his sister’s cheek, kissed her and
left the room.
While this little domestic scene was going on
in the pleasant little back parlor of the Ingram’s,
the pretty Mrs. Mayfield, who lived just across
the street, wa3 flitting about in the supper room,
honors, and every man was a vote in his eye,
and every woman an agent to aid in affecting
his purpose.
Brady’s rooms were the most elegant in the
city. Into an adjoining apartment, where were
a black walnut predieu, a dozen morocco-bound
Bibles strewn over tables and mantles, and a
Christian library, Brady’s man Creigh was di
rected to show all religious looking persons, and
all with black coats and white neck chokers.
But the room in whieh tbe dignified Literary
club held its meetings, was fitted up in most
putting away tea things and giving out butter j "and’
and eggs to the cook for the next morning’s break
fast. There was a little flutter in her manner,
as though she were in a more than usual hurry.
When directions had been given for the omelette
and mutton chop, and the table had been re
arranged, ready for the next meal, she went into
. vases,
filled with aromatic flowers. The low table in
the eenter of the room was covered with costly
wines > nd viands in goblets and dishes of silver,
Bohemian and cut-glass. Around it, reclining
on divans in the orient style, were seated the
us and cause ns to be Unhappy; and then it | you as I never loved woman, nor ever shall love | again could be happy in his reckless, old way ;
would be better had we never met.’ 1 woman again. Here, down on my knees,’sink- and with a great pain rankling in his heart,
•Nonsense, darling. 1 never thought you one I ing at her feet, ‘let me plead for the lore that
to indulge in snch chimerical fancies. Nothing j once was mine. Inez, be merciful to me—to
can come between us—nothing shall come be- | your husband.’
he fled from his life of careless gayety. to drift
hither and thither, with no more rest than the
Wandering Jew. He knew there was but ono
Tell me, sweet one, that you will be ] ‘Alas!Ralph, you murdered your noble self • person he could ever be happy with now ; and
tween ns.
my wife.’
All was quiet, save the sea lapping the shore,
and the occasional peals of silvery laughter from
other strollers on the beach. Ralph Leighton
pressed the little hand that lay upon his arm
in his own, and gazed down with an intense
look into her face, as he listened and waited for
her answer.
Annie Merton lbved the handsome man be
side hi r; loved with the one and first pure love
of her life, though she Lad known him but one
short wefcl;. Yet, as this new life, so filled with
love, was so entirely strange to her, she feared
to pi’ve h« rs It up to the sweet hallucination.
.Ralph, lot us return to tbe house. I dare not
speak anv more upon that subject to-night. To
morrow evening,' at this hour, I will give you
my answer—here atthib place.
‘Why not now, Annie. It is so long to wait.
Suspense is terrible. Come, do not be so
cruel.’
‘It is best—best for the happiness of both;
that you will see.’
But could Ralph have seen within that breast,
he would have known that the throbbing heart,
the melting love, would have belied those cool,
calm words that fell from the rosy lips; he would
have seen she longed to tell him slie wenld be
his—forever his. Yet with this longing at heart,
some inner power held her back, and made her
speak the words she had spoken.
Silently they retraced iheir steps to the house
—both seemed to be thinking. On the broad
piazza of the hotel, in the shade of the draping
vines, they kissed each other good-night
Annie did not go in the parlor, where merry
voices, and music floated out through the open
windows to her; she felt she had rather be alone.
But Ralph went in. He mingled among the
merry people, chatted lively, with a free and
easy air:as if no inner thoughts, no inner things,
troubled him. He stood by the piano, turning
music for a bright eyed girl, with the full blaze
of the chandelier tailing in splendor ever his
handsome person, his clear-cut features appear
ing to fall advantage.
But thus occupied, Ralph wa3 all unconscious
of the slight form that passed along the piazza,
stopping before the window, in the shade of the
vines, fixing her dark eyes intently upon him.
With the long, intense look she gave Ralph,
scanning him closely, she silently reflected:
‘He seems happy; his handsome face has no
marks of sorrow; there is no taint abont him.
Yet with all this, what a blight-marked path he
leaves behind him.’
With a sigh, heavy and deep, the slight form,
with clinging drapery about her, stepped off
the piazza, and disappeared among the shrub
bery.
in my heart in the days agone, and the dead
comes no more to life. It was a cruel blow, but
you did it.’
A groan rsoaped from the agonized heart
and tears flawed down his cheeks.
'Cruel Intz, have you no heart ?’
that person was Inez—his wife. But, between
them was a barrier—a yawning chasm, which
grew wider with each succeeding year ; and he
was utterly powerless to bridge it.*
Ralph set out to search for his wife. After
weary searches he at last found her ; but he saw
‘Yes, but you can nevermore stir its depth, j her only twice. Once he saw her standing in
and your tears move me not. You had no pity
for rhe heart you had wrung—the heirt that
tuen Ic red you so.’ J
‘Inc-:.—our child; will not that be n tender
link to bring and bind our hears together?—
our own little Glady—where is she?’
‘Glady is sleeping in the cold, silent tomb.
The last link is broken that could have brought
our hearts together.’
‘You are killing me, Inez—my wife. Foor
little Glady! How much I would give to clasp
thee, my baby, to my aching heart. Inez,’ said
he, rising up, ‘I found this on the beach this
the doorway of a time-stained hovel, whero all
around looked bare nijtl d«vaiyukvi coH ■ with
her thin hands clasped tightly together, and her
pale, proud face turned tcjtvar^ the winder sky ;
her large, starry black eyeball lustrous as if she
saw something in the far-lying arches of the
blue-heavens to thrill her soul. In spite of
shabby apparel, aud apparent sadness, she
looked beautiful still.
‘Inez. Inez !' exclaimed Ralph, as he bounded
toward her. ‘Hear me, Inez,’ said he, sinking
on his knees before her, lifting up his hand im
ploringly, ‘listen to me, I pray.’
With one swift glance she scanned the
her own pretty ohamber, and passing through ' nin e members o t e slnb enjoying the oysters,
it, emerged into the sitting-room withacrimsou ! 9a | ada ° d ' enl80n wl ^b a gusto uot peculiarly
dressing-gown and lounging cap on her arm,and ' ^telleotnal. Presently, these were removed to
a pair of daintily embroidered slippers in her j 8 1V ® p a f e t .° 1 E ^ or ® decanters nod bottles,
hand. It was a cozy little room, with its bright . j S0 1 ^’ sa J d ^ r * , y ’ wl . t K a g ! ' ac ®fal wave of his
carpet, neatly swept hearth, cheerful fire and . g lr l lsb jy ^bite and small band, ‘before proeeed-
ronnd table drawn before the fender with a vase ; wl ^ b the more seriou-. business of the sup-
of white and blue hyacinths upon it, and be
side this, a papier mache work box of the little
lady and a volume of Hayne s poems, bound in
blue and gold, and fresh from the press. Mr.
Mayfield, thrown back in his easv-chair with
his feet elevated in true American style, saw
these feminine arrangements, through the frag
rant smoke of a cigar he was indolently puff- , -
ing, and hardly roused himself from his otium was a P n P“_ ancl a 1
per—as I take the wine drioking to be—we will
season our repast with a feast of reason. Mr.
Wylde, you were appointed to favor us with an
essay to-night. We are impatient to bear it.’
Mr. Wylde, whose untrimmed locks and by
no means immaculate anen, proclaimed him a
‘child of the Muse,' (who is noted tor neglect
ing the personal appearance of her children •,
tege of Brady's, and faith
fully copied him, whenever he could do so.
He rose, running his fingers through the brush-
heap on the top of his head, read an essay on
the character and wrongs of Shelly. It was an
artful defense cf that erring poet’s morals and
I social opinion.- Brady’s hand fcal add. d the
cum dignitate, when his wife drew a footstool to
his side, and sitting down, laid her bright lit
tle head on his knee.
‘What a nice time we shall have all to our
selves to-night !’ she said. I hurried to get
the. ugh, for fsar you “■•oaid bo runEiD«< aw*v i „ . j. - , T »
from me; but I have yon safe enough now. j.j finishing tone ms, ana it was iDgenious.y elo-
war.t you to read some to me from this new j ^ aent abd w ' ! calculated to blind the judg-
book, Hayne’s poems, sis^r Annie sent to me “ ent and enhat th ^, 8 ? m P ath y and admiration
to-day, while I sit her- and finish embroidering ! ot youn S f :adp ' pa83a ,? e8 ’ hower :
that ‘mysterious’ scrap of muslin von were »n ! er > in vindication of Shelley s peculiar news of
marriage, evidently a little startled Miyfield
morning,’ holding up his baby’s trinket, ‘and
thought that you and Glady must be somewhere j crouching figure, and without one word, glided
about, and with thoughts of the past coming ! in and shot the door.
in my mind, I sought this nook to be alone— ( All that night the wretched husband haunted
hoping you and I would never meet again, that place, walking to and fro underneath the
Alas! how little did I think that to meet you leafless branches, all unmindful of the cold and
would be to awake the love which was never I s veeping blast, like some nneasy spirit from
yours all the months that we lived together; and
worst of all for that love to be rejected—scorn
fully rejected. Inez, I love you—how much
you cannot tell now. Let us be happy togeth
er—forget the past.’,
‘The past is dead, not forgotten. Yonr love
comes too late, it can never awake the corpse
which lies buried in my heart.’
‘Can this be the once loving and tender Inez
—so cold, so cruel now ? Take me to our baby’s
grave, and over that little mound let us resolve
to be to each other what its parents should be.’
‘Glady’s grave is far from here, and were you
to see that little mound, would not remorse
tell you that want and neglect laid her there,
while you reveled in luxury, with smiles of beau
ty and happiness around you ?’ *
‘Be pitiful, O, Inez! You torture me with a
cruel taunt. The heart that is bleeding you
stab afresh with a keen pointed dagger, and
can smile as you see the cold, glittering steel
cutting among the chords.’ He choked down
the sobs as he added: ‘This little trinket I will
keep as a souvenir of my baby, of the past, of
what we onco were to each other—husband and
wife.’
‘Rather a souvenir of murder. You murder
ed yourself in my heart, you sent your child
to an untimely grave, and you murdered all
joy and happiness and hope of my life.’
‘You can speak thus to me, and yet, if you
another world.
When the sun shone on the cold world again;
Ralph saw the door was ajar, and entered. But
the room was empty—no Inez was there. He
looked around at the rude surroundings, and
saw what the room contained afforded but little
comfort. He reached abont and around the
place for Idoz, but could find her nowhere. He
saw a well worn path leading through cluster
ing evergreens, which he followed." He soon
found the object ot his search, lying prone
on the ground. He hastened near, and there
she was in a heap, with arms thrown out over a.
little mound—a grave. Ralph bent down to
raise her up; but when he took hold of her, he
drew back, ghastly pallor gathering over his
face. It was a corpse he held in his arms.
•Ines,’ was all he could articulate; and gently
laid the dead body down.
He looked at the white grave-stone, and saw
the word ‘Glady.’ Grief swept over his once
cal Ions heart in strong, swift waves, crushing
him down, down, with iron weight. In that
hour of supreme agony he felt he was the mur
derer of the two who slept the silent sleep, ly
ing there before him -his wife and child.
Inez was laid besides Glady, to rest till the
morn when the great trumpet shall sound
.rough all space, and call her among the my
riads of pale sleepers to appear before the
tsupreme Judge of all beings. And while she
! curious about this morning. Come, let me heip
• you exchange this tight coat and boots for your
I comfortable gown and slippers, and then
I
“Read from thisdainly volnme
The poem of yonr choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The music of your voice.”
‘Another time, dear,’ he said, laying his hand
j patronizingly upon the brown curls of the
; pretty head. ‘I must finish this cigar now, and
j go directly to Brady’s, ©ur club meets there
j to-night.’
| ‘Oh, that horrid Brady ! I wish he lived in
Utah, and had a dozen wives to keep him at
home.’
Mr. Mayfield smiled in his superior way.
and two other young husbands, who belonged
to the club. Brady’s quick eye discovered it.
‘Wyl ie,’ he said, ‘you are too strong to please
the ta-re of our young Benedicts. I see they
seem disposed to disagree with Shelly and your
self. You poets are a little visionary, and Shel
ly was a fast chap.
‘After all tho’, what does it matter? Every
body that is held enough to have an opinion of
his own, has a right to it. Social rules are mere-
1> arbitrary—changing in almost every country
I and nation, and made only for the sake of con
venience. If Shelley had written a psalm, he
would have been forgiven his immorality. That
solemn owi, Milton, was pardoned for defend-
; ing bigamy, and canonized becanse he wrote a
Morning broke the gloom of night with the j you such love as woman never yet knew.’
will only allow me to, I would clasp you to my j rested there, Ralph walked the earth W6arv-
heart as the one darling of all my life, and give ‘ ^ern and heart-sore, alone, alone, alone; and
through all space of fntnre life, not one rav fell
effThzent rays of the day-god, as he came flood- j Proud ani cold as an icicle she stood there, ! open him to cheer the dreary i ears. No living
V j . 1.4 a nnliUn cmil an malri n rr nil I innirinn fl T1 f.l-ia in a n KafTwa h C.V liar all .ill f t! ,~r ha I.l (1 OOUld h6ftl 1 li n 1-. 1 J: 1 » ...
in»the earth with Lis golden smiles, making all j looking on the man before her, her slight fig- ! band could heal the bleeding heart, or set its
Rungs glad. I are erect and hands clasped together, her wrap j broken chords to tune; and the jar oi’ these nn-
AVnile Annie sat within her room watching j and dress fluttering with the breeze. strung chords sounded ’Regret, regret, regret.’
and listening to the beanty and animation of *Raph,’spoke she, after an interval of sileuce, 1 e
■ • ; ’ 'good-bye. We may never meet again. I hope
the out-door world, as it reveled in all gladsome
ness of a sun-bright morning in midsummer,
while she waited for breakfast, Ralph took a stool
down on the beach.
The fresh sea-breeze, balmy with the breath
of a thousand flowers, sent a new current of life
tingling through his veins.
Something glittered in the white sand at his
feet as it caught the morning sunlight. He
started and turned pale, as if some one had
pointed a deadly weapon at his breast. It was
£ Id trinket, tbet his child had worn around
her neck when he to dandle her upon his
knee He turned it over; and there was ’Gladly’
engraved on the under part-His child’s name
R, rhi id It was an ecno from the past; the
M which he hoped he had baried-which he
had fled from. Now he trembled, and was as
£*»k M« child, * tbi, one foot-print of the
dead past; and it awoke a train oi thoughts
W1 ‘HoVcame it here ?’ he said. ‘What does it
S«r-~nl bo near ? O. God! I bop.
“°He threw his bands up to his face witn ages-
- of despair. The gted sunshine now seemed
mock his agonized mind. He sped down
not—not that I much care ; I can look upon you
and not be moved, just as I would look upon
any other worthless man. ”
‘Wait one moment,’ aked he, as she tamed to
go, ‘will you notallow me to touch your hand—
clasp it in mine as I did in the days of yore.
‘Mr. Brady’s a capital fellow,’ he said-‘high- i stnp id medley, of which the Devil was the here,
son led and generous as a prince, if he is a ii tie j an( j which nobody reads and everybody pre
lux sometimes. His rooms are splendidly iur- tends to admire, simply becanse they cannot
nished—pictures, statues and all that; his li- 1 compr ehend it.
brary is an excellent one and his—’Mr. M : v field i •Well; this world is a humbug and life is a
farce. The only true philanthiopy, is to enjoy
■ was going to say ‘his iciue,’ but he prudently
stopped.
THE BEST TIL EON-FLY.
From „!« nCa 40 this * One Hour
Fifteen Minutes and’ ten seconds.
T 4 he J besfc i tin ? 0 ever made by pigeons was re
corded yesterday by a red checkered bird owned
, by J , obb Dalton of this city. The occasion was
. - , . - , . *h® . 8t fly of the season of the Philadelphia
Inez, let me take you in my arms and kiss you ! Homing Society No. 2, for old birds the distance
good-bye ; please, my darling, my peerless j being sixty-eight miles, as the crow flies from
love.’
That voice which had, with its rich melody,
won so many hearts, was now full of pathetic
pleading.
•It is not worth the while. It will profit
neither of us anything.’
But with the last desperate effort of a man
wounded unto death, he sprung forward, clasp
ed her in his strong arms, pressed her to his
agonized heart, and showered burning kisses
on the month and cheeks. They were the first
pure love kisses he had ever given his wife ;
and she received them as coldly as if she had
been a marble statue. The love that lay dead
within her heart oould nevermore be warmed
to life ; the glowing warmth brought to bear
against it now, had come too late.
With hia heart beating against her own, his
warm breath on her cheeks, his eyes looking
be.”
T - - ~ 11UU1 it was hard to resist the pleading eyes of the
-Philadelphia, te n birds being pretty, loving little creature, but he only smiled
Tbe fas:- j and leiterating his advioe ‘not to be absurd;’ he
He is an ugly old ogre that entraps poor wo
men’s husbands into his den, and maGs them
do all kinds of naughty things, while their
wives are crying their eyes out at home.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Nelli©.’
‘Well; but what do you do at Brady’s?’
‘Our club meets there, child, and .ve do a great
many things that you would not understand.
What do women know of men’s business, and
what should it matter to them, so they are treat
ed kindly, and have a new bonnet and a new
silk every season?’ Ourelub L literary and po
litical, and women have no business with liter
ature or polities.’
“Oh 1 Harry, but you can stay with me this
one time. You were at the c muting room last
night, and at the opera the uight before, and it
really seems as though you were almost a stran
ger. See here, (tugging ut his coat sleeve with
her little hand) let me hdp you off with this,
and then throw that stemp of a cigar in the
grate and talk or read to me to-night. I have
been so lonely all day, and I’ve thought about
your coming back :uid being with me to-night a
dozen times. Now, you shan't go. I have both
my arms around you and you can’t get loose. I
will hold yon so.’
Six months ago those round, white arms would
have been fetters harder to break than links
of iron—but the moon changes, and so do men.
Mayfield had been married a year, and had be
gun to sneer at the “silliness” of the billing and
cooing stage he had passed; and besides, Brady
had asked him a day or two before, with his in
imitable mixture of sarcasm and good humor,
how long his wife's apron string was going to
thrown for four prizes in ten entries
est time for the distance hitherto, os shown bv
| the record is one hour and thirty-seven min-
| ates ’ .Yesterday Dalton’s bird made it in one
lionr fifteen minutes and ten seconds, and thus
winning a purse of $3o. A. B. Fox’s bird came
in second, taking the second purse, S20, in one
hour thirty-two minutes and five seconds. -John
Parker s bird was three minutes and five seconds
later, and John Grist’s toss came in 47 40 tak-
^f^®., 1 , 884 P»2e. This bird was a light ash,
with trill. The other entries were by Joe Bnok-
ley, Alfred Gohr, James Grist, .Joe Sherwood,
George Woodward and Henry Heintz. Lancas
ter is just forming a homing club, and the birds
were thrown by its organizer, Mr. Streyn, who
kept the time. Buckley, Parker and Thomas
Grist were the timers for the finish.
unclasped the arms, kissed the pouting lips,
called her a “foolish child” and left her alone.
I am afraid the embroidery on the mysterious
little garment, which looked very muoh as
though intended for a doll or a monkey, was
not so good as it might have been that night, for
thread and needle sometimes swam before the
dim sight of the blue-eyei sewer, and more than
one tear dropped upon the muslin, and was
stitohed into it. They were not the first tears
that were ever sewed into needle-work. If they
left a stain, weshould see many of these betraying
tokens upon the work that patient, gentle wo
men have bowed over, seeking heartsease and
respite from loneliness in the soothing sound
of the thread, as it is drawn through the cloth
by their weary fingers. But tears only oorrode
it while it is ours, pluck every rosebud from
the tree, drink the cup to the dregs—sweet or
bitter—what does it matter ? Ingram, you are
the swan of our company. Sing us that blood-
ronsing song you sang last club meeting and
we will join you in the chorus. Fill up all.
Mayfield, the wine is with yon; glorious Bur
gundy it is too. See the dust and cobwebs on
the bottle; it has been lying down oeller for
five years Wine, you know, is not like women;
it improves with age.’
And so the ‘serious business’ of the night be
gan, and continued until the ‘we sma’ hours
had drawn on, interspersed with Anacreonic
songs and jests. Brad .cool as when the feast
began (for he never e .rUred wine to steal his
brains, or excite him beyond consciousness)
was the life of the pnrty, and played the gen
tlemanly and genial host to perfection. Tongues
began to grow thick ami listeners to laugh in
the wrong place at j >.:ts they did not compre
hend, and Brady ord red strong coffee and
bowls of cold wat“- to counteract the effects of
the Burgundy. Aster‘hat tho party broke up
with a cordial good night from their host.
‘All to be here this uight two weeks without
fail,’ said his mellow, musical voice, as he closed
the street door, and eight rather thick voices
echoed ‘without fail.’
‘A.precious set of fools!’ soliloquised Brady,
as he re-entered his room, throw himself on the
sofa and lit a cigar, ’but their influence is of
use to me. To-morrow night I must go to old
Parson Crosby’s prayer meeting.'
Next morning, pretty Mrs. Mayfield’s blue
eyes were rather red and swollen, but her
afiectionate spouse did not think it worth while
to inquire what was the matter. He ate his
mutton chop in silence, with the air of a grand
Seigneur, and gave laconic responses to his
wife’s attempts at conversation. After break
fast she came np behind his chair and threaded
his hair with her fingers in her pretty, winning
way.
•Dearie,’ she said, ‘you stayed away so long
last night I thought you were never coming
baok. What did you find to keep you so long
at Brady’s ?'
‘My dear,’ replied the pater familias, with se
vere dignity, ‘I have told you that it was an in
dication of contemptible female cariosity, for
a wife to he always inquiring about her hus
band's business. We did a great many things
last night at Brady’s. ’
- . i .. -
Gold must be beaten, and a child scourged.—’
[Ben Lira.