The Atlanta constitution. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1885-19??, March 28, 1893, Image 1

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Newspaper Page Text•‘ML Hl* I * BBJli. VOL.XXII I SHAMROCKS. Little Stories of Irish Life and Irish People by Frank Mathews. Copyrighted by Frank Mathews. I.— “ The Other Country"—■' Ghost Story. (I had this story from an old peasant, on a hill by Renvyle in Connemars. tie know the folklore of Connemara by heart —all manner of grim and uncanny legends—and J'/'o 1111 each story with “I do be heatin’" or ‘”1 hey do be .sayin’," but this he said was true, he , had been a witness himself.) •’Ghosts?’’ said he. “that all foolishness and ould women’s tales. But the folk corne back, the folk themselves, that’s thrue, so it is. There was Bridget Joyce that lived by Afaamtrasna, ’twas a week shed been buried, and her baby was pinin’ an' cryin' for her all the nights long. Her man he wakes up one night weatherin' why the ba by was sthill. an' there sat Bridget herself, an’ she cuddlin’ it in her arms. Iler man he daren’t say a word to her afeard she'd be goiu’; he lies there not takin’ his eyes ffl I , • ,d ■’ z ; K’.; Ms i | W i " 3 iWf KslK jfalslU' AND 118 WENT OUT THE DOOR. off her. An’ when the day broke she put j the child by, an’ wint out wid niver a look ' for him that had bin mighty fond of her. i An' ould Michael Mulcany, that was a I herd up yonther on the Blue Gable moun tain—a lone ould man he was, an’ eared lor nobody in the world but the sheep he herded—he’d long been dead when drunken John Meeitan. that was herd afther him ' and took small heed o’ the sheep, he goes on the mountain one night, an’ he sees ould Michael herdin’ them, afeared they’d be tailin’ the craythurs. Is it where the folk <r<»lUe b>iek from; wiu’k* h’oiu the other mw tUry : m it where’s the other counthry? I ah. but that’s more than the likes o’ me I knows. Mebbe ’tis the Vauishiu’ Island I that the folk, do be seeiu'. Aunyway, ’tis < where they live when they’re dead. "More by token, when I was a gossoon 1 saw one that came back. ’Twas I’haudig Bathrick —Coyne, a mild, aisy man he was, lor all he was big. he did use to live in that farm down yonther. ’twist Ardnagreeva an’ Cash leen. (Here he pointed to a brown cabin 1 close to the sea. it looked like a haystack I in t he distance, t "i’haudrig Coyne he been dead a year an’ more, an’'young Mrs. Coyne—a purtv an’ bright woman she was—she marries drunken John Meehan, the herd, and takes him to live in the farm yonther. ’Twas the gran’ weldin’ an' dancin’ like mad afther it, wid lashhis o’ dhrink, there was i scarce room t<» sthand in the farm, all the j counthry had come, though ’twas a wild I rainy night. Aleself an’ th’ other chiller an tn omd folk were huddled .agin the wall and ivory one else dancing whil< there was breath in them. The table was pushed aside by the hearth, two fiddlers an’ a blind piper was on the chairs on the table all playin’ like foi dear life, 'i’he room was full o’ dust kicked up from th’ earth o’ the floor, 'twas wontiierful the noise o’ the clogs an’ the playin’ whiles the house seemed to shake wid it. ami wid the storm ■ outside till ye d have ilinught the bacon I Hitches ’d have ben lalfi:.’ from the raff- I ■ ers; 'twas terrible v . irni , too, for there was , a big turf fire on the hearth. I'd never seen .is many candles afore all of a row j 1 they were o u the chimney an’ the folk • jigged an' jumped in rows facin’ another, ' an them that I >ok<si towards the candles their faces lit, an' th’ others had their faces dark, ’twas mig watchin’ them an’ the square shadows jig- ' gin’ an' jumpin’ on the '.vails. Sudden comes a loud knock I 1 at the door. ‘Come in,’ cried young Mrs. Coyne Mrs Meehan I mane -breathless !' she was. ’come in, then, whoiver y'are, alt ; Ireland 'd b>- welcome t might.’ She goes I on jiggin’ agin. A big man comes in wid j ‘God save ail here!’ lite candles was nigh • blow out by the wind, the ruin splashed in on us. an' the room filled wid shmoke from the turf fire when the door was opened. The man looks around—for the life o' me I couldn’t think who he was. I knew I’d seen him afori —nobody Use heeds him. He slips quiet, ’twixt two rows of dancers, an' he sits down on the bench that was afore i the fire by the table. He sllmops forred , houldin’ his hands over the turf; he looked i mighty cold an’ tired, there was thick mnd I <m his boots, his irieze e.tai was sop'_ n I an' his hair was cake by the rain. ~ ic poked the tire wid I ts foot; it blazed up. threwin’ red light on his face an’ ids hands Young Mrs. Coyne Meidnu: I mane—win: on jiggin’ just ’hind him wid her hands on icT hips. ”(mid Mrs. Coyne a iitiie shivenn woman Fb.e was, vid asqm-almg voice he gets vn from where she was tiquat’in' in. a cor- ; rer. she goes h< hidin' an’ fotthelrin' along ■ by the wall lanin on Per sti<-l . There was scarce room f< r Ikt to pass till she sthands l>y the man. she put out her left hand, shirk in’ twas like a leaf, an’ she lays it on his head. Says she, yer're welcome lionie er gin', I’haudrig Coyne, me son. lis the sore time you’ve been fr< n us.’ Tin* man he never move-., he sthoops (here, an’ a power o'stenin cornin' from his drenched I eto'-kin's. Young Mrs. Meehan she bursts j out laughin’ and sthops dancin', she g->*s : an’ sthamta near the man <:: his left side. | •You’ll be excusin’ her, sir.’ says site, j ‘she's terrible ould, she’s afther thinkin’ ; you're her son?’ The man lie starts at her ; voice. He leans back from the lire wid 1 his left elbow on the table. ‘Her son?' says ) he. lie looks round ami up at young Mrs. j Meehan. Tin I could sec his face full, I terrible sad he looked, an’ there was no spark I in his eyes, his eyes were dead. ay. though they were p.’.de open and seeiu' ye they were ' dead. ’Her son,’ • ays he. ’an’ why not? 1 ; am so.’ says he. Mrs. Meehan, that hadn’t iseen his face till then, she turns whiter than | milk, she schreeches. all the folks sthop I dancin’, the fiddlers sthop playin’, only the | bagpipes went oti, for rhe piper—bad luck j go him- was blind and he was biowin' that J ihard that he wouldn't have heard the last ( phmnipet. Mrs. Meehan «<bo clutches hold I In’ the table like she was failin’. What’s • this mane?' she says chokin'. Is it afther | a joke y'are? or is that you Phaudrig? Can it be you I’haudrig. Wasn't it on this table ye were waked. Ah, man alive, don't ye know that ye are dead? ’Dead or alive,’ squeals tlie ould mother putthiu' her arm round his neck an' lanin' on him—she wa« no taller than him. though he was sittin’— Mead or a live, ye are welcome home, I’hauleen, acushla. “I’haudrig, be looks rouu’ over his left shonltlier al they folk —they were huddled at the far ind o' the room, they didn’t look half so manny as whin they were dancin’ —all starin’ at him: some o’ the women were prayin’ aloud, the fiddlers on the table wen* that frightened they daren’t git down, but th’ ould fool of i. blind piper goes on playin’ a reel just, the same, burstin’ his cheeks. Phaudrig he looks around an’ ye can hear the folk on the left side o' the room gaspin' when they met his eye. Ho looks back at his wife— ‘Dead?’ said he. ‘I am so —worse luck’’ ‘Phaudeen,’ says th’ ould mother that was holdin’ him that tight you’d have thought he was gold, ‘tell me, Phaudeen ttlanna, is it in hell or in heaven y’are?’ ‘An’ where would I be,’ says Phaudrig, ‘but where all the folks are—in th’ other country? There they are, th’ ould folks that have been dead ages ago. ’Tis the same life over agin—ah! God pity us all! —aich lives as he lived here over again, wid little to :tte an’ little aise. ’Tis a counthry like the same, rocky an’ hard, an' there’s no kindness in the hills, an’ we go a fishin' on black and wild nights.’ John Meehan, who was dhrunk. he sthag gers across the room (his eyes were near shut like as if he was asleep, an’ he spoke as if he'd an egg in his mouth.) He slaps I’haudrig on the back. 'Cheer up Phau drig. me man,’ says he, ‘for what are ye so glum? Sure a heavy heart seldom can be a gray head. No man shall be glum on my weddin’ night, an’ 1 marryin' your wife.’ Phaudrig he looks up at his wife. ‘ls that so?’ says he very quiet—he was al ways a mild man. She says nothin’; she looks near as dead as himself. All the time the bagpipes go on playin' the reel. Phaudrig goes on, ‘l’ll be askin' your par don, ma’am. I'd not have come if I’d known,’ says he. He sthands up an’ looks around at the folk—ye cud hear them gaspin’ agin when they met his eyes. ‘Ve needn't be so afeared, good people,’ says he. very quiet like, ’ye were glad enough to be friends with me once.' He sthoovs down an’ kisses his little ould mother, he goes an’ opens the door, the wind rushes in wid rain drenchin’ the most of us, the room filled with shmoke from the fire, all the candles were blown out. His ouid mother she hobbles totterin' afther him squealin', ‘Ah' for < rod’s sake tak>» mo wid ye, acushla. Don’t be leavin' me ’lttr.d ye, 1 •hauoeen. ’ i’.l.t be go"s out from the door.” I!.—“A T,etter for Ireland.” As I was passing lately through Para dise walk L saw old Biddy Gallagher sitting on t’ne doorstop of Johnson’s house with her elbows on her knees and her dirty hands buried in her tousled gray hair. She seemed in high good humor and beamed on the world. But the world of that Chelsea slum took small heed of her scowls; she was a depraved and lone old woman, her face was bloated, she was shaped like ft tub, and lie;- clothes wore rags. There was m> pause in her maundering talk ex cept when she was asleep or drunk, and it took a power of whisky to silence her. Now she was holding forth eloquently, though a crippled baby, silting in the gutter near her was h only listener. Tim people of Paradise walk were busy cheer ing two washerwomen who were fightings Because the Connemara brogue was music to me, 1 stopped for a moment to hear Biddy. ‘‘l'm mo gran’mother.” she was saying, “me own ould gran’mother dat did use to live in Ballinahadereen behind Leenaan on de road to Maam. She did use to sit so in de doorway, smokin’ her black pipe, an’ dero was no passin' her. An’ me father, daeint man. God rest him! He couldn’t got out of the house till she lei him. Ho was terrible sthrong, but he'd rather have .sthopped in there for iver dan be rough win de ould woman. 'Tis a pleasant place is Ballinahadereen an' de foik are kindly, doy beat wid ould women arid dey’re gen tle wi.l ye when ye're dhrunk. Ah, ’tis dere I wish l was now. Dey do be fellin' me dat. BaUinaliadnreeii is de same as when 1 was a slip of a gnrl wid de dung heaps in front o tie housi'o, an' de sthramo runnin' down de middle of de street an’ de bine shmoke coinin' out of do ehimbly liolon in do tach tin' de air smellin' of turf, an’ do pigs, do era; thurs, lookin’ out of do front doers an de little pigs—<!•» boneens—runnin’ up the road afther ye, squealin’ as if doir hearts was brttk. Dey do be sayin’ dat (io de same and but '(is sore and hard to b’lioye it. I was a good gnrl when I was dere, surely dat was ages and ages ago afore de mountains was made. When I y a .?, a o'dleen wid a shawl over me head. I did use to walk to mass at Leenaan four miles iver; mornin, snow or shine, pickin’ me way long de road to keep cl are of de '■ ' i. Hi W ~ v ' - --'V ; .■’ l . . I AM A LETTER FROM IRELAND. puddles an’ de sliiones. Often det> I was bar footed; now f’ve boots, gran’ boots, if dey weren’t burst rm’ me toes weren’t stickiti out of d< in. J»at was afore 1 mar ried me tiian-oui.j 'Mick—G. lt l rest his :>oor soul! Afore atiivk came to London to make hi« fortune, bail luck to him! ‘ln Loudon,' says Mick to me. ‘in Ixmdou, I do be hear in' all do world's rich, wb.v de poor dere Here Johnson, the cabman, appeared suddenly behind Biddy; there was no: room for him to pass out. ‘Tret out of the way: you old drunken fool," ho said. “I’m mo ould gran’motiter,” answered Biddy, "dis is Bailinahadcroeu; no one .shall pass burrin’ 1 let dem." Johnson Hung her off the doorsteps: she foil forward on her head and lay stunnwl on the footpath. In a moment there was a c-owd around us; I suppose the fight, w.-i ; finished. The people were delighted with Johrtson’s humorous act; but t,hc crippled baby squalled: probably it had good cause to feel for the victims of rough treatment. Then au old man tried to lift ATLANTA, GA., TUESDAY, MARCH 28, 1893. Biddy. Seeing that no one would give him a hand, I helped to carry her up stairs. 1 repented it, for she was heavy and her clothes were greasy and filthy. About, a week later I was going down (tueen's road towards Cheyne walk, it was chilly, foggy weather and the slush was thick in the streets. The lamps had been just lit and were gilding the puddles, and 1 could see a row of lights diminishing along the misty embankment. As 1 passed the mouth of Paradise walk I saw a crowd. They were badgering ami bailing an old woman: she was drunk I supposed. Then 1 saw it was old Biddy Gallagher, and for once she looked sober. But her conduct was singular; she was walking sideways up the slum with her arms out straight. "I’m a crab,” she was saying. “I'm a crab, an’ I'm walkin 1 in an’ out o’ de yel low seaweed dat. hangs on de rocks by Leenaan.” The crowd roared with delight. “Wot a game!” they said, “she’s off her nut and she thinks she’s a crab.” They were making way for her to pass. 'rime was when she could have made way for herself have cleft a path through the thickest mob like a tornado. Suddenly sb.e turned on them raging, “How dar ye follow me here, you crule bastes?" she yelled. “This isn’t London—• isn’t, this Ireland, how dar you come here?" Here she cursed the crowd with incredibly vile language, ami the more eloquent she grew the more they enjoyed it.. Then as she reached the month of the slum and saw the red pillar-box in Queen’s road before her, “No! I’m not; a crab,” she cried. “I’m a letther for Ballinahad ereen. For a penny sthamp I can go all de way dere." She butted her tousled head against, the slit, of the box. “1 can’t get in," she said, “ah, put me in or I’ll be late for de post.” Policeman ”09 J. whose name in pri vate life is Patrick MePhmldon, camo swag gering towards her. “Move on there now." ho said. “Is it move on, constable? Isn’t that what I’m wantin’ to do? I’m a letther for Ireland. If 1 was an ould woman now. I’d never see me home more. But I’m a letther. anil for a penny sthamp I’m goiu’ straight, all de way to Ballinahadereen on do road to Maam. For de dear God’s sake give me, a. sthamp, constable.’’ “A stanjp? ’Tis a shove I’ll be givin’ ye," said Policeman .’’>o9 J. “Move on now, good woman, or I’ll be after running you in." But Biddy went on butting the pillar and crying that it was a disgrace to a ("nristian eomitry to make the letter boxes so small. "Como on then,” said the policeman, kindly 'enough. "Come on then, it's the general postollice I'll be taking you to.” He went off with Biddy hanging on his arm lovingly. And now I hoar that Biddy is to be found in Bethlehem hospital. She must look odd since she is forced to dress neatly. She keeps a. dirty black stamp stuck over her left eyebrow, and they say would rather di. 1 than have it washed off. “I’m a lottb. I for Trolaml,” she cries to every one. “is,” ; me quick or I’ll be late for de for do dear God’s sake, post m<u G dat I may bo goiu’ to Ballinahad>- rood so Maam " II i.—The Diirk Man—The Starv of an z? s - , , . . .Th .. Long ago the fairies often stole chi i () . they chose the prettiest and carried tin, to fairyland the kingdom of Tyrminoge- 1 leaving hideous changelings instead. In those days no man had call io be ashamed of his offspring, since if a baby was deform ed or idiotic it was known to be a change ling. It is sixty years now since old Mike Lon- .... ■ ; ' ■ ■’■ -■ ' ' y .. ■ ’' -A? : z. Z. I •*•, /T ! , ; .yo 'C? g't.,’- jG'll Z , -r-d. ‘ . ■■ \ : ' '■ .-'••* Zll- ■! .>■-./ / Z . AT THE CROOS ROADS. ergan, who lived in a hovel in Moher vil lage, was robbed of his child. It was his wife who first found out the theft, for she had seen her unborn son in a dream, and he was beautiful; so when she raw (he sickly and ugly baby, she knew that he was not hors, and the fa ties had stolen the child of her dream. Many think ii best io roast the changeling on the turf-lire, but the while witch of Moher said it Would be safer to leave him alone. So the child Andy grew up as u stranger in his father's hovel and had a dreary time of it, he got little food and no kindness. ’l’he Lonegans gave him neither offense nor welcome, hoping that he might see tit to go home to fairyland, and yet bear them no grudge. He grew up an odd wizened little wretch, and every one shunned him. The children loathed him because they were afraid of him. so they hooted him from a distance, or stoned him from behind walls. Indeed, at this time his only ally was the pig that lived in one corner of the hovel. The pig was a friendly animal, his front half was a dull white and the other half black, and this gave him :i homely look as if lie was sitting in his shirt sleeves. Andy would shrink into a corner and sit cuddled there wth one arm around the pig’s neck. Old Mike Lonergan took to drink, and spent every evening at the shebeen —small blame to him -lor how could a man be ex pected to stay' at home with a changeling sitting in a corner and staring at him? He complained that even at night, when the pig was snoring and the smoky cabin was only lit by the wnnning turf fire, he could still st " t-ic child's glowering eyes, for Andy was wakeful and used to wriggle off the shelf that 1:0'1 been fitted ns a bed for him (since no one could sleep with a changeling) mid snuggle against the waim Hank of his comrade. When the pig was driven to the fair at Fnnisl inion Andy was left friendless, for the new pig was lean and morose, and then in all winds and weather he was io be found on the cliffs of Moher. Sometimes he stopped out all night, till hunger Would brim; him back when the Lonergans were rejoicing nt. bis disappearance. He knew <‘i< ry inch of the cliffs, ami spent half his time lying on the edge of the gray precipice looking down at the sea, 600 feet below, or watching the clouds of sea birds. He found new paths down the cliff side and clambered like a goat. He knew where the gulls nested, but never robbed them, and th" caves where the seals lived, and the seals shouldered their way through the wa terdose by him, looking at him with soft eyes. When he was about fourteen the famine year came; fever and the hunger swept Glare. The fever took Lonergan and his wife, and they were buried in the dead pit at Liscannor; it left Andy, but it left him blind. Then the neighbors began to have [Continued first column second jiage] A SURVEYOR’S STORY- By W. W. GOODRICH. Written for The Constitution. stuck,” was the monotonous drawl of' tie chainmen, as they kept, the rodman in sight, and just, ahead the axmen were dropping the trees out. of line to enable the transiTman to direct the course of the Hag. Behind came,the level, establishing bench marks for that future use to pick up knocked-out pins and io cross section the roadway for the graUers. for when the Puget Sound ami Frazer River railroad was run, haste to grade and establish the right of way was an ufgent ItecessHy. We had crossed the Skagit, river on a mesa, at an altitude of one thousand feet above the ship channel, the straits of San Juan de. Fuca bearing west, south-west, one-half west. Mt. Baker bore north, northeast, one-half north. The Olympian mountains in the dim and hazy southwest cut tile sky line like the point of a sword fish . The Rocky mountains were au impassible barrier to the biting blasts of the chilly east, while the Suari \\ ari from Japan kept the slope in perpetual green. We struck camp each day. like the day preceding, from the time we left Seattle until we entered Snoqualamie canyon. Here we went Into camp at the foot oi a mountain of anthracite coal. Flic simple m’u*!**'l SiwasL and his klwiehmun,. httlo realizing the wealth that was hidden in the mass’ive veins of this mountain range. We had had an unusually severe day of the sth of December. Gigantic cedars of thousands of years standing had grown and fallen!rmd upon their fallen trunks were again X r >wn eiants as large as the lying ones lajin'< nil length in the moss, winch was luanH Vet deep and so spongy that an axmat 'fwho had fallen in a moss bed, was nearW ■* mffoeated before he could be extri | cated.' In one place five of these giant ce dars lay crosswise of each other, ■ than ton feet in diameter or under <>(MJ leet ; in length and as straight as the speemns i arrow of the Siwash for his venison. There had followed us from Lake Wnat -1 com a. Siwash bravo, decked out. in coloie ot ! red and yellow. His moccasins were beaded | in all the colors of the setting sun. His ! blankete. were colored and fancifully formed j in s:tv: W* barbarous characters. Stew >np to ti“‘ table and brandishing ; his r . k. he commenced a weird, ian- L f st : ' n, bis body producing astou- , •linns that looked paiitlul.y Boston, the name which tne •mtry gave to all the white ■ er, he grunted a gutter nlness for the scraps Giving his limbs an ■•'ellow paint in 1 himself and d, Wyuck. Sucre j nek, wlio is Sucre ly- V . big chief, live over fire tm'n a speak earthquake, lie : speamiee lash, sky moan and sob- He speakiu sigh and blow down and fall | over c- .'Other. He no let Boston go oil. i lie kiA Boston. He blow Boston away. Listening to the Indian in his broken English, we concluded that there was a person living ahead of our proposed sur vey who was a sacred character to the various tribes, and had a spiritual and foreif'.’r sway over them in all of their tri bal it \ic.ns. IVytb< agreed to take me to the nearest point mc.ere the Sucre Tyhee could be seen, and 1 ;■ leave me to cultivate that sacred pers'Onr good will as best 1 could. Th inTxt. morning at daybreak we packed up tiilli.-al days’ rations and started on the tvs J through the woods for the great BeatOf tiountain on the Nooksack at the foot Off Mount Baker. A long, tedious walicmrought us at night to the Nooksack rivc'ffi lipon its right, bank we camped for ’ T night, Wyuck keeping 'tl\ the fire to drive away wild animals. The next day we journeyed up the river, until near nightfall, when we came into a beautiful basin of wonderful lert.iity. I here were several canoes upon the bank of the river, in one of which 1 seated myself, and nn ; 'ter no amount of persuasion could I get ■ tiie guide to g» with me across to the hut . of t’ne sacred chief, in full view across the i river. , , Grossing over slowly atm when in about I mid stream, intently eyeing the hut, I : saw coining down to the beach a most peculiar figure. An old, gray atyl grizzled : man, his hair and whiskers falling below i his hips, bis garments of buckskin, with buckskin fringes dovs’n the sides of his pants and sleeves, and around the edges of his coat. A long bow, with a quiver full of arrows was his armament. In his left hand ho held his bow, with arrow in posi tion. Motioning me to keep away, still I paddled ahead, at which he winged an i arrow straight into the bow of my canoe, ; motioning me away and gesticulating wildly I all the time. I paddled back out. of range. Standing up. I raised my hands up over my head and held them there for a short time facing this strange characte’, when I sat down again and paddled to wards him. Again he winged an arrow into the bow of my canoe, at which I stood up. n 'ith my hands elevated over my head tind na ;ced this weird man, the flowing wa te!crying me nearer and nearer to the s Kiet( when an eddy whirled the eatme !l dhe’- r!ln ”1’ !,n< ’ on- me beach. I hastily jumped out. my ar' ra still elevated, and walked towards tl.d .man. T£e stood motionless as a statue, his ev -1 ory muscle in stern tension. His keen, gniy eye watched me as amountain lion, the bleating fawn he was in readiness to spring upon for his meal. 1 walked up to and in front of him and stopped, and lowering my hands to my side. 1 eyed him as closely as he eyed me. Two living beings could not have been more motionless. Presently his lips began to move. Strange expressions began to creep over his features. His stern, expressionless features began to relax. That peculiar glare of his eyes became softened. Advancing towards me and toweying above me at least a, foot, his avoirdupois at least 100 pounds ; more than mine, he placed bis hands upon ■ my sholders and hurled me aside as easily :as a locomotive would hurl a man. ■ Stunned and nearly senseless he came and [ picked me up and carried me into his hut. ; What his thoughts were I have never ' learned. He seated mo still gasping in a hollowed out log chair and proceeded to get. supper. Broiled salmon, pembiean and salmon berries. The hut or log house was al'out twelve feet square, an open door at one end and a massive fireplace at the other. In it was a bunk, a log table like a butcher’s block, two log ehairs, llpon the table were two bark plates, two shell cups, two wooden forks and two pieces of obsidian, rifti-d out like knives. All the time during our supper he eyed me, never exchanging a word, the glare coming and going in his eyes, the pupils dilating at will, showing tin* intense fires of love or hatred that were burning so intensely. Af ter supper he beckoned me out the open door, pointing to the eastward. The new moon stood on end; the Indian could not hang his powder horn upon that crescent; the handle of Ilie big dipper (lipping into the Pacific, ocean. The waning rays of the setting sun, (becoming a chilling gray steel color. Placing his arm about me in a fatherly sort of way we Walked back into the hut as the short twilight, became dark almost instantly. He made a roaring fire, and drawing up our log chairs he look'd intently in the Hames. Turning upon me savagely, he asked: “IVhat are you doing hero?" in a voice full of wonderful melody that strangely con trasted with his manner and actions. “Simply a civil engineer looking for an air line from Seattle to Mattsqui wit 2 a grade not to exceed fifty feet, to the mile and not over three degree curves,” w*as my answer. His reply was still more savage. “You cannot get higher up than Linden to get what yon want, and never will you got through this canyon. You are the first; man to land on this shore, and I don't know why you wish to come here or for what purpose you invade my home." I replied’ as before, explaining that I wished his advice and counsel, and that as he knew the whole country he could put me upon its topography. Turning has gaze into the lire, he said: "In 184 S I was a. student in a theologi cal .seminary in New Jersey. I was in my third year. I had graduated from col lege with first honors, and was a candidate for the ministry. I was preaching each Sab bath at some church in the several states near to the seminary preparatory to my ac cepting a pulpit and its charge.” Continuing he said: “On the banks of the Bine Juniata liv ed Elder-—his name is none of your business. Isis only daughter refused my suit and my least polite attention that showed love even in a simple form, in public or private. Her distressing coldness drove me away from oßHlzatTon. 1 took a wind jammer from New York for Frisco, and when the Frazer river excitement broke out I took the Snoqualime trail for the mines, com ing into this beautiful canyon. I have lived here ever since. Noble woman, trust ful woman, man’s only friend in times of sorrow and grief, v.hcn all have left, in his hour of trouble, trial and poverty, she alone is his solace, his strong arm to lean upon.” jlere his massive frame welled with emotion, the tears, coursing down up m his beard. Bending over upon bis hands, Ins elbows upon his knees, he solHoquized: “She flatly refused me!" With an agonizing groan ho sought ref uge in the open air and when he returned I was no trij' asleep. Ha abruptly shook tuo and said: | " (Vhat did Is ty when I went out?" “ ‘She flatly refused mo,’ were your words.” “Well, she did refuse me. From that time to this no mortal man knows who I am, imr where I cam o from." He extemporized a bed out, of bearskins and I was soon asleep with this strange, weird character looking intently at, me. At early day he tiwoke me for service, taking me into a cave where stalagmites and stalactites in wonderful profusion, thin seams of native silver, go! '. copper and galena with side walls of shite, gray cop per in massive veins, carbonates in varying thicknesses, loose and in mass, greeted the eye. At the further end was a large block of quartz of almost native gold, in varying thickness, some veins in filmy threads, again thickening to several inches, then pinching up to nearly nothing. He said: “Tt?rah died in Haran on his way to Canaan,” and proceeded to deliver the Insist Wonderful pujpit discourse 1 have ever heard. His voice was resonant with a strange melody. Ho liked himself to Terah on his wav to the Canaan of his early love and his lite blasted by his blight ed love. The magnetism of his manner, the strange surroundings of tins church and its beautiful interior, the native archi tecture of flic infinite Creator, was a scene that no artist can portray nor no camera can depict. His prayer to Almighty God was an especial pleading for the welfare j of his early love and for their meeting again. “Rock of Ages Cleft for Mo,” and "Jesus, I.ove.r of Aly Soul," were espe cially rendered in a rich tenor voice that echoed and re-echoed through the vaulted ceiling. (>ur days were spent in viewing the grand scenery of this grandest country upon the face of the known world. In no other part of the whole world is there such sub lime, such exquisite, rich, soul-inspiring scenery as is about Mount Baker and the [ headwater* of the Nooksack river. After being his guest- for several dajs I I told him I would have to go back to camp and go on with my line, at which he was highly disturbed saying he did not want me to leave him and I must stay with him. There was a strange light in his eye in the meantime, which rather unnerved me. Still I acted with apparent unconcern. I had been with him about ten days when ho spelled upon his fingers these words, “C-A-T-l I-E-IM-N-I1” “What does that spell?” “Catherine.” “1-N-G-R-A M.” “Ingram—Catherine Ingram.” I said. “Wilkesbarre. Fa.,” he said. “Kate they called her.” “Well, what is your name?” Spelling again upon his fingers “A-L- B-E-R-T D-O-C-E—Albert Duce. That’s my mime, but don’t tell any one,” he added, "should you ever get among the Boston.” The next day while spearing salmon in tlie rapids below the hut I escape.l. Shoot ing the rapids I got down to Nook; ack, ami regahied the camp, my men having given me up as lost, as Wyuck had re turned and told the men of the sacred chief’s having knocked me down and car ried me off, and that when he picked me up I was limp and lifeless. The survey having been completed at Yorks on the Frazer, I took the steamer with my men. back to Seattle, and then to Frisco. In San Francisco 1 penned the following letter to Catherine Ingrain, of AVilkesbarre. Fa. Would you like to know the whereabouts of Albert Doce? in less than a fortnight I received the following answer: 1 will pay any and all expenses to see Mr. Doee, and will come on at once: meet me at the Palace hotel, calling each day upon Hie arrival of the overland train, until 1 conie. The steamship Columbia, Captain Holies, had two passengers for Portland— Dr. Barker, a noted specialist in brain dis eases, and Mi '-s Catherine Ingram. Jv lady of petite figure, dark blue ('yes. firm curved lips and a pleasant way, for all, her (‘very expression showing the ten sion she was laboring under and the thoughts of meeting an absent one she had longed to see. but had about given up all ] hope of ever seeing again. I told her the i whole story of this old man as I had expe- | PRICE 5 CENTS rionced him. She never tired of hearing it, and when not asleep she would ask for more particulars and a more minute de scription of him, Dr. Barker quietly re minding her that she must not betray any emotion in meeting Air. Doce or show any resentment at his escapade, but to humor him, and perhaps they might restore him again to reason. The trip up the coast and over the bar to Portland was uneventful. The journey to Whatcom and Nooksack was soon made. 'File sail up the river in two canoes with powerful Siwash at the paddles was soon accom plished. Above the rapids we dismissed the Indians and paddled on alone. We (amped on the opposite side of the canyon for the night, ami after breakfast Miss In gram dressed in her tent as she was when Air. Doce left her side to escape civiliza tion. Seated in the stern of the canoe with hands folded across each other she sat as motionless as a statue, while 1 slowly pad died across. Dr. Barker remaining behind subject to call. As wo approached the shore the old man came down to (he beach. Recognizing me he dropped his bow and ar rows ami ran to meet inc. I beached the canoe and assisted Aliss Ingram to alight. As she stepped ashore a look of malignant! hate spread over his features. He step ped backwards retreating, while she ad vanced looking him steadily in the eye. He backed to the perpendicular wall of rock and stood there grasping at the trail ing arbutis which grew in wonderful pro fusion. his chest heaving, his short jerky imrvous manner betokening a wonderful change going on in his mind. During this time 1 had remained near the canoe handy to my rille; should he have attempted any violence on Aliss Ingram. T could defend her. Seeing the change going on, and pre suming il was for the best., I went up to the old man, taking his hand in my own saying, “Air. Doce, this is Miss Ingram. She has come to take you to her home. AVon’t yon come to her?” The old malig nant light left his eye. The of a strange fire commenced to burn in his eye. Itj; advanced softly and in a grace ful way until within arms length of her, when he stopped and eyed her, and with a mijrhty effort he said, “Kate!" and putting his arms about her he sank to the ground a limp mass. I fired a shot, the signal for Dr. Barker to come over. We carried the old man into the hut and put hint to bed. Long weary nights and days he lay in a delirium, calling for Kate, and she was ever by his side, ever with her arms about him to quiet and console him. Never once did she leave him. The journey overland to AVilkesbarre was soon accomplished. The sleeper Nooksark was especially chartered for this occasion. Air. Doce, in a semi-conscious state, at times docile, again obstreperous, sometimes in a frenzy, again partly idiotic, was hard to manage. A look from Kate or a gentle kiss, or affectionate embrace from her, made him all serene. Upon the Blue Jun iata, in a massive old farmhouse, lives the Ingrams, consisting of Miss Kate and her married sister. Mr. Doce was given a room on the first floor, mid was mu>r the care of Dr. Barker and several other physicians for several years, gradually becoming more and more rational until he was adjudged by order of the court a sane man and re stored in his mental capacity. 'l’he thanksgiving services of the old stone church were largely attended; it. had been noised about, that Rev. Albert Doce would conduct the services and “Terah died in Haran on his way to Canaan,” was his text. It was a masterly oration, full of exquisite pathos and he dwelt particular ly upon t his phase of the text. “Never give up while life lasts.” “Rock of Ages. Cleft for Ale,” "Jesus, Lover of Aly Soul," these two exquisite, masterly songs of the soul v.vre rendered with beautiful unction by the orator and bis people. Aloist eyes and gentle glances of loving friends made the occasion one to be remembered. After tlie close of the sermon he said: “Friends you have all been most kind to in<- during my sojourn among you. You all know of iny sickness and my recoverey.” Here his voice became husky, the tears welled up in his eyes. “The same hands that repelled me years ago in this same place, are the ones that have made my recovery certain: that same dear woman that I so ardently lov ed then, I more ardently love now. if that is possible. Why she repelled me, was that I should be a man of God. and when 1 was formally ordained she would give me her heart. “This coming Christmas we are to bo mar ried. Come and see us married and God bless you as ho has blessed me in the soul of this true woman.” Professor Adams, of —, grown old and gray but. ever young in the service of God Al mighty, beamed down upon Albert Doce and Catherine Ingrain from the aint old pulpit, his rich, mellow voice si, wly pro nouncing these old people “young in love.” man and wife. I did not go to see them married although earnestly solicited to do so by both bride and groom. The memo ries of the old man as an insane student, my forced stay with him. his treatment of me. and all the excentricites that ho had, made me stay away lest he at sight of me might think of rhe past and cause him to feel sorrow’s keenest pangs when all should be joy and gladness. A Welcome to Kiley. Jim Riley—he’s a-comin’ to Atlanta, so they say. An’ wo hoar our hearts a-hummin’ as they meet him on the way: For who ain’t heard o’ Riley—Jim Riley o’ the west, An’ loved his song until they long to tell him, “He’s the best!” _ When a feller gets to readin’ him, it’s half a laugh an’ sigh. A-heavin’ o’ the heartstrings an’ a water in’ o’ the eye; An’ you dream in velvet valleys, an’ you wada through dewy grass, While your soul takes in the twanglin’ of the doves’ wings as they pass. Tlie world takes on more color; the springtime is more sweet. An’ the dear “old-fashioned roses” seem to blossom at your feet; An’ you hear the farm boy singin’ at the ox team that he drives. While the buzzin' bees are bringin’ all the honey to the hives! S;> lei h ‘(i come—Jim Riley, an’ let him take this song Os one he knows, a wind-blcwn rose from them wto've loved him long; Jos’ take it. as a welcome, an’ wear it in his breast Until tie look him in the face an’ tell him “He’s tlie best!” FRANK STANTON. The Same Old Story. From The Chicago Tribune. Governor Fishbaek. of Arkansas, wants all the governors of the southern states to meet bi Richmond. Va., this spring "to formulate methods to attract immigration." One of tho best, resolves would be to stop throwing rotten eggs, quit roasting black men alive at the slake, and allow men of ail colors their rights under the constitution. Until they do that no amount of persuasion can turn the tide of immigration southward as long as any free territory is left. Cornelius Stevens, the murderer of Jamea Sheridan, at Cairo, Mich., baa been captured.

Georgia Historic Newspapers

The Atlanta constitution. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1885-19??, March 28, 1893, Image 1