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Waiting for the Dawn.
BV r IRENE INGE COLLIER,
CHAPTER IX.
The days went by in dreamy monotony in the
large, old house by the sea, where Eloise sat and
listened to the low, sad voice of the waves, and
the cheerier music of the mocking birds in the
lemon trees, and watched the white clouds sail
across the summer sky. The old negro house
keeper was kind and attentive. Too attentive,
for Eloise felt often that she had rather be alone
than to have the queer, black faces and inquisi
tive eyes of her two devoted servitors following
ther everywhere. The agent never intruded; he
rode over one day to accompany a large trunk,
which he said Mr. Bertram had notified him
would arrive at the station tor his young relutive,
Mrs. Eloies Clevis, which was the name Eu
gene had intimated he washed Eloise to assume
during her retreat. The old negro woman,
Maum Teeny, had a curiosity to see inside the
trunk, only equalled by that which induced her
son Nib to keep awake till nearly midnight, sit
ting on the piazza just outside the low window
that opened into Eloise’s room. By his side, on
the floor, sat his mother, pipe in mouth, and
talked, now to him and now for the benefit of
Eloise.
At last Eloise said, ‘You had better go now,
and secure everything for the night, and then
go to bed.’
‘De only way we s’cures eberyt’ing is to turn
loose Czar. He’s our gun and pistol and all,’
said Neb. ‘We unties him er nights and says,
‘Watch ’em, Czar,’ and I’d like to see de man,
’oman or boy dat’ll come inside dis yard.’
‘Czar is a grand dog,’ Eloise said. ‘Such
brown, curly Lair, and big, brown, intelligent
eyes as he has got! Where did you get him ?’
‘Mars’ Bertram sent him from New Orleans to
mind his grounds and fruit. He’s got bis wal-
nables in de bank in Mobile.’ Czar’s good as a
dozen men, when we turn him loose at night.’
‘Go and loose him then, it is growing late.’
When she was alone, Eloise took the key that
had been enclosed to her, and opened the trunk.
On the top lay what she wished most—music,
and exercises for the voice. Then she lifted out
several handsome, fashionably made suits, in
linen, percale, soft woolen aud silk. The trim
mings were in excellent taste and the material
of the dresses was of good quality. There was
also plenty ot linen underwear, with delicate
ruffles acl embroideries. Boxes were opened
and found to contain dainty collars, cuffs,gloves
. and handkerchiefs. At the very bottom of the
trunk she found a small, exquisite work-box, of
carved sandal wood, containing satin-lined com
partments, gold thimble, scissors, and other ap
purtenances. In one little compartment which
closed with satin-lined lid and silver knob, she
found a roll of bank bills, with these words on
a slip of paper:
‘For you, dear Eloise. When you want more,
check on your devoted Eugene.’
She pushed the bills from her with a shud
der. It almost seemed as if they were the price
of dishonor.
‘Money,’ she said. ‘Money from him ! I can
not use it. True, I eat his bread; his roof shel
ters me; I must wear clothes he has given me,
but I will not increase the obligation. And for
these I shall lepay him. I will not rest till I do.
I will give back every cent he has expended on
me. I would feel forever humiliated unless I
did. No, I will not use his money, unless ne
cessity compels me, and then it shall be for a
boyhood friend of mine, telling me that being
in delicate health and fond of solitude, you, his
favorite cousin, were coming to Ocean View, on
bis recomendation of the charms of the place,
to spend the summer.’
Eloise colored vividly, and then grew pale and
was silent, a startled look on her face. Half a
mile from the house, on a lonely beach, to be
addressed by a stranger and called that unfamil-
liar name,and to have the humiliating conscious
ness that she was here under false colors thus
practically brought before her, no wonder she
changed color and looked shy and confused.
Dr. Grayson saw it and once more apologized
for his intrusion:
‘I have startled you by my abrupt appearance.
Finding when I called that you had gone for a
stroll, I took the liberty of following you, for,
as my time is pretty well taken up profession
ally, I thought I might not have an opportunity
soon, again, of paying my respects to the friend
and relative of my friend.’
Eloise had already recovered her composure.
Bowing her head with sweet dignity, she said:
‘Thank you, Dr. Grayson, for telling me of
the kindness and interest my—my—’ she could
not address Eugene as her cousin.
•Your cousin, madam,’ he said, not noticing
her embarrassment, ‘spoke of your ill health.’
‘Y’es, I have been teaching now for more than
a year, and have been very closely oonfined.’
‘Are you already better? you have a good
color this afternoon.’
‘The air agrees with me I think.’
‘It is the best tcnic in the world, worth more
than all the physio in the pbarmacopiro. You
must take exercise—not remain indoors.’
‘It is pleasant to banish medicine, and yonr
perscription, I will assure you, shall be readily
used. I am never contented idle, and action
you know, is a panacea to care.’
‘Mrs. Clevis,’—ignoring her last last remark.
—‘Euaene asked me to tell you he wouM send
an agreeable companion, and a nurse should
you need one.’
‘I hope I may not, but would like a com.pan
ion with whom I could converse.’
‘That is the kind I think he will send if vou
wish one, and should you become ill before Eu
gene sends one, I know of a woman ia poor cir
cumstances, who would answer well. She
lives some distance from here, is a middle-aged
lady, reliable and efficient in all cases.’
•I am obliged for your interest in my health.
Probably I Lave had the same person recom-
ended. She lives some miles from here, and I
heard, nursed some of the Bertram family
through a severe illness.’
‘I perhaps refer to the same lady.’
‘A Mrs. Abbott?’
‘Yes, that is the one, but if Eugene has one
all ready to send as a companion for your lone
liness, Mrs. Abbott would not answer.’
‘Perhaps I had better wait till I see the com
panion he has chosen.’
‘Eugene told me to request you to address
him if you desired a lady sent.’
•I will write; I have heard nothing from Mr.
Bertram since I came.’
‘That reminds me, I have a letter from him to
you in my pockpt. The agent who attends to
his business knew of my coming in this direc
tion to see a patient, and solicited me to deliver
it to you,’ handing the letter to her.
She glanced at the address.
‘Mrs. Clevis, I wish I could promise you a
visit at an early day from my wife, but she has
been in miserable health for sometime, and is
not able, though she wishes to meet you. I
will see that a few of our friends call.’
Accept my thanks for your intended kind-
gfe*-/-Urpose.^at^^^^^ c/3 j-^Jbealth^.nd.r^
‘Indeed,’ said Eloise, thinking it was the bells
that always tolled as the boats passed the Poto
mac, by Mount Vernon, that was what uncle
Bob had heard, and told the rest of the servants
it was on this lovely bay.
‘They would not do so for any inferior officer,
it must be a reef. I have heard so often they
abounded on the coist of Florida.’
The moan of the waves was all she could hear.
Murmering 1 ' a snatoh from Lurline, she clos
ed the piano and retired, and not long did the
‘watcher for the dawn’ lay awake. Her stroll
had made her tired.
(TO ni continued.)
Old Petro the Harp Player.
One day we were retmg ourselves on a shady
bench in the park, ’tiding with us a large pho
tograph of the Cathedal at Milan, to which we
had taken a fancy in ar morning ramble, when
our attention was atracteu to an old Italian
harp-player who was musing a small group of
children a little brond us. As he ceased
playing and receivedihe two or three pennies
he had worked so hid to gain, shouldered his
harp and was trudgp-wearily past, we called
him to us, and unco'ting the photograph ask
ed him if he had eveieen that in his own coun
try. Never shall I >rget the look that came
into his wan, thin fftr&g he bent quickly for
ward and, crossing hiself, exclaimed, ‘II Bel
lo Duomo ! II Bello Ipmo ! Si, senor, si senor.
II Bello Donmo !’
His eyes fairly glished an$ his lips twiched
nervously as he gazedfcon it with a fascination,
such as a long lost tisue might exert over its
owner, while he sotirepeated to himself, ‘II
Bello Duomo.’ A fpwords then sufficed to
draw from him his sip
Born in Rome, he R gone with his parents
in early boyhood to lan, and until his thir
tieth year had dwel uder the shadow of that
grand triumph of arc|;ecture. He had played
in front of its por» and sunned himself on
its marble steps; h iad begged pennies from
the passing toaristi ad blessings from the
long robed friars; he .1 coined strange fancies
and thoughts from e sculptured stones and
woven for himself m r a legend of their origin;
on Sunday he had od within its walls with
hushed breath and : d souls as the Ave Maria
rose on the air heav ith incense, or the good
priest held the sacri ni on high for adoration.
He had witnessed ; y a bride in her spotless
white robe take up her the solemn vows of a
wife, and he had seei my a black-robed proces
sion file through the ned doors. He had seen
sovereign and begg ueel before the holy al
tars, the wretched last and the sweet faced
nun, the swarthy ba and the humble barfoot
ed monk, aud he lu icuself brought his child
ish offerings and them on the shrine, and
kissed with revorei is the sacred images.
Then, as the yea ew on, he sold in front of
its doors the can beads which his father
made and the goo iest blessed, and in time
he succeeded to his er’s trade, and at last be
came a guide to the i Cathedral itself. There
he conducted party r party through the state
ly pile, pointed out trandeur of its portals and
columns and the bies of its altars, led f them
out upon the roof Explained the statues and
curiously carved cpgs where every known
leaf and flower is eled in the white stone:
had shown them distant peaks of Mont
Blanc and Monte l, and the Jong range of
Alps to the far nom ^led the eye oversmil
“OSS US, AND I'LL SS TO SLEEP,”
That is a sad song to my ears. I cannot bear
will relate- ** awakens a saii mei nory, which I
I had a brother, a handsome, lovable, merrv
boy, the pet and pride of the family, and a fa-
vonte in the community. Nature had endow
ed him richly and culture had developed his ad
mirable qualities. His voice was soft and mu-
sica 1 in accompaniments to the guitar, upon
which he had learned to play.
When he was twelve years old—it was his
Charlie, Henry, Mabel and Alice knew how to
handle oars, and the boat put out for the distant
mainland, while Mary rang the bell with all her
might. For a moment the waves seemed to en-
gnlph the little folks, but they kept the boat
righted, and seemed to laugh at the winds as
their paddles sported with foam and wave.
The mother watched her darlings till a gigan
tic wave seemed to swallow them, then ascended
to the crest of the light house to await results.
It was a fateful New Year’s Eve for the tenants
of bquambo. They did not know how it would
end.
At last lights gleamed along the beach; they
vmoil frv foil »V. „
birthday—? lie 332? brotherh™? his TTVa tel1 > «***»* mother that the
and the^ity’folgyThatX^with"tlm.TZl , "* ^ " *"
a day of unalloyed pleasure. There were our
precious freight had reaohed it in
*•<■ »•*«. foth g ro„ ‘state,; i “?• Th *- * dis -
andanother brother, the fourth one being at his
adopted home in a distant state, but even from
him I carried birthday presents entrusted to my
care, and a telegram received that morning con
veying congratulations and well wishes to little
Will, the favorite brother.
In the forenoon the family were alone, each ' cry:
.. . and shouts of triumph came
ttrorn the shore.
Suddenly a cry .came up from the very foot of
, 6 light house, and the courageous mother
leaning over the railing, saw a boat flung high
upon the rocks by the waves. °
She hastened below to be greeted with the
member vieing with the others in making the
time nierry, aud little Wiil, wearing his hand
some new suit I had presented, and the watch
and chain sent by our absent brother, was over
flowing with happiness, though sometimes we
would bring a deeper blush to his rosy cheeks
by teasing him about his newly acquired evi
dences of growing to be a man. The afternoon
passed over a delightful party of visiting friends
and night and a prayer from father at the fire
side around which we were gathered, closed the
pleasures of the day.
I was talking to father and mother in the sit-!
tiDg room, when little Will, opening the door,
drew out his watch and announced that it was
but half an Hour before my train time. We joked
him with the charge that he only came in to
parade his watch, and that we doubted the cor
rectness of its time, which he scouted as being
a slander on a perfect time piece.
‘Well, before I go,’ said I, ‘get your guitar
and sing me a song.’
He complied, and after singing a humorous
ballad, sang, and it was the first time I had ever
heard the song, ‘Kiss me and I’ll go to sleep,
‘ Papa is safe ! safe at home !'
It was a happy New Year’s Eve at Squambo
after all, for the sailor was on board the unfor-
tunate ship. All had been saved in boats from
the shore, and the people were blessing the
brave children of Squambo Light.
I know that my readers love to hear about
such brive boys and girls, add feel that on New
Year s Eve they will think of the denizens of
the old light hosse, and wish them a happy
time. For they are there still, ready to succor
and to save.
God bless the brave little folks of Squambo !
MOBCEAUX.
“Funny Bones” for the Youus
to Pick
Folks
Little Tommie C—was brought up in the
country by a good old Methodist grandmother.
The preacher of their district was on the order
He sang it very sweetly, ah, more sweetly to innards five^Bihh^ ^’ “ bilD S ed the
J «... as I tented,, U, than I h.vs 6,6,
provides for my comfort away from] men t to your kindness I see you think, but
ishes to make my cage attractive, fashionable visiting I could not now endure.
how well ue
him. He wishes
that be may keep me here. This moment he is
doubtless hanging over Anna, breathing in her
ear vows he used to pour into mine; speaking of
me with a sneer and a curl of the lip; throwing
out some false insinuation concerning my flight
to screen himself—insinuation that all will be
lieve because he is the dignified, solid, moneyed
Mr. Bertram—the shrewd business man, the in
fluential citizen. All will believe except two—I
know Carrie’s true, noble heart. She will not
listen to a slander of one she loves; nor will the
brother who resembles her in soul—frank,
straightforward Sydney. Ob, Sydney! I could
not bear to lose your respect—to fall in your es
timation. The thought of your love is precious
tome, though I may never see you again; the
sight of this bright pledge of your devotion to
the poor exile and alien will bring a gleam of
hope in her darkest moments.’
She pressed to her lips Sydney's beautiful
ring, that flashed in the moonbeams.
‘1 never knew the beauty of goodness, sincer
ity and simple truth, till I met these two, Car
rie and Sydney—noble sister and brother. God
spare me these two friends, to cling to amid the
wrecks of so many of my early hopes. They
and my brother are all the world to me. Dear
brother, thinking this moment, perhaps, of me,
wondering if all is well with me, if I have grown
into more mature womanhood, I who was such a
slender slip of a girl when he saw me last. Alas!
if he should see me now he would find other
changes than that of growth. He would see the
shadow that secret care has left in my eyes; he
would hear a discord in the laugh he used to say
was so musical and ringing; he would see that
the day of my life is early overcast, and that tor
me there is nothing but to hope and to wait—to
wait for the shadows to lift—to wait for the
dawD.’
One lovely afternoon, five days after her arri
val, Eloise was strolling along the beach, where
on one side stretched the calm, blue bay, away
into the infinite ocean, and on the other rose
that grand old house, a fit home for romance,
with its walls of dull, red brick, made a dark,
greenish gray by mould and parasitic growth,
and mantled in places with ivy and with wild,
blossoming vines. A magnificent place it had
once been, but now the trees were untrimmed
and hung with moss, the walks were grass
grown, the terraces were unshorn, the flowers
straggled up through weeds, the fountain that
had once fallen in a silvery stream over the
backs of two marble swans, now trickled a wast
ed thread of water among choking weeds and
shrubs, while the hedge of white japonicas was
outgrown and untrimmed. The boat house had
nearly fallen to decay, as had the once gaily
painted but now dingy skiff that rocked within
it.
But the decay and dilapidation only enhanced
the picturesqueness of the place, and gave the
have the look of some old oastle on the Rhine,
embalmed in romantic legends of the feudal
days.
Eloise felt the charm and for a time gave her
self to the calm enjoyment of the beautiful.
Here, at least, she could be free from the fret
ting finger of those who understood not her
grief. Here, “the world forgetting, by the world
forgot," she might turn her thoughts to things
beyond this day of passion and strife and un
rest. Looking out towards the glorious sunset
that glowed far over the calm expanse of water,
she sang:
‘The past forget, the future spare,
Sweet spirit, hear my prayer.’
A step behind her broke upon the sweet, rich
music of her voice. She turned, startled, and
saw a tall gentleman approaching. He lifted
his hat respectfully, while his eyes ran over her
figure in surprise and admiration. Then he
gracefully introduced himself:
‘Pardon my intrusion. I am Dr. Grayson.
Mr. Bertram may have spoken to you of me.
~ T presume, are Mrs. Glivis. I received a
from Eugene (Mr. Bertram I mean) an old
fashionable visiting
I am really a recluse.’
She knew it was a falsehood and had to al
most force the story through her lips.
‘I w ill leave you to read your letter. I have a
sick man that I must see before night. I will
call again. Should you need me, send instant
ly and I will come immediately.’
‘Thanks, Dr. Grayson.’
‘I must bid you good evening.’
‘Good evening, Doctor.,
He walked hurriedly away. Her laugh, so
strange, rang on his ear with a harsh sound—as
she turned the letter over and over.
•Eloise Clevis—no Mrs. Clevis—what a decep
tion. A pretty name though.’
Counting back she found the same stage driv
er that, under the shadows of night had taken
her away, had on his following trip carried the
letter to be mailed.
‘I wonder if I could see to read.’
Tearing off the envelope she found that the
slantine penmanship could be read, and for a
time was absorbed in the sheet of paper. Sud
denly she folded it, as though she could read no
more.
‘He describes well my flight, how it affected
the villagers, Carrie, my dear friend, her con
sternation and grief, her indignation at him,
Miss Albers’s insulting remarks to him, and
then that he was accused but had somewhat
quieted all down. He writes so lightly of Syd
ney, though he must know I esteem him as an
invaluable friend. He never could make me
lose confidence in Sydney Farman. Surely it
is not jealousy. I know it is not, for Sidney
would not betray all that occurred at our last in
terview—yet Eugene is such a snake in the
grass, his suave persuasion may obtain from
Sid that which he had no idea of telling. Glad
I warned him. He did not allude to Anna,
knowing she was not one I loved Only my
friends he speaks sneeringly of.’
She placed the letter in her pocket and walk
ed slowly through the gathering gloom to the
house.
Having finished her light tea, she went to the
parlor and opened the piano, and soon the large
room echoed with the music that floated far
away on the night air, and drew the negroes,
who had come up from the quarters to draw ra
tions. It was the first time they had heard the
grand piano since Bertram’s sister played on it,
in days before the family were scattered. Eloise
was so absorbed that she did not hear nor heed
the many listeners who had gathered in the
hall. From -Chopin she wandered to pieces of
later date, which pleased her audience, for their
feet patted audibly upon the floor, one dethron
ed fiddler of the plantation actually essayed to
pat upon his knees, keeping time. He grew so
lo'ud that a looker-on would have been on the
qui vive for an old fashioned jig dance.
She grew tired of such music soon, her hands
glided from lively airs to sweet strains from
Mozart’s, Handel’s and Gottsohalk’s melodies.
The wierd, solemn airs entranced her, softened
her heart to the outer world, surely sweet music
savors of heavenly joys.
One after another of the servants left the
house, bowing or dropping a courtesy, with a
‘thank’ee Mistis.’ On glided the white fingers.
Aunt Dinah and Mary, the house maid, and Neb,
the ever-present, were still near her. Mary had
closed the house silently, fearful of jarring the
melodies of the great composer that penetrated
throughout the building.
A loud grunt from aunt Dinah, a yawn from
Mary told Eloise it was time to cease. A clear,
ringing sound was heard, and Eloise started.
‘Is it the evening chimes, Vesper bells?’
‘No marm, it’s a boat what’s passin’ ’
‘Was not that twelve bells’ Auntie.’
‘Yes ’um—I nebber counted dem.’
‘I wonder why they ring so many, I thought
they only rang the watches on-’
‘I’se hear uncle Bob say he ax um one time,
and de white men tole’ him somebody died here,
and dey tolled for him.’
my
heard it sung since.
A week from that day I received a note from
mother saying little Will was ill. He had while
riding into the country on business for father
been exposed to a cold rain, and had contracted
severe cold. The following day a note inform
ed me that he was worse, and I went to see him.
The doctor told me he had pneumonia aDd
was exceedingly ill. But when I approached
his bedside, a smile of gratified expection wreath
ed his face, and he would have raised himself
to greet me, out I leaned over the bedside to
catch his whispered welcome.
■ 'Did he sutler ?’
‘Yes, but would soon be better.’
•He doesn’t complain, mother said, ‘you know
he never complains at anything.’
He pointed me to underneath his pillow and
smiled
the word of God” in her neighborhood. When
Tommie was about seven years old, he was hear
ing this preacher, one Sabbath, for the first
time. • Tne latter was in one of his most animat
ed moods, and as he would bring his fist down
upon the Bible, and stamp upon the pulpit
floor with a mighty force, little Tommie with
staring eyes and trembling limbs would dodge
behind his grandmother, and in a loud whisper
excitedly ask; ‘Granny, is he going to hit me ?
»V hat is the matter with that man, grannv? Is
he crazy ? etc.’ When the family returned home,
and, at the dinner-table were speaking of the
sermon, Tommie listened impatiently, and then
ended the discussion by saying : ‘Well, you
may say what you please, but I don’t belie*
and there the Sureh, and over there the
old refectory wfctill preserved Da Vinci’s
incomparable frAh ! those were glorious
days in Bello M And then when he went
home and showtich harvest he had glean
ed from foreign how the light came into
the eyes of thtyoung wife who chose to
share his lot. p. the iong Italian even
ings when thei meal was over, and
Nita joined him loor, just in sight of the
beautiful buildilh was to them a mine of
wealth, he woulc gently the sweet chords
of the harp, wh clear, rich voice would
softly caroi theltalian songs; or they
would sit gazing deep blue sky, which
only Italy know.build airy castles, such
as Spain never d.f, and people them with
a thousand ITncthe joyous future. But
one day all wated, and Nita lay as in a
trance, smitten w deadly fever which is
the curse of Italy
Another day anwas dead, and as the
stricken husband from the silent grave
he turned his baver upon Milan. He
could no longer Sere she was not amid
the old familiar Bind with only his harp
in his hand—thauemento of the past—
he wandered fortlhe vast world. Once,
only, he turned sined a distant hill-top
to take one last Icie cathedral, towering
in its regal splen^e the city, and seem
ing to rear itself hument to all the earth.
Every city in Itnost, knew the form
of the sad and Vaveler, and the harp
went with him bringing food and
sometimes a sheltis head, though more
often the blue skyg only covering when
amid the myriadhe fancied he could
discern angel eyefo down upon him, or
slept to dream of ^es on his lips and the
moisture of a swefi hovering over him,
and woke to find Idews of night upon
his face. Then a»rew poorer amid the
contending lactioBe strife that sprang up
on her ancient sOm soldi became more
difficult to obtaipie harp failed some
times to bring hila crust of bread, he
turned his face not hut not toward Milan.
He had never seeijf since he first left its
portals, and he coio back now. Through
Pisa and Genoa hijd along the coast of
bed Marseilles, and
hrough France into
then back again, and
at last he reached
the deep sea unti
from there he w;
Germany and Aui
over to Great B
America.
Still the harp \
old together, ui
instrument ‘gave
voice wavered am
him, and they grew
inger the cherished
rtain sound,’ but its
n, as did its master’s.
Still it gained liii*y pittance and com
forted his lonely .and now not many
more years lay ball, a few more days
of weary wanderu» e would go to join
the fair Nita who ^ D g for him in the
home among the d» s . His head drooped
as he drew near tb| his story, and the
tears fell from hiflti^j e y 6 s and coursed
down over his sea», ronZ ed cheeks. ‘Ah
Cara Nita, Bella Duomo. ‘Would
Monsieur let me 1« picture once more ?’
‘Yes, indeed, and h< a ve it and welcome.’
But no, he had iM 0 beep it, and he
would not carry tiC. He would take
one last look at it Mrth again upon his
weary pilgrimage bi d more hopeful for
that sight of the '
him, and he wou
reward monsieur
ful exile.
Poor Petro! -M£ayer be answered
at the throne of gi y 0 ur own hopes
be realized in the ■ting with the beau-
e.
that man has got religion; if he has, it's,
his fiats and his feet /’
ynr-w -t H '
rb6r. k te?r^'.“ d .i!::i“ e xnr 1
ing at the top ot his voice. ‘I &
battle cry ot fleadom,’ answered t.
another yell, and went ahead with l
Oar ‘boys and girls' may have seen *
ly articles of furniture, but what
of one candlestick that was wortl^/
fLaiiuibavion i*)i tUo t.aOtTiiaAUi cITul uxobuh >• "
commanded by God to build. It was of solid
after being for sometime unconscious, and ut
terly unable to talk, regained reason, and could
faintly speak. But vitality, the flame that fed
the bouyant. life had wasted almost to extin-
guishment and the doctor told us there was
ing landscapes, ofj •’ >|lley and green hill- nQ hope. How we hovered about the bedside
aaAjil- I
map beneath thcjce was the Amphitheatre 0 e f° re ! We hid from his eyes our tears, and
- - • - - tried to answer cheerfully his ever cheerful
whispers.
Nine o’clock at night, he pointed to his watch
and asked me the time. When I answered him
he whispered:
‘ ’Tis just half an hour to your train time.’
My utterance was broken by the memory of
that other time when he had remarked the same
thing, as I told him I should not leave him that
night.
He asfced me to read to him from a book an
extract which he admired. During the reading
mother had seated herself on the bed by his
side, and was chafing his hands and forehead.
When I had conoluded, he bowed his thanks.
A moment later, when all the family—all except
our absent brother—were by the bedside, he
turned toward mother and lifting his little wast
ed arms until they encircled her neck, whisper
ed to her, audibly to us all, ‘Kiss me and I’ll go
to Sleep,' and with these words, his last, still
musical to our ears, and our mother's kiss still
warm upon his dear lips he fell asleep—to wake
to us no more.
New Year’s Eye at Squambo.
BT T. C. HARBAUGH.
■to still so dear to
blessed virgin to
taess to the sorrow-
tiful Nita on the d
Girls whose opii mgjj things is al
ways valuable, say
collar and too litt
day, to suit their
’s too much shirt
in the present
A great many of my young readers do not
know where Squambo is. It is not a city, for
large places would not own such a queer name,
nor is it a Yankee village as its cognomen would
suggest; but a tall, dark-looking light house,
around whose titauio base the waves lash them
selves into fury. Squambo’s light has been bles
sed many times by storm-tossed sailors, who
thought of the children that nightly lit the
great revolving lamps to warn them of breakers
and danger.
It was New Year’s Eve, and the light-keeper’s
grand-children, five in number, were enjoying
themselves in one of the queer-shaped rooms of
the old light-tower. The lamps had been lighted
by their busy fingers, and the beacon was flash
ing over the stormy waters. The old man sat
in his arm-chair telling stories to the little ones,
whose father was away to sea. They were not
listening with much interest to the old man, for
their papa had promised to be at home on New
Year’s Day, and they had grown impatient and
uneasy.
All at once the mother rushed into the room.
Her face was white, and instantly the old light-
keeper broke his story. The children started
up and looked at their mother.
*A vessel has struck the sharp rooks!' she said.
‘ I hear the cry of distress and the boom of can
non above the roar of the wind.’
‘ It may be papa’s ship !’
These terrible words blanched the cheeks of
every one, and the old light-keeper managed to
rise.
Ring the bell, mother. Let them know that
we hear them !’
‘ I will ring it, mother!’ cried a little girl of
ten as she flew up the steps towards the belfry.
The wind is loudest between us and the
shore, and the men there cannot hear the dis
tressed. Is the water mad ?'
* It is white with foam,’ replied the mother.
‘ But a boat can live in it!’ said the oldest
lad, a ruddy boy of sixteen, ‘News must be
carried ashore, and we can do it ’
‘ You, children ?’
* Yes; we are strong, and papa may be on the
rocks.'
The sailor’s wife gazed proudly upon her chil
dren, and took them in her arms and kissed
them.
She knew something which she dared not
communicate. Her husband was in the ill-fated
ship, for she had heard his signal above the
roaring of the storm.
Her children were strong and courageous.
They launched the boat, and four pair of oars
drove it oat into the maddened sea.
and the finest gold, five feet high, three feat and
a half wide across the top, was richly and beau
tifully embossed, and hud r seven branches to
hold the lights.
Little Bessie’s grandfather was dead. A few
days after she was rummaging in one of the
bureau drawers, and suddenly cried out; ‘There,
now, grandpa has gone to heaven without his
spectacles !'
A sabbath school teacher asked his pet scholar
why they took Stephen outside the walls of the
city to stone him to death. The little fellow
scratched his head silently for a moment as if
trying to solve the problem, then suddenly
brigtitenicg up, replied; “So they could git a
better crack at him.’
Do the boys know how often a sparrow feeds
its young in one hour? Thirty-six times. So
says a naturalist, and makes the calculation
that at the rate of fourteen hours a day, during
tne long spring and summer days, two parent
birds will teed to their young 3,400 caterpillars
in one week. So, boys, don’t kill the dear little
birds that rid us of so many insects most des
tructive to vegetation.
‘My mamma is heap richer than yours,’said
little Susie to her friend Annie; ‘for we buy
berries every day, and your folks don’t have
’em but once a week."
‘I don’t care,’ replied Annie, ‘when we do buy
’em, we put our own sugar in them, and don’t
borrow it from our neighbors who are poorer
than we are.’
An abbey in Ireland exhibits two skulls of
Shakspeare—one of him when he was a little
boy, and one when he was a man.—M. Louise
Crossiey.
A Mother’s Touch.
I remember duriDg the war hearing of a moth
er who went to the army. She got a despatch
that her boy had been mortally wounded and
she started to him at once. She managed to get
through the lines some way, though there was
an order from the War Department that no wo
man should be admitted unless she was sent
down as a nurse. She got into the wilderness
where _ her son was, and after a great deal of
searching, found the hospital he was in. She
went to the surgeon to get permission to see
him. She told him what she wanted, and he
said: ‘We have only just got him otf asleep, and
I am afraid that if we should wake him up and
let you see him, the excitement would be bad
for him; you had better wait until he wakes up,
and then we can break the news to him gently.’
She said, ‘ He may never wake up, and I want
to see my boy.’ She knew that no one could
nurse him as she could. At last the surgeon
consented to let her see him, but warned her
not to wake him. So the mother crawled up to
that cot, but the moment she got near enough
she could not keep her hands off him. She
touched him and he knew the touch, and cried,
‘ Oh, mother, have you come ?’ Yes, tnere was
a loving heart back of that hand; that mother
had compassion for her boy. It was that that
made him know that it was his mother’s hand
that touched him. So, sinner, if the Son of
God touches you, He will help and bless you. —
Moody.
Quiddities.
For the ladies—A tea party without scandal is
like a knife without a handle. Words without
deeds are like the husks without the seeds.
Features without grace are like a cloak without
a face. A land without the laws is like a cat
without her claws. Life without cheer is like a
cellar without beer. A master without a cane
is like a rider without the rein. Marriage with*
out means is like a horse without his beans.
A man without a wife is like a fork without a
knife. A quarrel without fighting is like
der without lightning.