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fatoson sUeklii Journal,
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THE DAWSON JOURNAL.
Vol. 11.
HALF A LIFE,
BY DAISY HOWARD.
“I never saw any onoso much chang
ed as Marah Ilaynor,’ • The words came
floating through the vine draped window
—words not intended for my ear, but
they brought mo no pang, only a host
of memories that I thought had been
laid aside forever.
Marah—signifying bitterness,the name
suited mo. My life has been a very
bitter one, except a f;w years of sun
shine at his opening and a lew years of
peaoe near its close I will tell you the
who’e story os it enmes looming up be
fore mo to-night. Come with me across
the years to t|ie starting point of my
life.
My heart sounded the full diapson of
happiness when Paul Raynor first told
me he loved me; told mo, with bis arms
apeund my waist, and his dark luminous
eyes burning into mine. His impetuos
ity took away my breath, aud 1 could
not answer for a moment.
‘You do not answer, Marah,’ ho said,
passiouately ;‘ do not tell me you can
not love me, or, by the Heavens above
us, I’ll never live to see another &ua
rise.’
He need not have feared ; my heart
lay at his feet, and every fibre of my
being thrilled as I listened to the pas
sionate words of love and tenderness he
pouredifortb; and when I told him I
loved him, and him alone, and when,
under the reaction usual to such passion
ate natures, he laid his head upon my
knee and burst into a boyish storm of
tears, I wondered at the deep welo of
tenderness that sprang up in my 1 eart
for my stormy lovej,
My mother tried to persuade me’that
nothing but sorrow would come of such
a stormy wooing; but I could not give
him up. Had she commanded’ me to
break with him, I should have obeyed
her, but she never did.
My buFband—for wc were married a
month later—was more devoted than
ever my lover had been lie seemed
nevor happy save in mv presence ; hur
rying home at nigLt so that he might
not lose an hour of the p!ea a aut even
icg.
Where was the fitful temper that
was to br : ng me so much sorrow—the
lack of fixed pr neiples my mother had
hinted at?
Six months passed away ere a cloud
appeared in my sunny sky, then there
came a change My husband was the
same aud yet not the same—the same
passiona'e tenderness, and the same stor
my way of showing his love, but min
gkd wi'h sudden, firful changes <f tem
per for, ign to his nature; at one mo
men- multiplying k sses upon my lip«,
and eyes, and bosom ; the next striding
mo dily off without a word of explana
tion. This with mysterious absences
from home every few weeks, occasioned
me s mie anxiety; but not yet was the
full mjasureo f my trust to be broken,
for I trusted Paulas I did the angels,
“liusipess called him away,’ he said ;
and I grew moro tender after each r.b
-B’nce, f r 1 Pared bis affairs Were be
coming embarrassed, and, fearing to
grieve me, he was trying to conceal it.
0 those golden happy years ! L Hik
ing across, it seems but yesterdy ; and
yet ti e grass and flowers i 1 eight and
thirty summers are ,e-n- between the
‘ then ami cow.” Paul was s ill good
and kind, j rod-gil of caresse ad tender
pot names, and his great dark eyes
grew heavy with tend.mess, as he press
ed me to his heart.
I was a handsome woman ; roses
tlirned on my cheeks and my lips wire
coral red, and my hair and eyes were
as black as sloes. I think it is pardon
able to speak of it now, fir the face
once so fair and radiont is wan and pale;
and the eyes once bright as stars arc
dim with the tears they have shed.
I should have been very happy with'
all the tenderness of Paul’s ; with my
pleasant home, and the little baby that
by and by came to halve the love that I
felt for hint. But 1 was not, fcr with
all my wild love for Paul, all my ten
derness for baby, there was a tantulus
fear in my heart—-a dread of some com
ing calamity. I scarcely knew when 1
ceased to be happy and learned to be sad.
Something inpali able grew up between
us—not coldness but carelessness sim
ply that wc are drifting far apart.
1 do n >t believe in omens or presenti
ments ; a little I believe in ‘coming
events casfiDg their shadows before. 1
think the stain on Paul’s spirit was over
sbadowiDg mine.
In the spring Paul had business that
call and tim to Philadelphia. Ho was
goue freni us two months. It seemed
like an eternity; I thought 1 should
have sorrowed my soul out during those
long weeks, or grown blind watching
down the lane.
“He had been ill,” he said, “and Inst
heavily by an unf rtunato speculation.”
That was all, no explanation of his
mysterious absence, no word of regret
at my loneliness, no tenderness for ba
by. The gulf betwoen us widened, till
even hope could not bridge it over.
It was in October, when the crimson
maple leaf and golden tassels of the su
mac made my forest home so gorgeous
when the knowledge came to me that
Paul was learning to love the red
wine.
I denied it fiercely when my mother
first told me it was whispered about.—
I turned coldly away, refusing to lis
ten further; Paul, my husband and ba
by’s father, was dearer to me than the
mother that bore' me.
. A few weeks of restlessness, of watch -
ing and prayer, then 1 knew my Idol
had fallen 1
I could not give him up. I besieged
Heaven with prayeis that he might be
saved from that fearful fate ; that baby
might be spared that disgraceful herit
age; that I might he spared the wretch
edness of seeing my respiot and love
die out, and be powerless to save it.
The fatal habit grew upon him, com
DAWSON, Ci A.*, FHIDAA, MARCH 1, 1H(57.
ing at intervals of two and three months,
like some blasting sirnoou, bringing an
guish and dessnlatien in its track
NVkcu reason would agaiu resume her
sway, ho would mourn over his sin, aud
weep in bitterness of soul.
I was tender in those days; and see
ing! his sorrow, I felt for him a pity so
intense, that I would gladly have died
to bring him peace. I put a curb upon
my proud spirit—bound it with the ca
ble-chcin of my strong will, so that it
should uot even moau in his presence.
No word of mine, no reproachful, bitter
word should ever drive him deeper into
sin. I tried .to thick it was God’s will,
that out of all this anguish good would
oome-perhaps I sPould bo purer for
the discipline. 1 might not bo able to
save him, but the ADgel of tbe Resur
rection might read: ‘‘She hath done
what sho could.”
Paul was as yet no vulgar drunkard,
reeling home, night after night, o>aking
his borne hideous with his presence
Months went by, during which tbe fa
tal cup never pressed his lips—and
onee a year. Riby Bad long ago pass
ed into Master Willie, and a baby-broth
er held his old place. They were fine
boys—handsome and brave—and I
thought, as the years went on, how
they would yet reclaim their father.
Vain hope! the coils of the serpent were
wound too cl- sely about him for frail
arms like theirs to unloose if.
There came a time when o ily weeks
elapsed between his seasons cl sin ; times
when I could no longer conceal from
the villagers tbe extent, of his degrada
tion. As yet I had been able to keep i
from my boys, by teaching them at
home and uot letting them mix with
the village children. Rut Willie was,a
very bright child; and, what, with my
eates and sorrows, my mind was cot in
a fit state to teach him any longer, so
with uiaDy piayers I sent him from mo
to a school at the extreme end of the
village. He did not, like it much, and
begged so hard foi Eddie to go with him
that I consented.
I was very lonely without my boys,
feeling my sorrow with a keener anguish
as I sat all the beautiful summer-days
alone. I sa' sewing one gorgeous aft r
noon, humming an old. so lg to try to
keep, from thinking, when :t little light
wagon drew up at tbe gate, and mother
and my sister Lottie came up the path.
I fi mg myself upon my mother’s breast
and kissed her again-and again, and
then went about getting tea, so happv
at having the old home face} round me
once more, I had forgot,ton ali about
Paul, when suddenly fie cime stagger
ing up the walk*and in at the door, iak
ing no notice of mother and Lettie, but
passsing into his bedroom, where he
was soon in a heavy slumber. I cloied
the door soltly behind him, and then
turned to meet m rther and Lottie as
best I could. M th.tr sat b.v the
dow, weeping; Letiie was walking nerv
ously up and down the kitchen fl lor.
“Mother, you should not permit Ma
rah to live with Paul Raynor; it is low
ering herself and encouraging him.”
‘ Hush, Lottie, you confuse me, child.
Marah feels it to be bar duty, fdare
notad-i-e her—‘for better,, f,,r w arse,”
Lettie, ‘for better, for worse.’ ”
“Duty ! Mother, it’s a humbug to
prate of duty iu a ease like this. Ido
not tbii k a woman has any right to
bear with a (irukim husband, year after
year; boar all his abuse, alt his—”
“l’au- never abuses me, Lottie,” J
said, meeting her flashing eye, indig
nantly.
“It’s rather questionable about the
abuse, Manh. There arc different
ways in which a man can abuse bis wife.
It’s a mastery to mo bow you, with yuur
proud spirit, can still love that man,”
“It is not the husband of to-day I
love, Letfie; but the mm who, eight
years ago. won my heart. lain look
ing down through the darkness of hose
years to a scene beyond them ; when
Paul first told me he loved me. This
keeps mo strong ; and then, Lottie, I
must do all I can for this father of my
boys.”
L t is flung her arms round my peck,
and kissed me, and then turned to moth
er.
“Come, mother, let us go.”
They went slowly’down the garden -
path ; Lottie, with her proud, quick step
and mother, poor mother ! looking back
at me every moment 1 I watched them
till they were out of sight, strainipg my
eyes to catch a last glimpse cf their be
loved forms—sister and mother! the
names are very precious My thoughts
wi-nt rioting over the past, but my fast
filing throat soon warned me that I must
tread lightly over such memories if I
would keep my strength; to resurrec
tionize them, even for a few brief mo
ments, caused exquisite anguish.
It was almost time for the children to
oome from school, and they must not
find me with a shadow on my face.—
They came a half hour later; my pas
sionate little Eddie, sobbing as if his
heart would break, aud VYilite trying to
comfort him
“What is the matter, Eddie ?”
“Oa mamma, is papa a drunkard ?
George Parks said he was; and, O mam
ma, will the boys throw stones at him,
as tney do at old Tim Lucans, and call
him Old Whiskey-sucker?”
“Mother, is my father a drunkard ?”
Willie was quick and serious beyond
his years; aud I knew, by tho pale,
quivering lips, that the answer I might
give would be life or death to him.
“No, Willie; your father is n A a
drunkara ”
The words Fbcmed to escape my lips
by no effort of mine. The faoes ol the
children changed in an instant. Eddie
flung his cap high in the air and shout
ed, while Willie drew a long breath and
sighed, as if my words had lifted a
mountain-load off his breast. I did not
mean to tell a lie—God help me ! A
drunkard is one who driDks habitually ;
who reels home every night aud abuse,.]
his family' and is lost to all sense of
honor and manhood. Paul was not
this yet; he was only a poor, unfortu
nate rnaD, who—who only gets out of
the way onre in a whilo.
I was sorely tried. O Christ! that
such things must be 1 O Saviour, ten
der and loving, how could we bear it
did we not know that sorrow, buniila
tion, disappointment, anguish, all those
load up to Calvary !
I did not send the children to school
again; I did not,dare. Paul grew thin
aud pale; remorse was gnawing at his
heart, and y.t he lacked strength
enough to save himself and us. I felt
at times a profound pity for him; again,
I almost hated Bi n.
But some high strung girl will say,
“What ! pity him ! How can a woman
love a man whom she pities ? When a
man descends far enough in the moral
scale to be an object, of pity, I should
thiuk a woman could no longer love
him. Softly there ; I told you it is net
the mau who needs her pity that loves,
but what he has been. The latter years
may have been full of darkness and
gloom ; but beyond them, sooewherc,
lies the remembrance of a fragrant
summer-time.
The shadows gathered darker aud
darker around my home. There came
a time when the word ‘‘drunkard’ could
be written against. Paul’s name in ali its
terrible significance. Ofcenir now tbe
words ot mother and Lettie would ring
iu my ears.
Come hom’, Marah, and leave Paul
to his fate.’
And at times I was almost templed to
g>-
Ouce Paul spoke w rds to me—words
that I could not {irget; and I decided
t® take my children aud go home. Willie
always read a chapter aloud before go
ing to bod. I was putting Eddie to bed
—for be was quite feveiish from a heavy
cold—and listening to Willie read the
precious words, I was reminded of my
duty by hearing the sweet clear voice
read, uucoceiously, “for the woman is
bound t) her husband as long as they
live.”
The words saved me; my tempted
soul grew strong iu the knowledge that
this great motu ntous question was not
left for me to decide; that my “father’-’
was at the helm.’ his laws were writ
ten in a-i older b >o.< than Blackstone.
Thai very n ; gbf, he passed with a
party of hi* comrades, i eeling to and fro
and sing a bacchanalian song. I sat on
the old gray boulder that served fora
doorstep, with the farkness and silence
f tiding itself around me like an iuky
shroud, when Willie came up, and slip
ped his hand in mine ‘You have Eddie
aud me, mother, i) n’t cry.
1 folded my precious boy to my hoart
and wept bitter tears over his dear cur
ly heid, and ca t about in my mind
how f should clear myseir in his sight
from the impu’atiin of lying. I knew
I must tell him. all—that he • already
knew a cart of his fain -r’s degradation.
“Willie you once asked me if your
fa'b r was a drunkard. I told you he
was not, f,r I did not think he was A
*ew times he bud f Tgo'-tcn himself, but
not enough to call him by that fearful
word.”
TLrn 1 did not know where to find
language t > soften the tale to his young
ears, I only said :
“Willie wc will act call Lima drunk
ard naw.”
My hoy only held my 1a .and closer
and moved himself nearer to me, but
it as ;f a look of ege sctlcd upon the
patient little fac\
After that confidence, I never wanted
a comforter, for Willie was always near
with his caresses arid tender, loving
words. I never sat alone in the even
ins ; for always that pale, pinched little
face was by my side. The winter set
in early, and was intensely cold. Pov
erty, pinching and drear, sat shivering
over our hearthstone, aud drifted itself
over every article iu tho house—the
bare, illy clad beds, tbe poor ill-clad
children, and ihe meagre table. But
we never let mother or Lutio know it.
Mother wafe crippled all winter with
rheumatism, and Lottie, poor Lottie !
could not spare time to come over and
seethe extent of our wretchodness.
For weiks the snow lay piled up against
the cottage; and the cold wassi intense
that I feared, some night iu his wonder
ings, Ptul would be brought home fro
zen to death. Night after night, Willie
lighted a little tin lamp and hung it on
a nail in the window, so that his father
might have a.i tle light to guide him
home.
Often when the wind was rioting
across the hill--, and the night pitchy
black, he would button on his old faded
overcoat, and go down to the foot of
the hill, and cry : “Fathbr ! father I” in
his sweet clear voice, but never an answer
came. Paul was listening to mad songs,
that drowned the soft vuioo of his child.
Always the brave boy would return from
his fruitless errand with soino comfort
ing words for me.
“He isn’t out in the cold, mother,
anyway, or he would have heaid me
call;” or “don’t worry, mother, he
must be sitting by Tim Lucan’s good
warm stove yet; bo will soon bo
home.”
Then I would relapse into thought
again, and Willie would dose by the
tire till his father came, and our watch
was over.
My fears were verified One bitter
cold morning, Paul was brought homo
frozen to death. He hail fallen just at
the foot of the hill, where poor W’illie
had made so many pilgraraages
I brushed the black hair as ho used
to wear it, and put on his best shirt,
which I had hidden away, for just
such a sad need!.me as this. Then I
made a little cravat out of my old
black silk apron, and tied it neatly un
der a white collar, then crossed the
poor hands over h ; s quiet heart. My
To work for him was over.
Lettie came and helped mo bury
my dead, and seeing mo look so pule
and wun, sho said :
“Marah, you might as well have
left Paul years ago; you see you
could not reclaim him ”
“No, Lettie, but I bavo done my du
ty. I Imve no reproaches, no regrots.
1 have done what I could.”
My boys are growing rapidly to
manhood ; s.eady, honest, and upright,
with no taint of tli ir father’s sin in
their voins.
As for me, I am patient y bearing
God s will, at peace with myself and
all mankind.
THE SAILOK’B ISKiDE.
BY FBKI> VERNON.
Large blue eyes, glorious brown
hair, rosy cheeks, rounded chin, a pe
tit*: full lorm, small hands, somewhat
browned liy exposure to Bui’s rays,
and very small feet—these were the
personal attractions of Jennie Conway,
my heorine. The almost universal fa
vorite of the village where sho had
long resided, Jennie was well known
as a careful, loving little body, fond of
lilt), genrrotis and open hearted as the
day was long. Bhe was the only child
of George and Mary Comvay, two
very respectable, hard-working peo
ple; moving in the middle sphere of so
ciety George owned a small farm,
which by steady, preserving industry,
hud been paid for and well stocked
with fine cattle Mrs Conway was a
model housewife, ad early inducted
Jennie into the mystery ol the cuisine,
contending that it was better to know
how to roast a petce of beef, or to
make a “batch of bread,” than it was
to “keep to school all her life long.”—
But Jennie bad received a good edu,-
cation, and although, in the common
accepti.m of the term, she would not
have been called an a complidied lady
she was n>t deficient in the real ao
complishments of nrrtid and heart that
go to make up a true woman.
At the time rs her introduction to the
reader she had attained to her twenti
eth year, and in addition to her intel
lectual graces, was well versed in all
the matters pertaining to “house-keep
ing.”
On the beautiful Juno evening that
our.story opens, she is sitting in her
little room gar.’ng out on the quiet
beauty of the evening landscape the
soft rays if the silver moon making
fantastic shadows on the carpet at her
feet, and shedding a soft radiance
over her pretty leaf ores and silken
hair Bhe sighs, and a tear steals
slowly down her cheek and drops on
the sun-browned band which supports
her head. Header, would you know
die cause of that falling teur ? Allow
:»* to improve the autuor’s prerojra
tive and read the open letter resting
on her lap.
‘•Dearest Jennie :—lt is with feel
ings of deepest sadness that I write
to y u to-day. I have had an inter
view with your father ; ho is still uoro
h nting, and will n t consent to our
union. I fear, my darling, that he
thinks lam a worthless inan. I fear
he believes the reports’sat in circula
tion by the infamous tongue ol scan
dal, and will never listen to - any de
fence I may attempt to make. But,
Jennie, you know me and I can trust
you, darling that you are. I must
leave the village fra timu, hut I will
soon return ss a man at and claim you as
ruin’. I must see you, as I have much
to say to you before I go. Meet me
at the old trysting-place at n no o’clock
this evening. Affectionati ly, Will”
Jennie bad read and re-read that
epistle, until tlio soft blue eyes filled
with tho crystal drops, and the red lips
trembled with emotion.
“Must I lose hlrn? Must bo go
from me? Ob, Will, little do you
know the effort it will cost, but with
tbe help of my Heavenly Father I wi 1
be calm. No outward emotion shall
manifest itself. I’ll bid thee go, my
own one, and cluim thy bride 1”
Nob’e reeo’ution ! and although it
was with many a bitter pang, she bid
Will farewell that evening
Now anew life began She must
appeal happy, while within a dead
heart attes'ed that tru» enjoyment had
left her for a time. “Fora time,” —
she rep eated the words in the silence
of tier own lit'le room-- 1 for a time
He will return. It is only for a time
I shall press him to my heart and call
him miuo! Ho will return with honor
with wealth, fame, and ‘.hen —but will
he think of me ?”
Instinctively the head was bowed,
and the lipi moved in servant prayer
to that One who “doeth all things
wel .” Father, hear the prayer of the
pure and attend to the cry of the des
olate.
Jennie lived as thoHgh she lived
not; and while her ftitmls congratula
ted her on her health and happy spir
it, she felt tbe bitte" pangs of lone i
ness within the inmost recesses of that
warm and loving heart.
But she did not despair as m .nths
rolled on anJ no tidings from tie ab
sent reached her ; until, at last, she
wondered at his silence; she grew
anxious, thinking danger mast gliave
befallen him, as he did not even dis
close the point ol destination to her.
“Oh, why this cruel silence?” she
repeatedly asked herself. “Why does
he thus keep me in this agonizing
among strangers, and calling the name
of her he loved at home Ob, Gad,
end this ttrr.ble agony Give me relief
if in death !”
But the merciful Father knew all
things, and saw the resut ol ah things.,
and Ho knoweth best w hat is for our
good.
We will now leave Jennie for a
while, while wo reviow the fortunes cf
Will Austin. Leaving his native vil-
IVo. 4.
lage lie arrived in the groat Babel of
Gotham, alone, poor, and a. stranger,
not knowing where to go or what em
ployment to procure. Ho stopped at
an up tojvn hotel during the night,
and early ip the morning sot out in
quest of employment. All day he
went from place to place, meeting with
the same response in every instance,
“We have more help already than
we want,” until sad, dispirited and
near’y discouraged, he sought the ho
tel. And now anew difficulty pre
sented itself, he was a stranger in the
city, and the conviction forced itadf
up n him that not know ing the strut
in which his hotel w’as located, he had
forgotten tho way hack and was lost
He knew not where to go; in this
predicament, w hile passing along a
street mi the east s do, ho was accosted
liy a short, thick s’t, good humored,
sunburnt man, dressed in sailor’s
old tiles who after “britiiing him to,”
asked him if he knew where the Bail
ors Boardiu ; House was? telling him
he wa-» an old sailor who had just
arrived in New York, and was looking
for recruits for a whaling voyage.
“Why should I not otfer myself to I
this man ?" was immediately suggest
ed to Will’s mind, and as soon as the
resolution was formed, he said,
“My good fellow, would you have
any objection} to me ?’’
“W’hynotin tho least, mv hearty, -m’
it yor want ter ship I’ll pilot yc to the
cap’i. ?’
‘ Well I’ll go’ was the reply of Will.
“ i'hcn heave a head, my hearty, we’ll |
bunk together the next voyage. Little
work, good pay, plenty meat in the look
er voyage, and lots o’ fun.’
Will was duly shipped on board the
good ship “R ilio Hood,’ and after leav
ing his Baggage on board, he slowly
sauntered on shore, ruminating on the
eve ts of the past two days, but W’ili
Austin was full of hopo and manly
courage. “ Nildetpe.rantlum " was his
motto through sunshine and in storm,
anl he rt fl cted that although some time
would elapse ere he would see Jennie,
when he did return bo w >uld be more
than “befo-o the mast” if there was any
virtue iu indomitable courage and per
severance. He had studied navigation
when at school, and now, thought he,
this is a splendid opportunity to reduce
theory <o practice.
We will pass rapidly over tho events
of the month. Will had written to
Jennie oftoD, aud he had r pportunitiea
to forward letters by homeward bound
skips, but no r sponse had reached him,
“Why was it ?’ he coutinua'ly a-kod
himself. ‘She mu;* be true to me, but
if she should firget humble Will Austin
—no it cannot—must not be. I kuow
sho is faithful. Perhaps my letters have
not r ached her. But I shali soon rench
home, tticn I will have an explanation
of this silence, and I know it will bo all
light.’
Aud Will went about discharging bis
duties with n lighter heart. Ha was
c'Dsidered the best sailor oa board, and
being a well educated man, his chance of
rapid promotion was good. He now
held the second mate’s posi.ion, the man
who filled that station having been dis
honored, left the ship at one of the ports
she put in at. Mr, Binker the first
mate, was taken \ ioleutly ill a short time
after. Will Austin bad sslilo
qu zed as remarked above, was put
ashore, so when the ship reach
ed the fishing ground Will was first mate
and the hands almost worshipped tim.
Day after day passed away, and no
signs of whales. The crew became fret
ful and complained, and Captain Jones
was, although generally a j illy fellow,
irritable and easily provoked.
Bat at last enrly one morning, came
from tbe lookout, “Ttioro she. blows !’
and agatu, “There she blo-o-ws !’
“Where away?’ exclaimed Will while
decks were cleared, add everything made
r ady for boiitiog away the boats. The
captain was in the best pos.iblo humor
uud the crew worked with a will.
1 Two points on the weather bow, sir,
coming directly for us !’’
“Call all bauds to man the boat!’ said
the captain, and soon the whaler’s boat
were skimming over the deep blue seaaf
t r the mon-t r oil tubs, who, all uu
conciius of impending dang.tr, Were
spouting away a short distance ahead
The captain’d boat was ahead, and as
he seized the harpoon himself, and or—
dir.ug the oar. apart drove the iron into
the volume of blubber before him, fairly
danced with delight.
But that w»s the last throw foi* him.
Instead of diving’ the huge fish turned,
and before they comprehended their sit
uation, one dash of his tail sent the boat
flying in the air, splintered to Gag
in epta.
By this time the mate’s boat had ar
rived alongside, and begin picking up
the uufortunate crew ; but although a
vigorous search was institutetl, tho Cap
tain could uowhere bes >und. Poor fel
low ! his delight was shot -lived. He
sunk to rise no more, and Will Austin
was the commander of the -ship Ribin
Hoed. But we will sherton our sketch.
Three years had passed,aud in all that
long time no tid'ngs had been reecitvd
from Will. Jouuio still remained at
at the old homestead. Her father had
qu’etly passed the dark valley, while
with her mother she remained, still the
pride of the old village and sought after
by many who had lam their wealth at
her feet. Her answer invariably was,
“Not while Will remains freui home.
If he returns and has forgotten his Jen
nie, then, perhaps, I tnay think of these
things.’
And her good mother did not oppose
her daughter, but was rather pleased to
have her reraaiu with her.
* • * • * • *
It was the exact counterpart of the
day that opens this sketch just three
years from that date. The sun was
tting behind the western hills, tinging
with golden hues the tops of tbe lofty
trees, and skimmeriog in silvery gleams
on tho placid wateis of the little pond
down by the old mill. Jennie and her
mother sat in the porch eewing, Jennie’s
kitten purring around her feet, while
stretched at full length in the path close
by tho little gate, lay the large New
foundland dog, Bruno, the watchman of
tbe h< use.
Jennie hail dropped hor work, and
was thinking of the June days of tho
loDg ago. Her eyes filled with tears,
and she breathed a sigh and instinctive*
ly glanced down tho road almoet expect
ing to see the figure of Wi'l passing the
the old rustic bridge. But why does
she star! and turn pale ?
“Oh, mother, who ie that coming up
the hill ? it’s a stranger; he looks this
wav ; he is coming here !’
But she did not recognize in the tall,
sunburnt, bearded man, who so softly
opened the Tittle front gat?, her Will of
former years. He advanced to the steps
leading into the poroh, and respectfully
raised his bat, inquired for Miss Con-
way.
What was in tho deep toned voioe of
the speaker to cause Jennie to gaze ear
n’st'y for a morneut full in his face,
theu rushing down the steps, and fling
hers’lf into his arm? and whispier,
‘Will, dear, dear Will!’
We w 11 pass over the scene that fol
lowed, 'uffico it to (ay that the letters
between the two had been interrupted
by the son of the postmaster, who bad
twice propos-d f>r Jenuis’s baud, and
had been rejected.
Boon there was a grand Wedding in
tho old house ol Mr. Conway, and Wi'l
and Jennie cares for the old farm, whilo
now tbe “deep blue sea” has no-charm
for Captain Austiu” as the people call
ed him aud he is respected and beloved
by al!.-
“Two hearts were male happy,
Two beiogs united,
While the lost one was found again.
And the wrong, it was righted.”
A scrub-headed boy was brought up
as it witness before tbe court.
“Where no you live ?” says thi
judge. 1
•-Live with mother !’
“Where does your mother live ?"
“Bhe lives with father!’
“Where does he live?”
‘ITe lives with the old folks!’
“Where do they live” says tbe judge,
getting verv red as the audible snicker
wen* TOur.d the room.
“They live at Lome !
‘ Wh< re in the thunder's their home ?
roared the judge.
“That’s where I’m from,’ says tbe
b y sticking his tongue in the oorner of
his cheek and slowly closing one eye
on the judge.
“llc r>> Mr. Constable,’ says tbe court,
“take the witness out and tell him to
travel, he evidcutly does not understand
tin tiatnro of an oath.
“You’d think diff-irent,” says the boy
going toward the door. If I was to once
give you a oursi .’
Advertise —Let everybody—far
mers, mechanics, merchants, profession
al men, &i.,beor iu mind the following :
If you have auy lands to sell,
if you have any s*oods to sell,
If you have any stock to sell,
If you have auy property to sell,
If you want to sell anything.
If you t?isb to grow rich, which in
all probability is tho case, advertise in
your local paper—a paper tha* is exten
sively read by the above named classes
and tbiir families. Bear this iu mind,
also that the most successful business
men of our country are th se who ad
vertise liberally.
A man was asked what induced him
to make a law student of his son. “Oh
ho was always a lying little cuss, I
thought I would humor his leading pro
p nsity.
A country gentleman stepping at a
lodging-house in St. Louis over night,
took out bis glass eye and put it in a
glass tumbler for safety. Another
lodger, who had too much whiskey in
him to sleep, got up io the night, fill
et! tbe gla*s with water and drank the
entire contents. It nearly killed him.
Beecher says : If you are weak, you
ought not to drink, for your own sake.
Ify- u are strong you ought not, by
-Innkiog, to become a stumbling
block for those who are weak.
Massachusetts has one conv : ct to
every hundred citizens; Alabama has
one convict to every five thousand
throe hundred and ninety citizens.
A young lady in Texas who adver
tises for a husband, says she can talk
philosophy as well as rock the cra
dle.
A bail hoy iu Ohio came home af
ter along spree, and his father observ *
ed to h : s mother, “Kill the fatted prod
igal, the call has returned.”
ffyou want a wife, don't look for
her in a bull room, at a card table,
singing school, or church gallery—but
in a ki'chen, sick chamber, or at the
back door when the b-ggar Doys sim*
and bother. If she do s not miss fire
at these, she s a Mi 8 you’re not safe
in missing to get.
\A hy is hope like a decayed cheese ?
Because thousands live in it.
“I have not loved lightly,*’ as the
nan said when he married a widow
weighing three hundred pounds.
Os tho New York editors, Bon
ner i most noted for his horses, and
Gre.ley for his hohbies.
The reason why whales frequent the
Arctic seas is probably because they
supply the “northern ligh's” with oil.
Bad Breatu.—Boutwell says the
Supreme Court exists but by the
breath of Congress.
A California paper speaks of Senator
Nye as “the black buzzard of Nevada.
The Columbus Sun reports the negroes
returning iu large numbers from Missis
sippi.