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A Few More Hornings.
A few more mornings—yet a lew more morn
inge,
We’ll watch the light’s low dawning, dull
and gray;
A few more mornings and we’ll faintly mur
mur A
To those wWlove us, “ ’Tis our latest day.”
From will fade the life-worn
mask,
From tired hands will drop the half done
task.
A few more mornings—but a few more morn
ings—
Others will take the work that we laid down;
Will lift where we left it in the shadows ;
Will wear its cross —perchance may wear the
crown
We longed for, toiled for, all our fleeting
hours,
The crown cf thorns, that never could be
ours.
A few more mornings! Amidst distant dawn
ings
They who come after .us will softly say,
“ Where now the labor of those gone before
us ?
The recompense of all 'their burdened day ?
They are not missed where they were always
seen,
And life moves on as if they had not been.”
A few more mornings! stilled will be forever
The hearts that thrill to-day with Love’s dear
pain;
All suffering done—all done tije long en
deavor—
The far-out yearning of the lofty brain,
There’ll be in the low house where we lie
down
No love! no hate ! no dream of high re
nown !
A few more mornings ! ’Twill be all told—
our story.
So sweet, so brief. Why war with change
less fate ?
Why cry for love t Why spend our strength
for glory ?
Why pray to God with prayer importunate ?
Hie centuries go! We still must come and
pass
Like leafy shadows on the summer grass.
A iew more mornings—and then again in
beauty
The earth will wear the splendor of her
spring.
While we, within the universe of spirits,
Will wander somewhere among viewless
things.
We still must see our human home is fair
Where’er It be in all the heaven of air;
Wondrous must be God’s gift to compensate
For all we miss within our human fate.
—r- "■ 1 » |
tFromLipJiififatWHagar.ne.
Carcassonne.
nr joint r. Thompson.
From the French of Gtutave Nadaud.
I’m growing old—l’ve sixty years ;
i’ve labored all my life in vain ;
In all tlfat time of hope and fears
I’ve failed my dearest wish to gain.
I see full well that here below
Bliss unalloyed there is for none;
My prayer will ne’er fulfilment know—
I never have seen Carcassonne,
I never have seen Carcassonne !
Ton see the city from the bill,
It lies beyond the mountains blue,
And yet to reach it one must still
Five long and weary longues pursue,
And to return, as many more!
Ah! had the vintage plenteous grown !
The grape withheld its yellow store ;
I shall not look on Carcassonne,
I shall not look on Carcassonne !
They tell me every day is there
Not more or less than Sunday gay
In shining robes and garments fair
The people walk upon their way.
One gazes there on castle walls
As grand as those of Babylon,
A bishop and two generals !
I do not know fair Carcassonne,
1 do not know fair Carcassonne !
The Vicar’s right; he says that we
Are ever wayward, weak and blind ;
He telle us in his homily
Ambition ruins all mankind ;
Yet could I there two days have spent
While still the autumn sweetly shone,
Ab, me! I might have died content
When I had looked on Carcassonne,
When I had looked on Carcassonne !
Thy pardon, Father, I beseech,
In this my prayer if I offend ;
One something sees beyond his reach
From childhood to his journey’s end.
My wife, our little boy Aignan,
Have traveled even to Narbonne ;
My grandchild has seen Perpignan,
And 1 have not seen Carcassonne,
And I have not seen Carcassonne!
8o crooned one say, close by Ltmoux,
A peasant, double-bent with age.
“ Rise up, my friend,” said I ; “ with you
I'll go upon this pilgrimage.”
We left next morning his abode.
But (Heaven forgive him!) half-way on,
The old man died upon the road;
He never gazed on Carcassonne.
Each mortal has his Carcassonne!
Sabbath Eve.
Vesper bells are slowly pealing,
Thrdbs the bushed air with delight,
At the sound comes goftly stealing
Through the calm and drowsy night!
Nearer stealing, gently waking,
Echoes in the pious breast!
Whispering bliss to spirit’s breaking.
Peace to those Who know no rest.
From the skies the moonlight streaming
O’er the spires is brightly shed,
Like the light of grace redemfng,
Round the thorn-crowned tortured head
Solemn swells the songs of glory
From adoring devotees;
Sweet as songs of ancient story,
Murmured o'er the slumbering seas !
Trembles now the dial finger
On the holy hour of prayer,
let ray laggard footsteps linger,
Love like theirs I cannot share 1
Wilder dreams and dearer fancies
Tyrants sway within my hreast!
Theirs, the rapture that entrances.
Theirs, the pleasure make me blest.
Earthly love! devoutly kneeling, •
Lo, 1 worship at tby shrine !
Yet I tremble at this feeling,
Human love o’ereomes divine;
Martyred Monarch ! judge me kindly,
Flesh is real and love is strong.
Though I wander weakly, blindly,
Pardon thou, O Christ, the wrong.
POOR JAMES WYMPER.
When he was a child they caUed him “ poor
little James.” He wasn’t little, and he wasn’t
poor, so far as Worldlv goods went; nor did
those who called him “poor” use the word in
kindness towardjphe motherless, neglected
boy. He had rea eyelids. No power could ]
brush bis hair smooth, or keep the knees of
his trousers clean. He bad a wonderful facili
for cutting his fingers, and wrapping them np
in nnpleasant-looaiaa rags. He always had a
cold in his head. At®# agejbf twelve he could
barely read two- sMphles. Hi* .*>n!y nse in
the world appearefftofbe tbSserve?** an awful
example -to naughty boys. who would play
with knives and disliked soap and water; and
for this pnrjpfce be was used pretty jfccelv
They sent bim-to a big school, where
nothing bnt bnllied j and when bib i’ac.-i
and left him very poor m a nUrinMBBNHP
word, the distant relative who toWHlmin
charge ont of charity could find better em
ployment for bim than to sweeMljkthe office
and run of errands. By this tlmtPHHbd ceas
ed to be “ poor little James,” and bed Ute poor
James Wymper.
He could do nothing good of JBBUf, and
by some curious perversity, set AfiHjKFto un
do the good that others had dbSfilSile had a
craze for taking things to piece4lßfiM|jMns
equalled by his capacity to put them together
again. He comptained that they’did nOfgive
him time, and declared that this granted/ the
condition of the victims of bis handiwork
would be improved. Be this as it might be,
every piece of meebanism that fell in his, way,
from his cousin’s sewing machine to the great
hydraulic press at his protector’s works, was
made to suffer. Wi-m
He had a fatal facility for alwaygHtag iu the
way. He seemed to be all elbowjggHe could
not move ten steps to save hiatJjjpLwithont
treading upon some one’s toes or upsetting
something. When you spoke to hlm/ne was
always in a fog. “ The boy is half%n idiot,”
groaned the worthy cotton-spinner, whose
bread he ate.
At the age of eighteen he had made only two
friends in the world, a blacksmith and a cat—
an evil-minded black Tom, who swore at every
one else, and bit them savagely when they-at
tempted to puthim through the tricks which
poor James Wymper had taught him. Ama
teur hammering at the forge did not Improve
untidy Jim’s appearance, and his cat—not be
ing in a show—did not increase his income
He ran errands for his consln like a boy when
he had attained man’s estate, until one day
when he ran one for himself, and did not come
back again.
Fears were entertained that he had come to
a bad end. The police were pat in motion and
rewards offered, but his friend the blacksmith,
upon said that he had gone to
I do no( tbUk that his relations were broken
hearted. ’I fancy that good Mr. Bryce, the
cotton spinner, was rather glad to be rid of his
wife’s consln, the errand-boy, His wile, who
was not unkind to the forlorn lad in a way of
her own—a very cold way it was—sighed sever
al times apropos of nothing, and murmured,
“ Poor James Wymper!”
Five years passed am} Mrs. Bryce was left a
widow, by no means so-%blL provided for as
she expected to be. M<®»Ver. there was a
fawsnit fth&ot the will, and a soiiabble in rbe
winding-up of the partnership. She was glad
to “get shut”—as her defunct lord would have
said, of Manchester, and seeing an advertise
ment to the effect that a widow lady having a
house 100 large tor her, pleasantly situated on
the Thames, near Maidenhead, was propared
to share it with just such a person as herself,
transported herself thither, after a due ex
change of references and such like formalities,
and found no reason to regret what she had
done.
The other widow does not figure much in
this story, and therefore it will be enough to
say that she was a quiet lady-like woman, rather
afraid of her partner in house-keeping, with a
daughter, aged eighteen, who ruled'the pair
and made the place very pleasSfct
Bessy Jervoice was not pretty. Besides her
eyes she had not a good feature in her face,
but it was a good face, earnest and loving, with
a sub-current of fun running under it, (as the
stream runs under the water lilies,) and rip
pling out constantly. Her little thorough
bred hands were ever busy, and the patter of
her dainty feet was pleasant music in many a
poor cottage.
Things went on very soothlyat the river-side
villa until one rainy day, when, without a
“ with your leave,” or “ by your leave,” or let
•tcr, or telegram, or message, or any other sort
of preparation, in marches poor James Wym
per, dripping with rain and splashed with mud
up to his hat!
“If you please, cousin Margaret, I’ve come
back,” he said, subsiding in his old, low-spirit
ed way into aa amber satin drawing-room
chair, which in two minutes he soaked through
and through.
That was all. No excuse, no petition, a sim
pie announcement that he had come back, con
veyed in a manner which made it sufficiently
clear that he intended to remain. “If yon
please, cousin Margaret, I’ve come back.” Not
another word did he say, and relapsed into
thinking of something else, as usual.
Interrogated respecting his lauggage, he re
plied that it was on the hall-table, and there,
sure enough, was lound a sodden bundle con
taining a soiled flannel shirt, a pair of slippeis,
two pipes, a cloth cap without a peak, and
sailor’s lyiife. in answer to farther inquiries
be stated that his means were eightnewjiriSafeflt
he had been living in America,
walked lrom Liverpool, and that WiPßled
something to eut. When dried and fed, and
asked what he was gomg to do, he said; “What
ever you and appearing to consider
that all difficulty waa thns disposed of, he went
to sleep
Poor Mrs. Bryes was at her wits’ end. Or
-dinary hints were thrown away upon such a
man. When she said she supposed he was go
ing on to London, he replied, O dear no, he
had come from London. When she told him
she was only a lodger in the house, he observ
ed that it was a very nice house to lodge In. I
have said that she was kind to him in her way
when he was an errand-boy, and somehow she
could, not be hard upon him now. There was
something half ludicrous, half melancholy, in
his helplessness that disarmed them all. Bessy
declared him to be the largest baby she had
ever seen, persisted in speaking of him as it,
and scandalized the matrons by Inquiring grave
ly after tea, which of them was going to put it
to bed.
“It’s rather unkind for you to jest so Bes
sy,” said poor Mrs. Bryce, “ when you see
how distressed I-wp. What on earth am Ito
do?"
•’ I suppose it’s too old for the Foundling ?”
ipuscd Bessy.*
“ Bessy hfigsiet!” said her mother.
“You dear old darling,” said the pert one
afterward, “ dou’t you see that We cannot treat
this thing seriously without making it doubly
painful lor dear Mrs. Bryce ? It will all come
right in the end.”
“Yes, my dear, but when is the end to bo
gie;?”
It wae to begin by special arrangement the
next day, after breakfast; when tbe following
conversation took place:
“ Now, James,” said bis cousin, “ we shall
not be Interrupted for some time, and you
must really give me your serious attention.”
“ Yes, cousin Margaret.”
“.You see, Janies, you are a man now, and
must act and be treated—do you understand ?
— treated , like other people.”
“ That’s just what I want to be.”
“.Well, then, I must tell yeu frankly that
AUGUSTA, GAi, WEDNESDAY MOKNINGj JUNE 19, 1872.
(ton much annoyed by yonr coming here as
BDn did.”
W “ It wasn’t my fault that it rained, cousin
r Margaret.l wish it hadn’t,” he replied, pite
“i’m nqkepeakirg of your coming in wet
and spqlSp.be chairs, sir ; I am much annoy.
here at all.”
MHHHd widow thought that she would get
On 'Best by being angry, but it was no nse.
" Where else was Ito gtglo he asked.
“ How you found me oil?, I cannot think,”
6ighed the victim. The observation was an un
lucky one.
"Ah, ba, he chuckled,” “yon thought iWas
• stupid, did yon J”
And then followed a long weary, story of
hoy passing through Manchester, ha had seen
thifjeTson and spoken to that and. obtained
l^^^hgyjjjeba^llmntedttmltsteTier
ed to his subject as ne went "on, andfi nSHeH
with tbe air of a man who had rendered an im
portant service and expected to have it prompt
ly recognized.
This threw his victim’s cut and dried soeneh
es off the line.
“Odear, O dear!” she cried. “Itdoesn’t
matter how you found me out; you have done
so. The question is. What am I to do with
you, now you’re here? Whatam Ito do with
yon ?”
“ I don’t know, cousin Margaret.”
" You don’t know! A pretty answer for a
man of five or six-and-twenly. Now look here,
James Wymper, I should like to do something
for you and for your poor mother’s sake. I can
not; and—and you have no righfr to thrust
yourself upon me like this, and—and—are you
attending to me, James Wymper ?” »
“ Yes, cousin Margaret,” he replied with a
jerk, coming suddenly out of hisfog.
“ What was I saying ?”
" That you would like to do something for
me for my poor mother’s sake ?”
“ That was only half what I said, sir. How
dare you pick out my words like that! I went
on to say that I couldn’t do anything lor you,
and I can’t. I’ve not the means. I’m very
poor; I can.hardly manage for myself. My
husband left me very badly off.”
“Did he leave me anything?”
“You! alter your conduct—running away,
and frightening us as you did ? Is it likely ?”
“ I know it was wrong to run away, cousin
Margaret, but you see I’ve come back again,”
be said, with the utmost gravity.
This was conclusive. For the last half-hour
she had been trying to din into his bead that
he had no business to come back, and here he
was, taking credit for having returned, as an
act which was to cancel all the offenses of his
yonth! Perceiving that his reply had troubled
her, he proceeded to promise upon his word
of honor that he would never, never run away
again. What was to bo done with such a man ?
Talking wa6 clearly useless. One of two eour
see only remained—to endure him, or call a
policeman and turn him ont neck and crop.
Mrs. Bryce did not call a policeman.
The conduct.of poor James Wymper daring
the next two or three days was what, in ano
ther man, would have roused the indignation
of all concerned by its almost sublime audaci
ty. The proceedings of Mr. Charles Mathews
in “ Cool as a Cucumber” are timid and retir
ing in c.Qmparison.*-ithjfli£iseQf Mrs. Jcr voice’s,
unwelcome guest. It WS house and all it con
tained had belonged to him. and its inhabitants
were dependents upon his bounty, he could
not have behaved more freely; and ail this
with an ihrtocenee which utterly disarm
ed opposition.
“O, never mind me,” was his refrain; “ I
don’t want to trouble anybody. I’ll do it all
ior myself. I’m all right. You let me alone
and see.”
His first great exploit was to precipitate him
self upon a washing and wringing machine
which he found out of order and disused in
the cellar ; and whether he had improved in
dexterity, or sufficient time wag granted him
lor the realization of his ideas, need not be dis
cussed here* The result was satisfactory. Net
only did the thing into working order,
but he worked it himself, to the intense de
light of Bessy and consternation. of the cook.
Many* other useful things he did. He made
a wind-milkwhicb pumped water up to the top
of the hqjjjHF and saved the sixpence a day
which immeen paid to a boy ior this labor.
He mehrred an old boat there was. and took
Bessy out for rows on the river. He became
that young lady’s right-hand man in her gar
den. Before a month was over, not only had
cousin Margaret become quite resigned to have
him on her bands, bnt Mrs. Jervoice refused
to accept any remuneration for his board and
lodging, declaring that he was well woi th his
keep. It was something, yon see, for these
lone women to have a man about the house
who could and would put his hand to this and
that. He did not cat his fingers now.
Before this satisfactory condition of affairs
had been arrived at, tailor and hosier had been
set to work, and really roor James Wymper
brightened up wonderfully in appearance un
der their hands. If his head had not been so
big, and his elbows and knees so uncomforta
bly conspicuous, he would not have been a bad
looking man. He was evidently a good-heart
ed one. He would do anything in his power,
poor fellow, for any one ; was, in fact, rather
too active sometimes when he had been longer
than usual in one of his fogs, on which occa
sions he would labor like an amiable hull in a
china shop, and cause some consternation. Os
course he made friends with tbe nearest black
smith.
in tbe early,days, when he had not ceased to
be considered a nuisance and an intrnder, Bes
sy had stood his friend. One always takes an
interest in those one befriends, and Bessy took
a great interest in poor James Wymper—draw
ing him out, encouraging him, and defending
him against practical Jokes; bnt as time pass
ed, this young person’s feelings toward him ap
peared to-undergo a change. Instead of prais
ing what he did, and encouraging him to fur
ther exertion, she found fault and snubbed
him. She ceased to make inn of him as “ it,”
and had a store of little better disparaging re
marks —about his dependence, his want of
self-respect, and so on—ready to shoot at him.
“ I think you are too severe on poor James
Wymper,” Mis. Jervoice would say; “he is
really very willing, and one must not expect
too much o! bim, poor fellow.” If another
man had done what he did, he would not have
been damned with sneh faint- praise, bnt ho
was only “poor James Wymper;” and, like
the proverbial prophet, had little credit In his
own country.
One morning was marked with an unusual
event—poor James Wymper received ale. ter
with American stamps upon it.
Among the visitors at Willow Bank—the
Thames-side villa of Air. Jervoice—was a cer
tain Mr. Augustus Bailey, a young gentleman
ol varied and pleasing accomplishments. He
conld sing you musie-ball songs nearly as well
as tbe “great comiqaes,” his masters. He
could imitate most celebrated actors, and was
A mighty punster. For the better exhibition
of such talents a butt was indispensable, and
he found one ready-nude la poor James Wym
per. It Is needless to gay that poor James
Wymper did not love Mr. Augustus Bailey ;
bnt it was curious that a usually amiable girl
like Bessy Jervoice should encourage, the lat
ter in sallies which were often as ungenerous
as they were insolent.
“ I want you to put my sewing machine iu
good order, Mr. Wymper,” said Bessy, one
day, “and mind it works smoothly, for I’ve
got to make a dress in a hurry.”
“ What lor ?” asked be.
"Apic-nic.”
“ What’s a pic-nic V”
“ Don’t tease.”
“ Very well •" and he set to work on the
s*t,.©s machine.
vW took a seat beside him, and mollified
by his obedience*condensceded to explain the
rites anil mysteries of a p c-nic. This one was
got np by Mr. Augustus Bailey, and—as she
narroeipritwas “ Mr. Bailey will provide!!.,
this, auff “Sr. Bailey tßhks” that; until the
workman threw down his screw-driver in a
passiOßjhndAxclaimed, “Coniouud Mr. Bal
ley!” • astonished. She got as| far
as. “Why, wu;' re not iaal -,”.. wbcn she be
came vary ted, and checked herself.
11 1’anot what?” asked poor James Wym
per. Wf- j 0
“ lene I*oo stolid as yoa.try to make
“ *1 not what you were going to say.”
son know?” - j.-,
are not jealV-aometkiqg,”
“ Vr> * nfjp(Tir n or salt ot wgar, that you
ffitoswagtgfr Shower,” she. replied- The
lasrltS&kßFjßßoo of the great Augnstn* had
been twft irarSs sure to rain, and so this ob
servation of Miss, Bessy wag not as inappro
priate-afrit tniytk/Jrst appear. But Why should
she hsrib blugfjfko ? And if she had "really
iaterfnsfco tell him he was not Jelly, why did
she nos go on and say so? Besides,te had
not confounded Mr. Bailey because-til* t au
thoity hau predicted rain, and Miss Beagy
knew it. She flattered herself that she had got
very cleverly out of a difficulty, and the blush
changed to a smile; bnt she had only made
bad worse- T# tell a man that he will not suf
fer under ;.he rain on a seated occasion, natur
ally implies that he may be subjected to a wet
ting on shell aceasion ; and—
“O, then I’m to go!” said poor James.
This was a poser. He had not been Invited,
and there was a reason who he could not be.
He looked up from his work with such a hap
py smile on his great broad face that Bessy’s
heart smote her.
“Well, you see, the gentlemen are mostly
friends of. Mr. Bailey. We idvitc them, you
know, but—you won’t be'hurt if I tell you the
truth, James Wymper ?”
“ Does truth hurt ?”
“ Sometimes. The fact is, that it is custo
mary at water pic-nics for the gentlemen to
provide t!he boats and music and wine, and
that costs money, you know.”
“O, so I cannot go because I have not got
money to pay my share, eh ?”
11 You "’would .not like to place yourself un
der an obligation to Mr. Bailey and his friends,
I suppose ?” she said, with a sneer.
" I wish you would not curl your lip so
when You speak. Miss Jervoice. That does
hurt,” he said, with a low voice and bended
head.
“ I beg your pardon!”
“O, never mind. But suppose,” he continu
ed gaily, as though a bright thought had
struck him, " I were to help to row one of
the boats, and arrange the dinner and that,
wouldn’t they let me come?”
“ I never saw such a man !” Bessy exclaim
ed, losing all patience. “ Have you no single
spark of self-respect—no dignity? O, how can
you be so mem-spirited?”
“ Work is as good a3 money, any day,” he
replied, looking her full in the face.
“ Yes, If you go as a servant.”
•“You said just now that every one had to
make himself useful at a pie-nic.”
“ D’s arguing with you : you will not
or jßfitLt’SfehdfcjstiKkd.” *
“ You don’t want me to go ?” r
“ Ou the contrary, I should like you to join
us if—”
“If I had tbe money?” p
“If you could go on an equality with the
rest.”
“ Weil, I’ve got five pounds. Is that
enough?”
“ Five times enough. But where on earth did
you get it?”
“ Sam sent it in that letter.”
“And who is ‘Sam,’pray?”
“ My chnm in Chicago.”
“ Don’t you think it would be more proper
to give tbe money to your cousin, who has
been so liberal to you ?”
“O, I’ll pay her some day. This runs first
rate now,” he said, collecting his tools. “ Do
let me go to the pic-nic. Come, now, you help
me to get an invitation, and I’ll make your
skirt.”
And, if you’ll believe me, this man set to
work with the machine he had Just set in or
der, and ran four breadths of the blue silk to
gether as tight as wax and as straight as a rule,
without missing a stitch.
As Bessy made a point of his being invited,
and Mr. Augustus Bailey was her humble ser
vant, and hoped to be something more, no dif
ficulty arose on this point; but ou another
there was trouble. Some Cockneys had mis
behaved themselves oh the meadows where it
was fixed that our party should dine, and the
proprietor, hardening his heart against all pic
nicers, had refused his permission, The out
ing was nearly give np, when it was discover
ed that a mile or two further on there was an
estate to let bordering on the river, and the
great Augustus made it all right with the
agent.
The next day poor James Wymper disap
peared before breakfast, and did not return till
night.
Where had ho been ? To London. What
for? Why, to buy some new clothes, to be
sure! Did they think he wag going to let that
skunk (by which term, I am sorry to say, he
permitted himself to designate the elegant and
highly-scented Augustus Bailey)—did they
think he was going to let that sknnk insult him
again about his coat ?”
“ I hope you did not think I had run away
again, cousin Margaret,” he added with some
anxiety
Thffe was nothing to find fault with in his
perriiial appearance on tbe morning of the
ple-nft—dark green and black heather mixture
suit, Be to match, black felt wide-awake, with
littlc,mallard’a feather struck in the band.
“IJtor me!” exclaimed Mrs. Jervoice; “he
looks qnite handsome!”
“ Who is that talking to Mrs. Bryce ?” ask
od the inevitable curate. “What a magnifi
cent head he has!’’
“ Wh —at!” shouted the great Augustus.
“ Magnificent to a phrenologist, I mean,” the
enrate explained.
■ “ Ha, ha, ha!” roared the “skunk.” “ Look
here, you, fellows ; here’s a jokeJ Mr. Day
says tie is a phrenologist, and finds Wymper’s
head magnificent! Ha, ha, ha! Why, don’t
you know, he added in a wtsper, “ that the fel
low’s half aa idiot ?”
During the embarkation and the row np the
river, poor James Wymper's conduct was pe
culiar. Instead of doing everything for every
body, as usual, he stood apart, pnd ordered peo
ple about royally.
“I am quite pleased with you to-doy,” whis
pered Bessy, as he handed her out of the boat
on tbe banka.of the estate that was to let
‘*|Tow, I say, you—er—what’s yon name ?
yon, Wymper, come and hrip take the ham
per* ont!” said |he great Augustas.
“ Take them out yourself you—er—Bailey!”
he Routed hick. “ You haven’t been rowing;
1 lrtveand he strutted on to join a party of
ladles, including Bessy. Bessy turned on hear
ing the loud talking, and somehow got detach
ed from her friends.
“ Why are you pleased with me to-day, Miss
Jervoice ?” he asked, as they sauntered on to
gether, side by side, through tbe Bhrubbery,
“Would you very much like to know ?”
“ I shouldn't have asked unless.”
“ Guess, then.’'
“ Beoause I’ve been making myself disagree
able ?"
? I don’t think you have been making yourself
disagreeable.”
“ Well, then, because I haven’t been making
myself useful.”
• “ That is not the way to pnt it; bnt you are
burning.”
“ Because I’ve got new clothes ?”
fe '“ Nonsense! You know what I mean, or
wouldn’t have answered as you did, at
frst. Good gracious! I hope it is no. going
to rain.”
“Tell me why,” he persisted.
“ O, don’t tease.”
“All right.”
As soon as he did not want to know, she,
woman-like, wanted to tell him. So in a
minute or two she began again.
“It is a great mistake to. make oneself* too
cheap. There are some people who gain re
spect by being good-natured, and some peo
ple who lose it.
“.Ah, I see,” he replied: “ I won’t be good-
Datnred any more." .
** O, Jron are so-*illyl*Don’t yotrknow there
is a medium in everything? Bnt really it Is go
ing to rain; I felt a big drop. My new bine
costume will be ruThed.l l '
" Well, we can go- Into the house. Here it
is.”. . . ''
The shrubbery walk W.-13 so thickly hedgbd
that they had not seen where they were going,
and at a sudden turn there, sure enough, was
the villa close at hand. *
- “I suppose we might stand under the veran
da ?” suggested Bessy; and doubling np her
skirts, she ran for it; for the rain came down
with a dash—came down with a slant, too,
driven by the wind, so that the veranda gave
them little shelter.
“I wonder if anyof the windows” (they were
French windows opening to the ground) “ are
open ?”
“ Ob, we musn’t go in,” said Bessy.
“ Very well.”
“ Bnt the splashing is spoiling my dress ;
don't you see ? and my boots will be wet
through,” pit aded the inconsistent one.
“Then go in,” said poor James Wymper,
opening a window, “and I will run round and
make it all right with the people in charge.”
In ten minutes he rejoined her, saying it was
all right.
‘'Whit a pretty room!” she said, looking at
herself in the pier glass. (Did you ever know
a girl to enter a strange room without going
straight up to the glass ?”
“ Hum—m, yes,” he replied ; “ but the fel
low who built It was an ass. Why, you have
to twist your neck to get a view of the- river
from these things”—with a contemptuous kick
toward the French windows. “It I had it, I’d
knock that veranda into a cocked hat, break
ont a big bow in the middle, and then it would
be something like.”
“ Oh! yon’d work wonders, I dare say,” she
said, rather crossly; “only it would be as well
to do something toward getting a house of
your own before you think about improving
other people’s.”
“ It would be nice to have a house of one’s
own,” he said, “ particularly”—
“ Well, go on.”
“ Particularly if it had a bow window.”
“ James Wymper ?’*
“ And a pretty meadow for pic-nics ; but I
suppose it would not do to give people leave
to pic-nic on one’s grounds ?”
“ Why not ?”
• “ Wonld that not be being good natnred.”
“ Wi# not m(%u that sort of good nature.”
“If I had a flue house and grounds like this,
, IJmight bo good natured them?”
* "It’sno useargulngjwith yon,” she replied
sharply. “Is it evergoidg to leave off? Our
pic-nic will be quite spoiled.”
“ Never mind ; we’ll have another soon. I
dare say Sam will send me some more mo
ney” '
“Are you not ashamed oi yourself, James
Wymper, to take money like a beggar ?” she
said with flashing eyes.
“ I don’t take it like a beggar.”
“ Yes, you do.”
“ No, I don’t.”
“A man who takes money that he does not
earn, takes it like a beggar—there !”
“ Who told yon I take money I don’t earn ?”
“ Os course yon cannot earn it.”
“ Why, of course ?”
“ What a plague you are ! What do you do
to earn it ?”
“ Nothing now.”
“ What have you ever done ?”
“Lots of things.”
“Do you mean to say that this person yon
call ‘Sam’ really owes you money ?” She”came
quickly to his side as she spoke, and laid her
hand on his arm.
“ Yes, he does.”
“ What for ?”
“ For my share ot what we did at Chicago.”
“ That could not have been much.”
“ What ?”
“ Your share.”
“ Sam says it was half; and Sam’s gener lly
right.”
*“ Well, now, that is good ! You don’t know
where Chicago is, and you’re clever. I know.”
" Os course, when you’ve been there.”
“That’s true,” he replied, after reflection.
“ Did you really get your living there?” she
asked.
“ Yes, I did.”
“ Then go back. 0, Jame3, do—do go back.
I can’t bear to see yon as you are, dependent
and looked down on. O, do go back, and work
like a man. 1 suppose it is because we wo
men are so dependent that we prize and honor
independence. For me there in nothing so
contemptible as a strong man who is idle and
contented. Go back to Chicago. I shall be
sorry to lose you, because—because I like you
very much, and yon have been very kind to
me; but, don’t you know, cannot you imagine
how happy, how gloriouß it must be to strive
and conquer; to stand erect belore the world,
owing nothing jjßto God and your own hon
est labor?” sjWfsr
“ I can, Ido Pie Cried, starting np. “It is
glorious. Do yon know, can yon imaj|Mtf&
what It i& to have people despising you as a
fool—an incapable—and yet to feel herb (be
struck his massive forehead fu- spawjjMhat
you were wronged, that yon had not faurjijSy?
To feel knowledge, invention,, power, coming,
growing*- burning in your brain ; to see the
ideas thus born forming themselves under
yonr hands, and to know that they were right
and sound; to make those who came to scoff, stay
to praise? For this,” he added, in a lower
voice, “ 1 humbly thank Almighty God, and
good Sam Thacker.”
• Now, when Bessy Jervoice had had her say,
as above recorded, and, piqued by surprise
and excitement, and perhaps by something else,
had said more than a well regulated young
lady ought to say, she naturally sat down and
cried ; but wonderstruek by the response she
had evoked, a response which grew more as
tonishing, more fervid as it proceeded, * she
slowly raised her eyes ; and there, before her,
ttood a James Wymper she had never seen be
fore. Not a poor James Wymper in any sense
ol the term. Tbe curate was right; and the
magnificent head, its features litnp with pride,
and—well, it mast ont—love, was a sight to
see.
“Forgive me,” he said, taking her tremb
ling hand, “ for having played a part.” It was
Sam Thacker’s doing. Said Sam, ‘Yon go back
a rich man among those ensses,’ (Sam is a re
gular Yankee, you know,) ‘and they’ll Just
crawl over you Mid suck your vitalß; yon sham
poor and stupid, and you’ll soon see who’s
who.’ Ah. Bessy, how kind you were to me at
first. Am I wrong in thinking, in hoping that
what was not so kind lately was meant lor my
good ?"
“ O, hut how unfair—how—”
“ Scojil me presently, bnt hear my story. I
ran away from Manchester because I felt
-dimly that 1 could improve and invent things
il I had a chance; bnt I was awkward with my
hands. I conld not draw, 1 conld not plan. I
was not ready with my tongue; could not ex-
VOL 31-NO. 18
plain ; I got impatient when people»did not
understand me, and all went badly until I fell
in with Sam. Sam is the handiest fellow in the
world ; and as for talking, he conld coax a
’possum ont of his hole; but, at first, he hadn’t
one idea of his own. Well, we worked toge
ther, and as we went on I got handy and Sam
inventive; and, to mike a long story short, we
sold two patents for 550,000 each, and we have
lour more which bring in about 58,000 a year
in English money as royalties. I’m going to
pay my share in this pic-uie out of that mon
ey ; and it is quite true that Sam sent me the
cash, because all my remittances come through
him.”
“ I—l think,” stammered astonished Bessy,
“that we mast not stop here any longer.”
“ Just a few minutes.”
“ They will think it 60 odd.”
“As you please. Will you have these dow
ers ?” And he took a bouquet from a vase on
the table.
“Put them back directly. How can you?
TakiDg what does not belong to you 1 Oh,
James!”
“ Bought the estate last week,” replied poor
James Wymper, quietly, “and I suppose the
flowers go with it.
“ M r. Wymper are you mad, or am I dream
ing ?” grasped Bessy.
“ I bought the place as soon as I heard you
were coming here. That’s wbyl went to Lon
don—and to get some clothes.”
“ Please, take me back to mammaand
Bessy began to cry agairfy
“ When you have answered me one question.
I hardly dare ask it; but yet—”
But yet! The stupid fellow ! it was evident
that he had not yet patented a machine Tor
divining a girl’s thoughts. He hem’d and stam
mered and beat about the bush, as he did in his
pre-Sam-Thacker days, and at last got it out.
What was it!
Bessy left that room, ssr-Sam would say “in
side an elbow,” with an accepted lover’s kiss
tingling her lips, and glorifying her heart.
Never mind what had become of the pic-nic
ers; never mind the astonishment of Mr. Au
gustus Bailey and the rest, yhen Invited by
the master of fne honse to have their dance in
his dining-room, (on account of the wet,) they
learned who that master was, never mind the
explanation with cousin Margaret. The only
thing which I.griev«| not having space to do
justice to is the conduct of Sam at the weddiDg,
and the burning wrath and indignation of the
honest fellow when he heard that his partner
had been once known as poor James Wymper.
“Poor / he almost howled ; why, there ain’t
a machine running on this old hemisphere, or
in the United States, that he can’t improve
and beat. Poorl and he with the heart of
a child and brain of a Newton I Poor, indeed !
Let me catch any one calling him poor, and I’ll
get mad : and when I get mad, there’s ehootin’
round. Yes, (Sir.” — Belgravia"
IFrom the New York Time).
A Noble Revenge.
The coffin was plain one—a poor, miserable
pine boffin. No flowers on the top ; no lining
of white satin for the pale brow ; no smooth
ribbons about tbe coarse shroud. The brown
bair was laid decently back, but there was no
crimped cap with neat tie beneath the chin.
The sufferer from cruel poverty smiled in her
sleen;. sue At lound bread, rest and health.
> “I"ffanttD ape mother,’ sobbed a poor little
Child, As kbjr undsrtwcr screwed down the
“ You cannot; get out of the wav, boy ;%bv
don’t somebody take the brat?” *'
“Only let me see her one minute!” ctied the
helpless orphan, clutchiLg the side of the char
ity box, and as he gazed into the rough box
agonized tears streamed down the cheek on
which no childish bloom ever lingered. Oh, it '
was painful to hear him cry the words : “ On
ly ouce let me see mother* oniy once L” ,
Quickly and brutally the heartless monster
struck bim away, so that be reeled with the
blow. For a moment the boy stood panting
with griet and rage—his bine eyes distended"]
his lip3 sprung apart, fire glittering through
his eyes as he raised his little arm, most un
cherished accent, and screamed, “ When I’m a
man I’ll kill you for that 1”
There was a coffin and a heap of earth be
tween the mother and the poor forsaken child
—a monument much stronger than granite,
built np iu the boy’s heart to the memory of
the heartless deed.
The court house was crowded to suffoca
tion.
“ Dues any one appear as tbis man’s coun
sel aaked tbe judge. '
There was a silence when he had finished,
until, with lips tightly pressed together, a look
of strange intelligence blended with haughty
reserve upon his handsome features, a young
man stepped forward with a firm tread and
kindly eye to plead for the erring and friend
less. He was a stranger, bnt at the first sen
tence there was silence. The splendor of his
genius entranced—convinced. The man who
could not find a friend was acquitted.
“May God bless you, sir, I cannot,” said he.
“ I want no thanks,” replied the stranger.
“ I—l—l believe you are unknown to me ?”
“Man, I will refresh your memory. Twenty
years ago this day, you struck a broken-heart
ed little boy away from his .mother's coffin. I
was that boy!’’
Tbe man turned livid.
“ Have you rescued me, then, to take my
life ?”
“No I have a sweeter revenge. I have sav
ed the liie of a man whose brutal deed has
rankled in my breast for the last twenty years.
Go, then, and remember tbe tears of a friend
less child.”
The man bowed his head in shame, and went
from the presence of magnanimity as grand to
him as incomprehensive.
.S A TINGS,
“Out of place and nothing to take to,”
as the man said when he fell ont of the
ballooD.
“ Enough to make yonr sides shake,” as
the late earthquake said to California. «
“ I'm moving in a very high circle,” as
the sweep said when he turned round In
the chimney.
“ Pray keep your seat,” as the sportsman
said to the squirrel,
“ Plenty of room inside,” as the hungry
man said to his dinner.
“I shan’t come ont to-night,” as the
moon said to the thunder storm.
"More work and less noise,” as the
lady’s watch said when it beat the chnrch
bell.
“ After you;” as the tea-kettle said to the
dog’s tail.
"Young men taken in and done for,” as
the shark said to the ship’s crew.
“ I’m very uneasy on this point,” as the
fly said when the bad little boy stnek him
on a needle.
“ You can’t come too often,” as the um
brella seller said to the shower.
“ Its time to rise,” as the Sheriff said to
the man about to be hanged.
Cheapest and Best.— Mrs. Whitcomb’s
Syrup for children Is sold by drnggists for
25 cents a bottle, and is an admirable pre
paration for infantile disorders.