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My lover! oil, fair word for maid to hear!
My lover, who was yesterday my friend!
Oh, strange we did not. know !)■ fore how near
Our stre m of life smoothed to its fated end!
Shine, star of eve, as Love’s self, bright and clear;
Shine, little star, and bring my lover here!
He comes! I hear ihe echo of his feet,
He comes! I fear to stay, I cannot go
Oh, Love, that thou art shame-faced, bitter-sweet.
Mingled with pain, and conversant with woe!
Shine, star of eve, more bright as night draws near-
Shine, little star. a. d bring my lover here!
FAIRIE BEALL;
OR
A Revengeful Romananee
BY KE8A.
“Oh! mother, mother, here is the tent of the Gyp
sies, Saruh was telling about!’ I thought we
should find it!”
“But I thought no such thing Fame, or I should
never have come with you this morning I thought
we were only to hunt for ferns and mosses for your
hanging baskets. Come away at once.”
‘•Oh! mother not before we get a glimiwe at the
;,!k. \e i'f • d of tin xf 1 of*. •! and <*■-;•»> ,
tures of hem that were so pretty and romantic.”
’ “Your father will be very angry with you
Fairie
“Papa angry with me!'' exclaimed the pretty
girl, who was the petted darling of tho handsome
weli-to-do farmer, her father, as well as of her gen
tle mother. „ ..
“Yes Fairie: he hates a Gypsy worse than he
does a snake. He will not let them camp on his
land.”
“And why mother! That seems strange when
father is so good to everyone.” ... Tr
He has a reason and a very painful one. He
CHINESE LADY OF RANK AND HER ATTENDANTS.
I sec the valley clods dispart,
To close above a broken heart.”
at the gypsy camp,
home ma mere."
“Ladies, snail 1 tell your fortune r
Both turned at the sound of the shrill but not
unmusical voice, and saw a tall, dark-skinned black-
haired woman, handsome but worn and hollow-
eyed standing liefore them. In her leaf-brown
dress wrapped around with a scarlet scarf and
with a red and yellow kerchief thrown over her
long half-loose hair, she seemed a part and parcel
of the October woods. _
“Pray let me tell your fortune pretty maid,”
she said approaching Fairie and laying a swarthy
but shapely hand upon the girl’s arm. Mrs. Beall,
taken by surprise and timidly alarmed, had fallen
The gypsy P'A her finger on her temple, eyed the
girl with her keen, fascinating eyes, and chanted
“I'll tell your future bright and fair.
As the golden tinge of your nut brown hair,
I'll tell of a lover, fearless and bold,
If you'll cross the Gypsy’s palm with gold.”
“Ob' yes do tell my fortune” said Fairie ex
tending her hand, but the Gypsy drew back and
said coldly. .
“The charm will not work if you do not cross my
palm with gold.”
“Oh I forgot, instead of being a fairy god mother,
vou are a mercenary Gypsy Queen. Here is some
silver coin I have no gold. Will that do to set your
charm to work!” said Fairie laughing.
The woman bowed as she seized the money and
dropping it into a lnad pocket suspended by-
a red cord to her waist. She grasped Fairies hand
and carefully studying the palm, said:
“A life—” . . . ..
“But stop, most gracious queen, you must tell ine
something of my past life, before I can credit your
power of penetrating the future.”
*A look of scorn Hashed from her jetty eyes, hut
liemliii”- over the hand, she looked at it long and
earnestly. Presently, she muttered
“I see a child in woodland bowers,
Now we’re near to hear her cry;
No friends to cheer, but birds and flowers,
But a stranger would not let her die.”
“You will have to invoke your charms again
Gypsy Queen,” said Fairie, “I’m not a child found
in the woods.”
“Come away Fairie,” gasped Mrs. Beall, who ap
peared much agitated. , ,
“Not just yet mama, I ve not had the worth of my
money Try again and see if you make as great a
mistake, in my future as you did m my i>a.st life.
Here is another bit of silver,” said she appeasmgly
for she saw the Gypsv was angry. The woman ap
peared mollified and again taking tho young lady’s
baud, exclaimed,—
“Your sky is now bright,
But clouds will soon rise;
Your heart is now light.
But happiness soon flies:
Though storms will come,
Despondent you’ll be;
Yet girl, there’s in store
Great happiness for thee.”
“Thank your majesty. Now mother come and
have your fortune unfolded” cried the gil l seizing
her mother’s hand. , , .
“No Fairie. I do not think it right to try to look
into the future.” , , ... , ...
“Pshaw! mother do you lielieve she is gifted with
second sights? She will tell anything to get
money,” whispered Fairie. “But do dear mama
gratify me, for I am anxious to know what she
“jlnf Beall at last reluctantly consented, and ex
tended her hand to the fortune-teller, who taking it
,1 dropping on her knees by the lady, annost
n/U’lral he hand with her sw -ruiy “I'"'- i..using be:
nead and throwing back her long black hair she said:
“I see a home by sorrow broken,
I see a form by death o’er taken ;
“Oh! whv did I consent to tempt Providence?”
murmured Mrs. Beall, leaning ujion Fairie, pale
and half fainting. “I am punished for my sinful
ness.”
Darling mother you do not believe what that
ignorant vwirn said? She was wovnked with ine
and wand-d \!o say something unpleasant; do hot
thi-.kof it again. Come let us go home.” Fairie
placed her arm around her mother, who seemed
much shaken. The fortune-teller had disappeared
as suddenly as she came.
When they arrived nt home, little Ruby came
bounding to meet them, exclaiming: “Oh mama
where have you and sister been so long? Papa wants
us to go with him to the new mill. It has begun
work so nicely. But what is the matter mama?”
“Nothing my pet, only mama has a headache,
she walked too far.”
“Come and lie down my dear,” said Mr. Beall
coming to meet her. “You look pale. Fairie I will
forbid your mother going with you again, you must
remember she can’t scale rocks, and leap ditches,
and climb trees like you—you madcap ”
“I behaved quite soberly this morning papa. We
came suddenly on”—but a warning glance from
Mrs. Beali caused her to make some evasive reply,
as they entered the house.
“Make haste papa, and let’s go,” said Ruhv. “I
want to see the little fishes in tiiat pond that has so
many water lilies in it,” and catching her father’s
hand she hurried him towards the door.
“Wait for me. little Hurry-scurry,” Fairie said,
taking her little sister in her arms.
Mrs. Beall went to her room and layidown to rest,
while Farie, haing darkened her mother’s cham
ber, went with her father and sister to the mill. As
they approached it. they came upon a man or more
properly speaking a Ixiy, for lie appeared not to he
more than eighteen, lying behind a fallen tree,
looking as if he had been asleep, and just then
awoke. He wore short blue trousers ami a brown
roundabout, the worse for wear. His black hair
fell on his neck. He sprang to his feet with a
startled look in his black eyes, shaded by heavy
brows.
“What are you doing here prowling around my
premises, you Gypsy vagal Kind!” cried Arnold
Beall his face becoming red and his hand clinching.
The man’s eyes gleamed furtively as he replied—
“I came to ask you to give me a little meal, or
to let me work in your mill, I am hungry and have
nothing to eat.”
“You are hungry, and with nothing to eat are
you? A pretty tale for one as robust as you, who
prefer’s a vagabonds life of pilfering and begging
instead of earning an honest living.”
“I am willing to work and have tried to find
something to do, but all distrust the gypsy dog,”
said the man bitterly.
“All are right too, get away with you, I have mi
employment for such as you. I would not trust
my mill in your care, for treachery is a natural
trait in the character of your race.”
“I am willing to work.”
“Begone! I say, I will not parley with you,” said
Mr. Beall.
“Oh papa!’”said Fairie, “don’t lie so hard on the
man. "Try him, give him work, and if he does not
please you you can send him off.”
“Fairie you do not know what you are saying,
the treachery of the snake lurks in the veins of his
race.”
“God bless you young lad}-. But curses follow
your father,” said the Gypsy as he stalked away
muttering, and soon disappeared in the dense woods.
“Oil father! how <_ould you talk to any one so,”
said Fairie looking in the direction the man went.
“Fairie, your tender heart can never conceive or
imagine the hatred I feel for one of the detested
race. Years ago, when I was quite a small l>oy, and
my brother Edward just two years younger, a
baud of Gipsys were encamped near my father's.
Among them was a man and a sma!! babe. My
brother and I stole away one day and went to their
camp. Edward being of a mischievous nature,
played a prank on the man, which he never forgave.
A few days after he came to my father, and like
this one expressed his willingness to earn an honest
living, put; ing up a sorrowful plea of not getting
employment. My father agreed to take him, and
he immediately went to work, and no fault could
lie found of him, either in lalior or demeanor. He
had lieen there several weeks, when one morning ho
and Edward could nowhere be found; they had
gone to carry the horses to the meadow and were
returned.
Mv futlier, growing uneasy, sent me to search for
them. I saw the horses in the meadow quietly
grazing hut Edward or Roger could nowhere
U* seen. I shouted for them, but no an-
"c on which I was
a brush-pile, when, oh my God! though it has been I “And what are you going to do with him, papa?
thirty years since then, my soul sickens at the | I did not think he could do such a mean crime."
theught of the sight that then met my eyes. My
darling brother, my mother's idol, was lying there
with his head severed from his body, his golden
locks clotted with blood. I knew the Gypsy was
the dastardly murderer. And tun a ud there I
vowed eternal enmity to the i. v> brother’s
G d.v V»*f.V\ I ,t >■ , a it
tile day of death, my mother’/ sitriek i i she fell in
convulsions upon the body of her munlered child.
She was in delicate health, and the shwk killed her
in a week. My father did not long survive the
double loss, and so the hand of a Gypsy devil made
me an orphan and brotherless, and gave a shock to
my mind it has never recovered from.”
Mr. Beall’s features were convulsed with passion.
“And now,” said he, “Fairie, you have the cause
of my hatred of the Gvpsy race.”
“it is dreadful. Your poor, innocent little
brother. But what became of the man, papa?”
“It is pleasure for me to tell. Two years after
wards I saw his iKwly quivering in the air sus 'end
ed by a hangman's rope. But come,” said he, “let
us go up the hill,” for they had seated themselves
on a large rock, ltuhy lieing busy playing with the
little fishes. Fairie praised the mill to his heart’s
content, but her thoughts often turned to the Gyp
sy boy who hud uttered blessings and curses in the
same breath. Returning home, they found Mrs.
Beall much refreshed, but with a despondent look
that puzzled her husliami.
“What is the matter, Mary?” he said. “What is
it that has disturbed you? You look anxious and
sad, as if you expected some calamity to befall
you.”
“Oh, hush! Do not say that,” said she, quickly.
“ What has happened to her, Fairie?” continued
Mr. Beall. “What did you see in the woods? I
came across a suspicious character myself, while on
our way to the mill. I mean the Gypsy, and had
better notify the miller to keep a sharp look-out,
tin* race is so revengful and treacherous.”
He rungabell fora servant, dispatching him with
the message, and bidding hint remain all night, and
the two sleep together ill the mill-house. Mr. Beall
had scarcely returned to the room where Fairie and
her mother tiad remained while lie had gone to see
the servant off to the mill, when Jacob, the miller’s
son, entered with much hurry and impatience.
“What is t .e matter, Jacob?” said Mr. Beall,
alarmed.
“We have caught him. sir,” gasped the boy, as he
sank into a chair handed him by Fairie.
“Caught whom?”
“A man tiiat was trying to set the mill afire. We
came uikhi him witli a bundle of lig^twood splinters.
He had put him down in a corner of the bin and
was jipst striking a match when we nabbed him.
Father fired as he run and shot him in the foot.
“Curse him, I wish it had been in his heart,” ex
claimed Arnold Beall, as lie hurriedly left the
house.
CHAPTER II.
A rapid walk of a few moments brought Mr.
Beall to the mill, where Thomas, the miller, was
keeping guard over the detected culprit, who was
seated in one corner, with his foot wrs rudely
IkiuikI with a portion of his handkerchief, and his
hands firmly tied.
“Aha? it is you, is it? you Gypsy devil? Just as I
expected,” hissed Beall. “I knew you were bent
on mischief when you were prowling like a thief
that you are around here, professing your willing
ness to work.”
“You drove me to it,” said the man, sulkily. “If
you had given me work, or even refused me re-
spectfully, instead of treating me as if I was a dog,
I’d never thought of harming you.”
"Well, I am in hopes now you will learn an occu
pation that is not so dangerous to your personal
safety, under the skillful managers of the State
prison, or ehaiilgang.”said Mr; Beall, grimly. “The
only regret I have is I cannot have you swung on
the gallows.”
“Yes, as my grandfather swung,” said the Gipsy
between his clenched teeth. “Thirty years ago,
through your persevering lust for revenge, though
then a mere child, you, Arnold Beall caused my
grandfather to die on the gallows.”
“So you are the grandson of that arch fiend, but
do not mention that atrocious crime, or 1 will break
the bounds of prudence by swinging you up with
out judge or jury. Thomas, order horses to carry
this tramp to his new quarters, there to await liis
trial.”
Mr. Beall, after seeing the Gypsy off, firmly
bound so as to prevent the possibility of escape,
slowly rode back home. Fairie, seeing him ap
proach, ran to meet him, saying:
•Oh! papa, who was it tried to burn your nuB ?
‘It was the Gvpsv boy who so enlisted vour
lie savs I insulted liis dignity
“I told you treachery and revenge was a twin
bond to their souls. Vour head was filled with
stories of the romantic and noble gypsies that often
turned out to be stolen prine es. You will find
nothing of the kind among the theivmg, treacher
ous race.”
. V ; -,/ii*‘hil* —: /. do me n*jnstify. T did fee I
sorry for the boy, and thought perfyips by some i
encouragement he would prove that all his race
were not the! theiving, revengeful beings you
think them."
“This fellow wont have much romance left about
him when he has been six or seven years in the
chaingang.”
“Oh, father? you surely are not going to send him
there!” cried Fairie.
“Yes, my dear, I shall do all in my power to do
so, and if I could, I would send him to a land per-
hajis more disagreeable, at least in warmth ,’
"Oh, mama, who is that?” said Ruby, running
to her mother. All looked to the door and saw the
the tall form of the gyi«y fortune-teller standing
on the threshold. She was dressed as the day lie-
fore when Fairie and her mother met her in the
woods, only the scarlet cape was on her head which
gave her a" wierd look. Advancing toward Mr.
Beall, she said in low, penetrating tones:
“Arnold Beall, Magdala, the Gypsy, comes to lieg
mercy from the handjof the white man. I came to
ask you to have compassion on my boy. Oh, sir.”
said she, in a soft and and entreating tone, “have
pity on him. Oh! let him not be sent to prison for
years, and i>erhui>s at last die in its walls. Release
him, sir, aml|we will forever leave the country, and
bless you for your mercy.”
Mr. Beall frowned darkly. “Release him to have
him burn my house, and perhaps send a bullet
through my heart when I least expect it.”
“He is young, it is the first crime heevercom-
mitted. Oh! listen to and pity a mother’s agony.
Spare my child, he is my all," said she. She fell
on her knees and clasped her dark hands imploring
ly. “Spare him, and a mother’s blessings will ever
follow you.”
“Spare your eloquence, woman. I tell you,
now, that boy shall suffer for liis attempted crime,
and would to God I could implicate you and all your
accursed race,^letting you share his sufferings and
labors of the prison life.”
The Gypsy sprang to her feet, her eves glaring.
“Arnold Beall, it is the first time 1 ever knelt to
man. I iM*ggedjf r the life of my only child. You
refused my prayer, and spurned me as you would
a worm. You mock my distress. I have implored,
now I curse. I swear by the God you profess to
worship, that you shall endure all the agony I now
feel. Arnold Beall, I curse you; my curses shall
follow you to the grave. We will meet again. I
w arn you, beware. Revenge shall be my watch
word!” and she left the room, leaving her hearers
mute under the spell of terror her curse inspired.
Mr. Beall was the first to recover. “I must fol
low her,” he said, “she will do us some great inju
re.” and quickly summoning his servants, he start
ed jn pursuit, but no trace of her could be found.
Mr Beall returned, feeling more uneasiness and
concern than he chose to express, and tried to laugh
away his wife’s fears, that the enraged Gypsy, would
wreak some dreadful re\enge on them.
“Do not let it trouble you, dear wife,” he would
say: “she was enfuriated by my firm refusal, and
thought to scare us into doing as she wanted. I
dare say she is far enough awny following her son
t<> prison. She knows I will tie on the alert and
will punish severely anything approaching to inju
ry and crime.”
“1 don’t see, father, how you could resist tier
prayers ” said Fairie, the tears standing in her eyes,
as she thought of the mother pleading for her only
child. . . ,
“It is well, my daughter, my heart is made of
firmer stuff thaii yours, or every vagabond house-
burner, or demented old woman that tells a pitiful
tale or’sheds a few tears, would find an asylum m
my house and protector through my leniency,” said
Mr. Beall, tartly. . . .
Fairie winced under his sareastic reproof, but
made no reply.
“Do, Mr. Beall be cautious, for that woman
looked so wild and fierce. She seemed a prophetess
of evil. I feel confident she will try to do you
some serious injury,” said Mrs. Beall.
“I will look out,” he replied, “for the tigeress,
and woe unto them if I should catch any of the race
prowling around my premises.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
s<vcr. At last, uiscending the liaiii-. — --—.. - ..—, , . . « . .
standing, I saw the fragments of a red handker- j byspeakinir roil dilv to * him, and he thought to
chief, which linger always wore around his neck. | s 'P eJkln ~ ' V, '
Stooping to pick it up, I accidentally looked under ,v l”' nt ll ’
The Lutheran church of St. Michael, in Moscow,
the oldest Protestant church in Russia, has just cel
ebrated the close of its third century. All the
Protestant churches of Russia sent delegates to the
festival.
They had wandered down from Vicksburg.
One of them was a gentleman. His elegant dress
his graceful manner, his aristocratic form, refined
face, and shapely white hands, proclaimed that fact
at a glance. He was a gentleman of the old school.
A gentleman of that old school in which Cain was
the first pupil. A gentleman of ttie old school of
rascality and crime.
Everybody, from fur up the river, down to its
mouth, knew LeRoy Devreaux. “Whistling Lee”
was the name bestowed upon him by his intimates.
When he tilted back his chair after a lucky “hand”
in a game of draw-poker when the stakes were
high, and puckered his mouth, the silvery notes
rushed from liis lips with a sweetness anil correct
ness perfectly wonderful. Sometimes it was a strain
from the ojtera; sometimes, one of those rollicking,
devilish tunes heard so often on steamers that ply
the lower Mississippi; sometimes it was a refrain
from the mellow choruses of the deck-hands; some
times, when ill a despondent mood, wcasioned by
bad luck, it was the “Sweet Bye and Bye,” or “Rest
for the Weary,” in tones tremulous and low. Many
a time has the dealer, with the divided pack lifted
high above the table, paused, forgetful of the game,
to catch the concluding notes of some old tune as it
came forth with perfect melody from the puckered
lips of “Whistling Lee.”
He was a gentleman. The blood of eight centu
ries of French cavaliers, undefileil by a single drop
of plebean mixture, coursed through liis veins.
Since the early settlement of Louisiana, his people
had lived, in affluence and ease, on the bank of the
Red river. The noble halls of his princely family
hail once resounded with the merry laughter of
highborn belles and dames, anil with the manly
tones of lordly planters, whose voices were now for
ever hushed. Those same halls had been the scene
of muny a princely festivity among the old planters
Now only a heap of blackened ruinsmarked the
spot where, onee had stood his ancestral home.
The estate had fallen into the hands of stran
gers, and LeRoy Devereaux, the last of his house,
was a gentleman gambler, plying his trade along
the Mississippi.
The other man was a slouehy looking fellow of
huge frame and forbidding countenance. He was a
| It!.. • rj . f i»>f. *■’, it s Who If-ITlt
the wharvet m the larger cities aloig rly* river, and
who are read}’ to employ their time and talents in
developing any scheme of meanness.
The yellow fever epidemic in the South had been
raging for months. The whole of the country from
Memphis to the coast was paralyzed, and the re
gard paid either to law or order was small indeed.
These two gentleman, Whistling Lee .and his com
panion, tired by philanthropic ardor, had volunteer
ed their services to nurse tiie sick at Vicksburg.
Their lalxirs were not long. The citizens of Vicks
burg had discovered some irregularities in the con
duct of these two noble volunteers. Small articles
of jewelry, watches, and money, had found their
way from the private receptacles of sundry patients
sick with the fever, into the keeping—everlasting
keeping—of these two aids of the Howards. The
citizens of Vicksburg had gently remonstrated with
them, and had mildly hinted that their services
were no longer needed. The citizens of Vicksburg
were a cold and unsympathizing people, and after
their gentle remonstrance and mild hints,had not al
lowed these two gentleman, whose hearts were bul>-
bling over with the milk of human kindness, to tar
ry. but had hurried them out of the town upon a
stout rail, leaving them in the woods near the river
with the injunction not to return. They felt a
thorough and ail abiding dislike for thosecitizens of
Vicksburg, and were anxious to cross the river in
order to be separated from them by the deep waters
of the mighty stream. They had wandered down
the river, vainly searching for a boat, and had
reached Deadman’s Bend at daylight.
Along the Mississippi shore of Headman's Bend
was a narrow strip of white sand. Back beyond this
lay the thick undergrowth of a dense swamp. Ono
or two sluggish sloughs oozed their black anil miry
way through the rank weeds and tall grass of the
swamp, and found outlets through the sand into
the river. The dismantled wreck of a steamboat
lay imbedded in the sand near the lower end of the
Bend, and here and there huge logs, branches of
trees, and piles of drift of all descriptions, lay scat
tered about. A solemn stillness prevailed, and a
scene of more utter desolation would be difficult to
find.
Near the wreck of the steamboat a large flat, with
a sort of wooden house or cabin built upon it, hail
drifted, and lodged in the sand.
“Paril, thet's what we want!” exclaimed the man
of the slouehy figure, pointing to a boat tied behind
the flat.
“You are right, old fellow!” responded “Whist
ling Lee,” that's the thing that will put us beyond
the reach of that set of cold blooded devils back
there in Vicksburg!”
“I reckon we mought es well look inter that fiat
while we’re pi ikin' abimt," the other man said. "Ther
mought lx* somethin’ in thar wuth takin’ along.”
“You are a careful man, Blank! Your wife, if
you have one, ought to be thankful that she has a
husband who always looks out tor ’something to
take along!” responded “Whistling Lee” to this sug
gestion. "By all means, let’s go through the old
hulk. There may, at least, lie something to eat in
side.”
The man addressed as Blank, who, if he had ever
possessed another name, never made it known to
his friends, had already begun to climb upon the
flat. Whistling Lee followed with all possible ex-
pedition.
They entered the cabin.
“Well, here is a go!” said Whistling Lee.
The discoveries which he had made by a glance
around the interior of the cabin were enough to
ause his exclamation of surprise. Around the
sides were arranged shelves and counters, the first
being well filled with a miscellaneous assortment of
giKKls. Clothing, groceries, tin-ware, clocks—in
fact, everything necessary to a floating peddler’s
shop, were there.
“We’ve jumped into a regular cross-roads’ shop
on water! Where is the owner of tliis craft!”
“ ’Pears like the owner has gone a fishing,’ said
Blank. It's a good time, while^he’s out, to drive a
a Iwrgain or two.”
“It's a good time to do something better than
that, my hearty,” said Whistling Lee. “We will
claim this concern by right of discovery, and I tell
you my mud-cat, its a step or two ahead of any
thing we did back there in Vicksburg. Let’s look
about and make an inventory.”
“All right. Pal’d! PH go down—”
A deep groan interrupted Mister Discoverer Blank.
••’.Vila’, k'- i- •:!'-; • '-.id Whistling Lee, with
a slight tinge i u ;«.v voice.
Continued on 8th page.