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THE HIDDEN SPARK.
Chance-sown, upon the wandering ait
Borne by a lawless, plumy sail,
The vagrant thistle down the vale
Lays tribute on each laborer's care.
Deep-hid beneath the slumberous pines,
Long in its acorn lies the oak,
Yet rises at the woodman’s stroke
Where now the sun, life-giving, shines.
Through rough, brown clods of earliest
spring
The plowman thrusts his eager share;
He knows the grain he buries there
Its ripened, glad increase will bring.
' Germ-hidden in the poet’s heart
A secret power, mysterious, sleep
It wakens, and a nation weeps,
Swayed by the passion of his art.
—Mrs. 1). IL R. Goodalc, in Independent.
TO THIS COMPLEXION MUST WE
COME AT LAST.
From Illinois, Iowa,
Nebraska, and Dakota,
To Michigan, Wisconsin, too,
And lovely Minnesota;
i rom Labe Superior’s copper mines,
Through Hoosier Indiana,
To Mississippi’s cotton fields
And low Louisiana,
I furnish wooden overcoats
To many an undertaker,
The banker, beggar, one and
The butcher and the baker—
Baker
Butcher and the baker.
From gloomy swamps of Arkansaw
. To sunny South Carolina,
Where salty marshes waving yield
Their rice to Pomp and Dinah!
From yellow orange groves I go
To purple fields of clover—
From Florida to Ohio,
I skim the country over,
And furnish wooden overcoats
To many an undertaker,
For banker, beggar, one and all,
The butcher and the baker—
Baker—
Butcher and the baker.
I watch the farmer, North and South,
His wheat and cotton growing;
From many a little stream to mouth
I view the ri ver3 flowing;
And every year I scan the woods
To patch the dogwood blooming—
First herald of the busiest time
For burying and tombing:
And laugh and joke as round I go,
With many an undertaker,
For he and I must follow soon
The butcher and the baker—
Baker —
Butcher and the baker.
Oh! Life is but a running race—
The hind ones and the head ones.
Where many a live man sets the pace
For running after dead ones;
But he at last shall peter out
And tumble down a-dying,
Shall need a wooden overcoat
For wherefore are we crying !
For all the world shall peter out,
The butcher and the baker,
The banker and the drummer and
At last the undertaker—
Taker—
Ah, there! the undertaker.
—The Casket.
SAL AND PETE.
BT ABBIE C. M. KEEVEB.
It was snowing up in the mountains,
light, fall feathery flakes that continued to
so steadily Sal knew it was likely to
be a heavy fall before it stopped.
Sal had been to the store and postoffice
at Deer Creek and was in a big hurry to
reach home, because she carried a father’ huge,
yellow and envelope directed to her
Sal possessed all the natural curiosity
of her sex.
Her way led down the mountain trail
to the distant valley where nestled the
little shanty on her father’s claim.
The claim was a poor one, and Sal’s
life had known nothing but hardships
and trials. What mattered a snowy
tramp down the mountain side to her?
She was not afiaid of either bears Or In¬
dians, good having been surrounded by them
a part of her early life.
She was twenty now, a sturdy border
lass, and since her mothers death had
been her father’s housekeeper, and the
small fry at home looked up to her with
all the respect due a mo!her.
Suddenly out in her path strode a man
dressed as a hunter, a very fine specimen
altogether of the hardy mountaineer.
“Sal! I’ve been waitin’for you.”
“Have you?” said the giri, in a care¬
less, independent tone. “I don’t think
there was any special need. I’ve been
over these here roads often enough to
know ’em.”
“But, Sal, I wanted to see you, par¬
ticularly. You know very w'ell what I
want—what I have waited for so long,
and now—”
“Pshaw! You’ve only known me two
years; dreadful while you’ve waited!”
thing “Thunderin’long is ready and there to me, when every¬ bit of
ain’t a
sense of your dingin’ to your father so.
Taint ’cordin to Scripture no how.”
“Seems to me you forget about the
‘Honor thy father and mother,’ Pete,
don’t you? IVhat’s the odds if yon do!
I know that father can t spare me yet
awhile. Poor father!.’
“Oh, yes, all ver pity’s spent on the old
man,” growled Pete, “it’s always to be
so, 1 reckon. How many years do you
calculate will let you off, sal?”
“I don’t know, notuntil the little ten
year-old Mary can take my place—about
eight years, I low.”
“Great Scott! we‘11 both he dead be¬
fore that time.”
“Maybe so,” said Sal, carelessly.
“You ain’t got no heart ’tall,” ex¬
claimed her lover, angrily. “You’re
jist like flint. Beckon I’d better look
up another girl.”
Sal’s face was turned toward home
and away from him. She grew a little
paler, but in all that snow Pete never
could have seen it. She answered,
readily:
“It will show your sense.”
“We’ve reached the divide,” he said,
hoarsely; “my way leads off from yours.
Good-bye, Sal.”
“Good-bye, Pete.’’
That was all. Sal hurried swiftly for¬
ward down to the little shanty, where,
in the windows, she could see so plainly
the children’s bobbing heads.
“Oh, Sal!” they shrieked in a chorus,
as she opened the door. 1 ‘Guess who’s
been here?”
“I don’t know. Where’s father?”
“He’s down in the valley with the
stranger the man, somebody or other from
States,” explained Joe, who was
twelve, a very important youngster, in
his own estimation, at least.
“I’ve got a letter for father. I wish
he’d come. Did they expect to go far
in this storm? See how much fiercer it
The night crept on and the eagerly ex¬
pected father did not come.
“He’s been gone so long I’d better go
and see if anything could have happeued.
You children keep up the fire, and Mary
can set out the supper.”
Then Sal threw her shawl over her
head and went out into the furious storm
that was increasing in violence every
moment.
“Poor father, maybe, he had a drop
too much. I do hope he ain’t tried to
reach Deer Creek. Who could the
stranger be the children speak of? Some
prospector, hours likely.” in
Three later the men lolling
the bar-room at the main hotel in Deer
Creek were startled by the sudden open¬
ing of dead, the door, to behold with Sal, white as
one covered ice and snow,
standing on its threshold. happened, Sal?”
“My God 1 what has
cried more than one.
“Murder!” was the hoarse reply.
“Murder? Where—who—”
“My father—oh, wait!” struggling to
speak Come!” clearly, “down near the divide.
“Wait, my girl, you’ll freeze,” and
John Pohl snatched off the wet shawl
and flung a warm, soft blanket around
her. “You just stay here and let me go.”
But she struggled out of his detaining
hands.
“Maybe your father was jist lost in
the snow, lass.”
“I tell you he was murdered. I
struck a match. There’s blood all over
his bosom. Shot! shot 1 Oh, who could
have wished to harm my poor old father?”
Her story was true; with great diffi¬
culty was he found nearly buried in the
snow, and carried to his home to startle
the terrified children half out of their
senses.
Sal was calm; afterward she wondered
at her own control. She quieted the
wailing children, coaxed the smaller ones
off to bed and 3at before the fire in a
dazed, cold way that troubled two of
their kindly neighbors greatly, who sat
back and talked in low tones of the
strange, uncalled-for crime.
“An honester, better fellow r never
lived. Poor Tom! Who could have
wished ter kill him?”
It was the boy, Joe, who suddenly
cried out in startling, convincing tones:
“The stranger, Sal! the stranger that
wore a fur overcoat and glove3.”
“Describe him, Joe ?”
“I don’t know as I kin, but he had
dark eyes and a beard, and father seemed
much taken with him. They laughed
and tSlked about some property back in
the States, and the man had a bottle and
they drank several times, then went out
together.”
“Would you know him agin, my boy ?”
“Yes.” said Joe, “he had a red scar
near the corner of his eye, his left eye,
I remember.”
“We’Ll find him, if he’s in the land
of the living.”
The next day a party of men set out
over and across country in search of the
stranger. In the afternoon others assist¬
ed at the quiet funeral, and not until
nightfall did Sal remember that letter.
She took it from her pocket and tore
it open and read:
To Thomas Sheldon- on His Heirs :—
You are hereby notified that an estate awaits
you in Greenfield, Noland County, State
of-. Yours,
Smith & Long, Attorneys at Law.
Feb. 23,188—.
“Oh!” said Sal, wonderingly, “what
does it mean? An estate!”
“it’s “I know,” said twelve-year-old Joe,
money land. Oh, Sal, if father
had only lived? He hated being poor
worse’nany of us.”
“I suppose I’d better write,” said Sal,
“and tell ’em there’s no longer any
Thomas Sheldon, but there’s some six
heirs.”
Sal wrote iu a big, school girl hand, a
simple knew statement could of the facts, he expected but she
an answer not
short of two weeks.
In the meantime, the men who had
gone out looking for the strange man
that Joe had described, failed to find
him and returned disheartened. The
mystery of the murder seemed impossible
to unravel.
Sal still clung to the rude shanty and
anxiously people thought about her and letter, while
the in Deer Creek the sur¬
rounding valley offered her plenty of
places to proud, work. she ought
“She’s an’ to starve,”
said more than one, “but I do pity them
little children.”
One day there came to Deer Creek a
tall, handsome man who inquired for
Miss Sheldon.
The men regarded each other blankly
until some one said:
“Oh, the Dickens! the fellow means
Sal. I’ll point you out where she’s ter
be found.”
The supper of mush and milk was on
the little table when the strarger knocked
at their door. Sal opened the door and
admitted him.
“ I came,” he began, courteously, “in
reply to your letter. Came to tell you
of the big fortune that is yours, as next
of kiu to an uncle who recently died,
and to take you all back home with me
—if you will go—to such a home as you
could hardly picture, that is all your
own.”
Sal hesitated; she knew the need of
money; she had long known pinching
want, but she loved the mountains and
the valleys where she had lived so long
— and there was Pete.
She hesitated only an instant, the
faces decided of the her. children, eagerly expectant,
“We can be ready anytime—to-mor¬
row if you’d rather.” then;
‘ ‘ To-morrow it is, we will stop
at the nearest town, and you can get any¬
thing you need for the long journey.”
He did not linger, but joined his guide
to return to Deer Creek for the night,
and learned for the first time the storyof
the murder.
“You don’t say! his How death? strange! Who
could have wished Poor fel¬
low, with a hundred thousand dollars
waiting for him. But Tom Sheldon al¬
ways was an hoped unlucky dog.” before she
Sal had to see Pete
left, but he failed to put in an ap¬
pearance. well, what’s the odds? I reckon
“Oh, girl by this time.
he’s found his other
Come children! are you all ready ?”
*
Four years later.
Deer Creek was a herself, big mining walking town its
now, and even Sal
handsome streets could barely recall old
landmarks.
If the town had changed, no less had
Sal, in her dress, her walk, seemingly
her entire self. She had been a hand
some lass with a strong, free step. She
was now a very pretty lady, elegantly
and gracefully attired. Joe, tall and
awkward, walked at her side.
“How strange it all seems ‘little
mother’,” he said, fondly. “The rude
shanty where we lived and where you
toiled so long; and then poor old father
had to be killed—don’t I wish I could
find that man!”
“I’d like to walk down the old road,”
said Sal, ‘‘‘it is less changed than the
town. I wonder It was herd he said good-by to Pete.
where is.”
“He was a rough, good hearted chap,
but he wasn’t good enough for you, not
half.’’
His companion did not answer, and
Joe continued:
“I’ll tell you what, if you’ll sit down
here and wait forme, I’ll go down to
where the old shanty stood and look
around a little.”
The day was lovely, and Sal felt old
memories stirred anew.
“Oh, Pete!” she thought, “you never
knew how much I loved you. Did you
find that other girl, I wonder?”
As if in answer to her unspoken
thought, Pete stood before her.
“Sal! I suppose its really yon, though
the folks call you now -Miss Sheldon.’ ”
“Oh, Pete! where did you come from?
I thought——”
“That you’d never see me any more?”
“Yes, and,” trying to smile, “where’s
your other girl, the one you went in
search of?”
“I never found her, Sal. I couldn’t,
having known you. I went in search of
something else.” Pete—wealth?”
“What,
“Yes—and your father's murderer. I
didn’t find much wealth, I’m an unlucky
chap, as you know, but I found him.”
“Oh, Pete!”
“Ye3, an’ he owned up to the whole
thing. He was on his dyiu’ had bed when him. I
found him—another fellow put
there, I didn’t have that honor. dad But he
said that aside from your and you
children, he was next of km, and would
come in for the whole, if you were never
found. He thought from what the
old man said that he had the letter on
his person—that letter you kill got and father kept.
So he jist meant to that he your dead
and answer the letter was
and had left no heirs. He committed
the cowardly deed, but failed to find the
letter, when he fled. That’s all, but it's
tbe truth. I followed him for two years
’fore I found him.”
“Dear, faithful last." Pete! I am glad to
know the truth at
“You’re fine folks now, you dress like
a lady and talk like one, but I’m glad
I’ve seen you once more anyhow.”
“You can see me always if you wish,
Pete, always.”
“You don’t mean it, Sal, you can’t?”
in overjoyed tones.
“Yes, I do. The children and I are
homesick for the mountains, and are
coming to stay.”
“Coming liitle back—and mountain to lass! me. in Oh, spite Sal, of
my own
the fine clothes. ”
“You’ll get use to them in time, and
you’ll not find my family troublesome;
they’ve enough money how to be independent. he is!”—
Here comes Joe; see tall
Yankee Blade.
Aii Accomplished Cow.
Mr. L. H. Thomas’s cow has been in
been in more trouble. A few weeks ago
the cow deliberately walked up to Dr.
H. M. Clarke’s yard, inserted a horn
through the crack in the gate, pressed
the latch, pulled the gate open aad
walked in. She than the repeated yard, the same and
operation and got into back
was making for the garden gate when
she was discovered by Dr. Clarke. Be¬
fore she succeeded in getting the garden
gate open Dr. Clarke shot her with a load
of buckshot. The cow She staggered deadly out pale of
the gate and fell. was
and soon lost consciousness. But after
awhile she recovered consciousness and
began to examine the nature of her
wounds. Those who know the cow wilt
remember that her tail has been cut off
at the end and the tail is slightly wound split.
The cow after finding that twisted the was
not necessarily fatal, her body
round so that she could reach the wound
with the tail, and began probing it with
one of the prongs of her tail. When she
discovered a buckshot she would put
both prongs of the tail in the wound
and use it as a pair of pincers, and ex¬
tract the shot with the dexterity of a
surgeon. She was soon able to be up
and about when she got the shot out.
She has so far recovered from her wounds
as to be able to unlock the gate to Col.
Green’s yard,eat up all the flowers in the
yard, and when discovered she had
broken through the glass sash of the
hot bouse and was quietly disposing of
geraniums, arbutulums, etc. The ge¬
raniums did not disagree with her. She
now thinks chews she her make-out cud complacently until another and
can
farmer’s wagon comes in.— MiUedgeville
( Ga .) Chronicle.