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‘Tree! Is she widowed, then ? I had
not heard it.” “N-o, n-o-t ex-actly—but she
is divorced—same thing. You see, she and her
husband did not get on well; he treated her
rather badly, and we sued him for a divorce. The
last court granted it, and George ’’
“Well, sir!”
“I am thinking that I made a mistake, when
I refused you my daughter’s hand. You would
have made a son-in-law of whom any father
might justly be proud. It is net too late to
amend the past. Emma still regards you highly.”
“But she is yrs. Lipseorabe, still."
“Nonsense! the law has freed her.”
“But Heaven has not.”
Mr. Weston turned red in the face. “Zounds!
sir, do yon mean to say you reject my daughter?"
“I reject Mr. Lipscombe’s wife.”
The ambitious old man, smarting under the
disgrace of his daughter’s divorcement, and
thinking that George still loved her, and would
gladly welcome the chance of marrying her—
moreover, hearing of young Carleton’s rapidly
rising fame—had formed the strange resolution of
proposing in behalf of his daughter, lie was
completely foiled, and stammered, “Forget this.”
“For her sake, I will forget it.”
And George shook hands cordially with his
old benefactor; and as he did so, his memory
recalled these early words: “They shall at least
acknowledge that I was worthy of her.”
The words had proven a prophecy!
CHAPTER XII.
They seemed to those who saw them meet
The worldly friends of every day;
Her smile was undisturbed and sweet,
His courtesy was free and gay;
And yet, if one the other’s name
In some unguarded moment heard,
The heart you thought so cold and tame
Would struggle like a captive bird.
Milsks.
His house she enters, there to be a light.
Shining within, when all without is night;
A guardian angel o'er his life presiding,
Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
Hookes.
Have you ever lived in a blissful dream of love
and hope, and then been crushed to the earth in
a single moment ? Have you ever known what
it is to bury the fair corse of your one earthly
joy, when none was by—have you ever looked
on its quivering throbs, and death struggle—
folded its limbs decently—laid it out for burial;
and then, with a face hard and cold, stood still,
very still, in the darkness, looking your fate in
the face ?
If you have not, then your life is blessed—
but if you have lived through this—lived to
crush the voice which says despairingly; “ I
will not live—let me fold my hands, and die!”
then you can pity Theresa.
Sho arose from her illness with a broken
spirit; all that made life beautiful had fled;
and everything brought back some maddening
memory—
“ For Blight withal may be the things which bring
Bock on the heart the weight which It would fling
Aside forever.”
Every book which she had read with Carey
contained some pencil mark of his; there was
scarcely a poem he had not breathed in her ear
at some time or other. As for music! with
every strain there were associated memories that
could never perish; and so the guitar fell listless
from her knee, and the song died out on her
lips, for it told of him whom to remember now
was crime.
She loved him still at times, for it is no easy
task,
“From the fond heart to root affection out”
Time miyht accomplish it—but faded blossoms
would always tell of a perished summer.
' But Theresa did not resign herself to idle re
pinings: cradled in the lap of suffering, she had
learned that passive fortitude which comes to
but few of the young.
She made no outward sign; but bore her fate
unmurmuringly, and toiled on as bravely as be
fore. But the world was no longer a world of
beauty; she had drank the sweets which had
sparkled in life’s chalice, and naught remained
but the dregs of bitterness.
No lip-confession told of her early blight; “too
sensitive for pity," she shrank from the proffered
consolation of Nettie, who, in a manner charac
teristic of that mad-cap, said:
“Well, I’m sorry for you, Theresa—but bless
your soul, honey! there are as good fish in the
sea as were over caught out of it.”
“ Well, I’m married, The resa, and no mistake.”
Nettie bounded into Theresa’s boarding house.
“ After Carl left with the mitten ma had given
him, I wept, and lamented, like Lord Ullin did
after his daughter; bribed the physician to tell
ma I was in ‘a decline,’ and wpuld die, if the
weight of some secret grief was not removed
from my mind. You see, he was an old admirer,
and would carry a mountain on his back, tell a
story, or do any other trifling thing to win one
of my precious smiles. I took to my bed; and
every time ma approached, I groaned out, ‘Carl;’
until, wearied with ray importunity, she ‘laid
down her arms,’ and cried, in a note between
a shriek and a wail : * Take your Carl! Go to
Carl! I wish you and he were both at tho bot
tom of the ocean, and all the fiddles in creation
were down there with you!’
“I hid my head under the bed-clothes to smother
my laughter, and ma thought I was sobbing.
“‘I tell you, you may have him so get up ; and
write to him this evening.’
“ ‘Thank you 1 and I skipped up, to her amaze
ment, as well as ever. Drawing my portfolio to
me, I scribbled a note to Carl, and dispatched it
to the office, in less than no time. Carl came on
the wings of love, and we were married last
evening in church. But to crown all, Aunt Kat
rine came home, whom I have not seen since a
child; and was perfectly acquainted with Carl
and his family—testifying to the tr uth of the
rumor that he was of noble birth. Ma, of
course, believed her ; and so everybody is re
conciled to my marriage.”
“Do you mean it, Nettie—are you really mar
ried ?”
“Just listen at the dear little simpleton—why,
here’s my wedding ring— isn't it a beauty ?
Carl will be here in a few moments. I u-ould
introduce him to you before we loft the city.
Carl has given up the stage—finished his ‘last
brilliant engagement’ at New Orleans last week;
and, after making a protracted tour of tho New
and Old World, we will settle down to a state of
domestic felicity, such as was never dreamed
of by cold-hearted persons like you.”
There was a knock at the door.
“ That’s Carl’s rap—quick and short, just like
him." Nettie flew to meet him, with the im
petuosity of old. She came in, leaning on his
arm, looking proud and happy.
“Myhusband! Miss Staneey!” said Nettie,
with mock gravity, and one of her arch looks.
“Now, am I not a prophetess ? I told you,
Miss Theresa Staneey, when I first saw Carl, I
was determined to be Nettie Rodweski —when
did I ever fail ?”
Carl laughed. He was very handsome —was
slender, and graceful in person—had a bright, ex
pressive face—dark, starry eyes—and the most
winning smile that ever played around a pretty
mouth. Neither in look or speech did he betray
TMM mWWMMMM VISED MB EX RESIDE.
his foreign birth. Theresa looked at him ear
nestly ; and when she heard his words of elo
quence, she did not wonder that Nettie had given
him her entire heart.
They were as happy and playful as two chil
dren—Carl being only twenty-one, and Nettie
two years his junior.
Theresa choked down a little sigh, as she re
membered her darkened life; but she soon
cleared her brow, and listened to Nettie’s plans
of future enjoyment.
“And when we are settled in our own home,
you must come and stay with us, Theresa. Carl
and I would make you so happy that you would
never be willing to die—wouldn’t we, Carl ?”
“Carl” of course assented to anything “Net
tie” proposed.
They left. The friends parted with many
kisses and tears, and Theresa saw them on earth
nevermore. But she received many glowing,
rambling sorts of letters from Nettie, who wrote
from every town she visited, yet wrote of nothing
scarcely, but Carl and his virtues ; and also sev
eral eloquent ones from Carl, who was equally
profuse in his praises of his “dear little Nettie.”
As we have said before, George Carleton was
a rapidly rising lawyer, respected by all who
knew him. The master-speech, which had made
his fortune, was followed by others equally as
brilliant; and so his reputation increased every
day.
By a fortunate chance, which he made himself
—for, being a lawyer, he, of course, was success
ful at manceuvering—he became acquainted with
our Theresa, and was her constant visitor.
Scarcely an evening passed that did not find
him at her side, encouraging her with hopeful
words, and winning her away from herself and
her early sorrow by persuasive eloquence. But
his words breathed only the sincerest friend
ship ; he was too wise to speak of love just then,
while her heart was brooding over its deep dis
appointment ; and, although he believed that
“ hearts are often caught in the rebound,” he
bided his time.
In the first place, lie made himself necessary
to her happiness. She was sad and lonely, and
needed the strong arm of some tnie friend to
lean upon. The poor vine, tom from all support,
had been blown about rudely by every passing
breeze. No wonder its little tendrils gladly
twined about the oak which opened its amis to
receive it, particularly when said oak only whis
pered : “I come not in the guise of a lover; lovers
are deceivers ever. Come, lean on ire, and I
will give you friendship, protection.”
And so three months glided away. Spring,
summer, autumn, winter—all faded, and spring
came again. And Cupid—sly little god!—was
making sad havoc of Theresa’s heart; for, how
could she suspect him of mischief when he had
hidden his arrows,'and came to her, clothed in
the garb of honest friendship ?
Carey Floy was away. Since their separa
tion. she had received only one note from him,
and that an appeal for forgiveness. He told her,
also, of his marriage, and enclosed some copied
verses:
“Hart I met thee In thy beaiity,
When my heart and hand were free;
When no other claimed the duty.
Which my soul would yield to thee;
Had I wooed thee—had I won thee.
Oh! how blessed had been my fate!
But thy beauty hath undone me—
-1 have met thee but too late;
For to one my vows were plighted,
With a faltering lip and pale ;
I/a tide our cruel sires united—
Hearts were deemed of slight avail.”
Theresa shed many bitter tears as she read it,
for it exhumed for a moment the dead past. She
wrote on the same envelope: “ You have my
full forgiveness—may you be happyand re
turned the verses. Thus endeth one act in the
life drama of the milliner girl.
One evening, George and Theresa sat alone
in the parlor. George “ waxed eloquent,” and
disclosed to her a fact, of which she had dim
suspicions—that their friendship had ripened
into love!
Now, I don’t believe that; and, what is more,
I don't believe that friendship ever does ripen in
to love. There, now! It was love all the time,
if they had only had knowledge enough to per
ceive it.
Then, and there, Theresa told him her simple
history, from beginning to end, omitting noth
ing.
“And you thought I would esteem you less ?
Oh! my Theresa! how little do you know me ?
I glory in your heroism. I honor you for your
struggles against an adverse destiny, and love
you, because I can’t help it, and wouldn't help it
for all the world.”
' And both had loved before! Oh, unfortunate
“Augustus,” who art dreaming now of a watery
grave, because “Araminta ” has rejected you!
Oh, “Julia Elizabeth,” now penning a sonnet
which breathes of loving only one, and being
broken hearted, renounce your suicidal intentions,
waste your sighs and ink no longer, for I have
given you a picture of life as it is.
Tupper, Solomon of poets! why did you write:
“ If the love of the heart be blighted,
It buddeth not again;
If that pleasant song be forgotten,
It can be learned no more" I
Your lines are beautiful— so beautiful, that I
am almost tempted to say, what a pity they are
not true I
And so their vows were plighted, ard neither
could reproach the other for the past; for both
had mourned tho decay of an early love-dream.
Theresa could not say: “you have given me
an old heart;” for her own had lost a portion of
its freshness.
Well, if you want my opinion, and will prom
ise not to quarrel with me, here it is: I believe
Adam was the only man that ever gave his wife
a heart that had not loved before. Sometimes, I
wish I had been Eve, for that very reason—and
then again, I don’t. I never should have tasted
that apple—l’m certain of that—l hate apples.
Miss Snipper wished a private interview with
“Miss Staneey.”
“Theresa, I have been pleased with you all
along, and I wish to elevate you a little. What
do you say to my dividing the establishment
with you, and making you head
you like the engagement?”
Theresa laughed, and blushed. “Thank you,
Miss Snipper, for the honor you would confer
on me; but I have entered into a different, and
more pleasurable, as well as permanent, engage
ment—one that will remove me from the milli
nery business altogether.” Miss Snipper opened
wide her ferret-like eyes:
“How do you mean ?”
“Simply, that on to-morrow evening, I am to
be married to my old friend, George Carleton. —
I will be glad to have you present at tho cere
mony, as I have no mother to give me a blessing.”
Miss Snipper, remembering the wrong she
would have done her, with a sharp pang of con
science, was quite melted down, and for a
moment lost sight of dollars and cents. It was
only a moment; and she wiped her eyes hypo
critically, and said: “I am truly glad to hear it,
Theresa; here’s my hand—virtue will meet its
own reward.” Theresa sobbed aloud; and Miss
Snipper agiin waved her handkerchief, saying:
“Come here, girls, and tell Theresa good-bye.”—
They flocked around her, with many congratu
lations—always knew she was worthy, and
would come out right at last—when, in fact,
they never thought about the matter until
Theresa had been so fortunate as to win the
honest love of a prominent and now wealthy
lawyer. Foremost among the congratulutors
were the two girls who had so rejoiced when
Carey Floy proved untrue.
Strange! the world never discovers our vir
tues until fortune finds us out, and showers her
favors upon us. How near-sighted some per
sons are! To them, a diamond is not a diamond,
when surrounded by the rubbish which poverty
collects.
A magnificent home was reared ujion the spot,
where once stood the humble cottage with which
tho reader is already familiar. It was the home
which George had erected for his loved ones.—
His mother and sisters received his bride with
open arms, loving her—first, for Ais sake—and
lastly, for her own.
The old stump—Georges’ first rostrum —still
stood in the yard, a monument of the past
In one of their evening walks, Amy led
Theresa to it, and said: “Here is the stump
where George practised his first speech, in the
patched jacket of the wood-cutting school boy.”
“Is it ? Well, it shall be my favorite seat, and
no rude hand shall ever cut it down—do you
hear, George?” His only answer was a warm
hand-pressure, and a look of intense love and
happiness
The Hero and Heroine are married—what
more need be said ?
Down with the curtain!
(the exd.)
O*A friend has handed to us, with permis
mission to insert it in the Field ami Fireside, the
following “Composition,” entitled: Toil, Paint
■Tears, or, The Spirits Three, recently read by
Miss Mary Crawford, a member of the Senior
Class, in the “Georgia Female College” of Madi.
son, in this State, upon occasion of the Annual
Commencement, 26th July. -We publish it with
pleasure, thinking it highly creditable, both in
matter and style, to the young lady who has
written it, and believing that it will be read with
especial interest by hundreds of young ladies,
in our Female Institutes, all over the South, who
are approaching, with many misgivings and much
trepidation, the test of scholarship and ability
through which Miss C. has just so successfully
passed. Others, too, of mature age, and of either
sex, will, we doubt not, peruse this “Composi
tion” with much pleasure. Miss M. C. is a
daughter of Rev. Nat. Macox Crawford, D. D.,
President of Mercer University, Penfield, Ga.,
and a grand-daughter of Wm. H. Crawford :
TOIL, PAIN, TEAKS;
OH,
THE SPIRITS THREE.
It was night I seemed, in thought, to rise
far above the slumber-chained world, and to
hover amid the boundless regions of space. It
seemed, too, as if I had traveled far back
through the realms of the past, and reached the
period when this fair globe sprang fresh from
the creating Hand. The angels bent from Hea
ven to view the glories of the new-born sphere;
but while yet they gazed, sadness took pos
session of them. Their harps, just tuned for
songs of joy, fell, voiceless, from their hands, for
tho enemy haa already laid waste that fair do
main. Sin, with misery in her train, had entered
the w'orld ere yet it had been marked by the re
turning footsteps of its Maker.
Among these dwellers of the spirit-laud, I no
ticed three, grouped apart. Alike, yet dissimi
lar, they clung together, as if bound by no com
mon ties. While I looked, a voice was heard
addressing them from the wide expanse:
“Depart, O, ye, my servants, upon the mission
I have assigned you. Had this sad event not
happened, ye need never have entered the w’orld;
but now, your presence there is necessary. Go,
punish man for his evil doing ; weary him witli
burdens —yet be to him an unfailing source of
consolation, a support and help in times of trial.
Dwell in every land under heaven ; mingle with
every class of society ; pervade every action ;
influence every thought; stamp your impress
upon every feeling of that erring race. Go ; 1
give you there your portion and your inherit
ance. None shail dispute your right; rule this
empire as you please. Teach them tho charac
ter of the being who has led them into this evil;
purify their hearts, and fit them for their deliver
ance. Depart!”
The Spirits bowed their bright wings, and
obeyed the command.
The first took his way principally among the
poor. I saw him in their squalid huts; he
drove the plow; he struck the anvil; forests
bowed before his sturdy stroke; he lit tho pale
student’s midnight lamp; the din and clang of
a thousand manufactories bore witness to his
presence.
I stood upon the plains of Egypt, A busy
throng were hurrying to and fro, each intent
upon his allotted task. Some hewed giant
stones from the quarries; some were mixing
mortar; and making brick; in one part, a rude
machine lifted the huge blocks of granite; in
another, artificers were fashioning tho splendid
decorations of the interior. Here, the air re
sounded with the shrieks and curses of the
down-trodden Hebrews; there, the half-built
walls re-echoed with acclamations to King Pha
raoh, coming in person to inspect the progress
of the work. Everywhere, hovered the spirit,
guiding, directing, inspiring all. The Pyramids
stand to-day, one of his trophies. But not to
these scenes alone did I follow the mighty spirit.
At the top of a lofty tower, whence might be
seen the whole expanse of heaven—in a narrow
room, piled up with strauge-looking scrolls and
writings, sat a solitary man. Intent upon his
great purpose, night after night his eagle gaze
was fixed upon the sky, noting and recording
the various changes. With untiring zeal, he
pursued his intricate calculations; shrinking
from no labor, if he might only attain his lofty
object. The syren song of pleasure, the soul
stirring call of ambition, fell unheeded upon
his ear. His mind, deriving strength from every
success, dived into the lowest depths, soared to
the farthest heights. And when, at last, the
great astronomer completed the achievement to
which his life had been devoted, methought I
saw a proud smile upon the face of the spirit,
as he left the cell where this, liis noblest triumph,
had been won.
The builder of cities—the assistant of the phil
osopher—the friend of the poor—stood confessed
before me, the Spirit of Ton,.
I next turned my attention to the second of
tho Spirits. Sometimes, her path would cross
that of the first; but often she went where ho
had never been permitted to enter. The least
prepossessing of the three, yet she ruled the
widest empire. Her sway was absolute; no
mortal dared ever profess himself independent
of her. She dwelt with rich and poor—the King
in his palace, and the outcast beggar—the sim
plest peasant, and the profoundest sage. If any
were free from her universal dominion, it seemed
| to be the little children. Often, she passed
: them lightly by; and when, as if to remind us
, that they were but mortal, she asserted her pow
, er over thorn—she would turn quickly away, as
; if softened by their childish grace and inno
| cenee.
I saw a darkened room. A pale sufferer lav
tossing in the agonies of disease, all uncon
scious of the tearful faces around. Fever racked
every limb; tlie blood raced in tiery flow through
his distended veins; and, ever and anon, I heard
the quick throCbings of his heart void the death
like stillness. There, invisible to all eyes, save
mine, stood the Spirit—presiding genius of
the scene.
A different spectacle awaited us. The stone
1 walls and iron gratiugs of a prison rose before
i niy view. At its portal stood a woman, bowed
with age, and yet more, by grief. She had come
!to look once more upon her only son. Her boy
! —who, as it seemed, but yesterday had beguiled
i her care by his frolic sports —had learned such
; holy lessons from her lips—had supported her de
! dining years—must die, in all his youthful
: beauty, a condemned felon! Speak, ye who
can, the anguish of that mother's heart! And
I the spirit, gazing upon her triumph, turned sor
rowfully away. And I knew her—the mistress
of the world—the scourge of God—the Spirit
op Pais.
Glad to escape, I turned to watch the course
of the last of these bright-winged messengers of
heaven. She walked much amid scenes of sor
row ; yet, now and then her presence sanctified
the purest of Earth's joys. She attended mostly
upon the weak; the bearded man proudly de
nied allegiance to the meek Spirit, save when
grief and anguish shook his soul to its inmost
depths, and bowed him in the dust at her feet.
If her sister slighted the little ones, she amply
repairs the neglect; she is their resort in every
childish trouble. Less brilliant, less assuming,
her exploits might ill compare with those of her
fellows; yet who shall say she is less powerful ?
A mother sits beside the little coffin which
holds the precious relics of the early lost. Sor
row has made its abiding place in her heart;
despair has paralyzed all tender emotions. The
world seems all a blank to her crushed and
bleeding bouL^Yet, see! she bows her head, and
weeps. Each tear is a messenger of peace—a
drop from the River of Life to her faintirg
spirit. She bends in meek submission, and the
Angel of the drooping face smiles approvingly,
as she beholds the blessing she has wrought.
A way-worn man stands gazing on his na
tive village. There is the cottage where his in
fant years were spent; there, the green fields
where first he sported; the spire, which, to his
young imagination, seemed to pierce the clouds.
Since then, he has traversed the World; he has
plunged head-long into every crime; guilt lias
left its signet on his altered features—has seared
his once tender heart. Yet, as he gazes, me
mory recalls his day's of innocence. Again, he
is happy in the consciousness of rectitude; again,
lie seems free from the crushing weight of sin.
Alas! ’tis but an empty dream! and as the tide
of feeling rushes over him, bright drops gem
the cheek of the returning prodigal; and his
soul, thawed from its icy thrall by the first tear
of penitence, gushes out once more towards its
Maker. And the Spirit exulted with wondrous
joy, as she beheld this most precious token of
her power. ■ Yes—she is ever our friend—the
Spirit — the good Spirit op Tears.
Toil, Pain, Tears—immortal trio! well have
ye performed your mission. Truly, ye have
ruled our destiny ; traces of your influence are
woven with every thread of our chequered life.
Ye have ruled nobly—ye have cherished lofty
aspirations—ye have wrought mighty achieve
ments. Yet hath your sceptre been a rod of
iron; messengers of good, ye are ever unwel
come ; angels of light, ye follow only in the
track of the Destroyer. Already the end of your
reign approaches—your empire is crumbling to
its fall. And when the end shall have come—
when the Heavens shall flee away, and the earth
be shaken to its centre—then, wrapped in smoke
and flame, shall ye vanish forever ; then, upon
the earth, purified by the devouring elements,
shall arise the everlasting dominion of Rest,
and Peace, and Joy.
;-
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
UNCLE LUBAN’S FIRST BEAR.
BY JAMES M. THOMPSON,
Author of Prairie Sketches, <tc., <tc.
It was a bright, hazy (I may be allowed this
term, for the sun shone as brightly as that lumi
nary ever does, and yet a sort of dreamy haze
hung over the surrounding objects, giving them
a peculiarly soft and delightful aspect,) in spring,
as I sat with my old friend, Ned Whitney, who
had just returned from one of his long excur
sions out West, in the portico of his father’s
house, that I heard him tell the adventure re
corded below. The little circumstance that led
him to relate it, is this: As we were talking, a
burly negro came along at a slow shuffling gait,
near where we sat. “There,” said Ned, “is the
constant companion of my rambles.”
“He is big enough to scare anything that can
see,” said I, looking at him.
“Yes,” answered my companion, “and he is as
brave as a lion, and a Imp shot; but I never
shall forget an adventure that occurred when lie
saw his first bear."
“By all means, let me hear it!" said I, eagerly.
Ned loved to relate his adventures, so light
ing a fresh cigar, he began in his habitual off
hand way; “We had spread our tent on a beau
tiful green slope, near a small stream that runs
down from the mountains to the Red River ; it
was then, however, almost dry; and from the
numerous tracks of wild beasts, we judged that
water was only found here for a good ways
around. The slope was a sort of liill-side lawn,
covered with high grass down to the banks of
the stream; the country around the tent was
remarkably wild and picturesque. To the West
a solitary mountain loomed boldly up against the
sky in the distance, while a bright lovely prairie
slept in its shade, as if couscious of safety, as a
lamb sleeps ’neath the shadow of the giant oak.
To the East, the country rolled off in gradual un
dulations higher and higher, till it swelled into
a chain of rock-crowned hills that frowned in
gloomy grandeur down on our little lawn.—
Mouth and North, the timber grew less thick till
it ended in a broad prairie, a portion of which
we could see from a little rise to the North-east
of our tent. I aud the other two whito men
that were with me, (John Beck, and James
Friar.) took our guns, and leaving Lube to pre
pare a fire, set out to the hills in search of small
game for our supper. We soon brought down
a hare or two, and Beck was fortunate enough
to kill a brace of partridges. After we had killed
sufficient for our suppers, we turned towards
our tent, just as the sun was sinking behind the
western hill-top, tinging its grey peak with a
crown of gold. We found the fire burning, our
horses hobbled and feeding on the grass, but
saw nothing of Lube. We thought he had, pro-
bably, gone to the woods to procure fire-wood
and so gave ourselves no uneasiness about him!
At length, as dusk began to settle dimly over the
woods without his return, I called him, but re
ceived no answer. I called again louder than
j before, still no answer. “I’ll bet he’s seen a
bar, and run to Halifax!” “Ha! ha! ha!"said
Friar to Beck's supposition. I called again. In
answer to this, I received a sort of prolonged
grunt, which seemed to proceed from the air
above our heads, making us involuntarily raise
our eyes; of course, we saw' nothing. One of
the meu shouted:
“ Lube, where in the deuce are ye ?”
“ Ma— dm —mars’ Ned, da-d-d-dat yeou ?”
“ Yes; where are you ?”
“ Here, I-I-I is, mars’ Ned, right here.”
We w'ere now able to make out whence the
voice proceeded, and on casting our eyes to
wards the point, what was our indescribable
amusement to see the giant form of Lube cow
ering in the tip-top of a large tree not far dis
tant. As soon as I could control my risibles, I
shouted.
“What on earth are you doing up there? you
old curmudgeon, you!”
“O-o-o-o-o! I seed-o-o! a-a-oo!—a bar’bout
as big as any hoss’, by Ned, 00-oo!"
“ No, you never!’’ cried Beck, almost dying
w'ith laughter.
“ Como down P I shouted. *
“I-I’s cornin’, mar’s Ned, buto-o! e-eel what
a b’ar! lookt jist like de debil! bigger nera hoss
or cow, and growled like any debil!”
“Come down ; twern’t nothin’ but a possum,"
said Friar, laughing like the very demon of fun
had possession of him.
“Boo! lordy-sakes!you didn’t see him,”cried
the terrified negro; “ bigger ’en any possum!
big as a hog!” Lube had now reached the
ground, and was proceeding towards us, with his
eyes distended to twice their common size, his
huge frame quivering with a convulsion of fear,
and jabbering all the time; when, suddenly, he
gave a yell that echoed for a mile around, and
seizing an over-hanging limb, flew, rather than
climbed, as high as the tree would bear him.
“ Woo-ali! dar’s de debilish thing now—o-oh I”
he cried, as he found himself a hundred feet
from liis, to us invisible, enemy.
“ Thar’s som’thin’ thar,” said Beck, cocking his
gun, and rushing forward, followed by mo and
Friar. Beck was several yards ahead, and as he
reached the spot where Lube had taken his fright,
he paused a moment, and fired, at the same time
bursting out into a loud laugh. When I and
Friar reached the spot, we found him bending
over the body of a lean grey wolf.
“Come dow.v, Tube 1” I thundered, “or I’ll
break every bone in*your body !”
“I’s cornin’, I is, ooh! Indeed I is, mars Ned!”
said Tube, beginning to descend.
“Now, ain’t you ashamed ?” said Beck, as
Tube reached the lowest limb, and stopped to
gaze in mortal terror on the dead animal.
“Why don’t you oome down ; the thing’s
dead ?” Beck continued, kicking the brute with
his foot
“ ’Taiut dead ; I knows it ain’t dead !” Lube
answered, in a quaking voice. “Shoot the darn
thing agin’, kase I’se liearn ob dese debilish
things bein’ kill'd a dozen times, and den lib de
bes' kind P
We finally got him down from the tree; but it
was a long time ere we got him to think that the
poor little gray wolf was not a “bar, big as any
hoss ever wus !’’
—
SIXPENCE A DAY.
A London paper furnishes us with the follow
ing interesting anecdote, which wo wish our
young friends would read and think about.
What is said about a sixpence spent daily for
one thing tliat is useless or hurtful, (strong
drink, for example,) may be said of the same
sum spent for other hurtful or pernicious
things, (tobacco for example).
Thevo is an old man in the alms house in
Bristol, who states that for sixty years he spent
sixpence a day in drink, but was never intoxicat
ed.
A gentleman who heard the statement, was
somewhat curious to ascertain how much this
sixpence a day, put by every year, at five per
cent, compound interest, would amount to in
sixty years.
Taking out his pencil he began to calculate.
Putting down the first year’s savings, three
hundred and sixty-five sixpences, nine pounds
sterling, eleven shillings and six pence, he
added the interest, and thus went on from year
to year, until he found in the sixtieth year the
sixpence a day reached the startling sum of
three thousand two hundred and twenty-five
pounds sterling, nineteen shillings and sixpence.
More than fifteen thousand dollars!
Judge the old man’s Surprise, when told that
had he saved his sixpence a day, and allowed
it to accumulate at compound interest lie might
now have been worth the above sum; so that,
instead of taking refuge in an alms house, he
might have comforted himself in a house of his
own, costing three thousand dollars, and fifty
acres of land worth two hundred and fifty dol
lars an acre, and have left the legacy among
his children and grand children, or used it for
the welfare of his fellow men.
—
We see by the Scientific American, that
a French engineer in Paris, Mr. Hippolite
Charles Yion has invented and secured by pa
tent in France, an apparatus for conducting nat
ural electricity from the great laboratory of na
ture, and storing it up in magazines from which
it may be conveyed to operate machinery, to il
luminate streets in ckies, and for a variety of
other purposes. His plan is to conduct the
positive electricity of the atmosphere in hilly
regions, by rods designed for the purpose; in
valleys, low and flat countries, he proposes to
elevate conductors and receivers to a great alti
tude, by balloons connected with the earth by
wires. The atmospheric conductors are to be
connected by insulated wires with plates extend
ing to a suitable depth in the earth; the in
sulated reservoirs for storing up the electric
fluid, are to be situated midway between them.
These are to be so arranged that by breaking
and closing the circuit, the current can be con
veyed to any place desired aud to any situation,
to effect the objects contemplated. As nature
furnishes electricity in such exhaustless quanti
ties, this ingenious discoverer proposes to ac
complish an object to which too great impor
tance can hardly be attached. He proposes to
use with his apparatus, this magical agent for
the rapid development of vegetation in gardens
and fields.
If the great expense of producing electricity
by the common means, can be avoided—if the
apparatus of M. Yion shall meet the public ex
pectations in this respect, and enable our agri
culturalists to bring this universal agent into
general use at a small cost, his discovery will
entitle him to the lasting gratitude of mankind,
and will confer upon his name imperishable re
nown.
— >»> -■
No person is either so happy, or so unhappy,
as he imagines.
83