OWLET HARPS UPON HER ’VENTURES
In the morning, when both awoke almost simultaneously to a new sense of
their reunion, the sun was shining through their front windows.
When they arose from bed, Roma would have begun to wash and dress little
Owlet, just from the impulse of passionate affection, intensified by the
startling loss and sudden recovery of the child; but the changeling,
independent and self-reliant as ever, insisted that she both could and
would wash and dress her “own self.”
Which she did, making herself, in her cheap calico frock and white
apron, look like a rumpled pink and white hollyhock.
Then they went down by the elevator.
George Brown, son of the janitress, was running it.
“Where’s Titus?” inquired Owlet. “He wasn’t here when Mr. Merritt
brought me up in it.”
“Titus, dear, has been sick in the hospital, but he is getting well
now,” Roma explained.
The elevator touched the basement floor, and they got out.
When they entered the restaurant they found Tom waiting for them.
Owlet left Miss Fronde’s side and made a dash at him.
“Oh, Tom! I am so glad to see you!”
“So am I you, Miss Cafferine—moughty g’ad an’ moughty p’oud! But I doane
lib yere now. No mo’ do mammy. She take in washin’, an’ I fetch an’ ca’y
out clo’es.”
“How is it, then, that you are here this morning, Tom?” gently inquired
Miss Fronde.
“Yo’ see, mist’ess, dey aine no clo’es to ca’y out no mo’. Mammy say as
how she aine got no mo’ call to do no mo’ washin’, ’ca’se she’s gwine
down to de ole Sarpin’ to serve ’long ob yo’, mammy say. So I ax mammy,
mought I come ober yere to wait on yo’ table dis mornin’, an’ mammy say,
‘Yes, it is yo’ duty,’ mammy say. An’ den I yun ober yere an’ ax Mr.
’Pollyon Syphax mought I wait on yo’ table, an’ den I would help him wiv
de udders for nuffin, ’ca’se I did wan’ to wait on my own mist’ess and
Miss Cafferine. An’ Mr. ’Pollyon Syphax he say I mought, Mr. ’Pollyon
did. An’ so yere I is,” said Tom, with a broad grin of satisfaction.
“Thank you, Tom. It was very kind and thoughtful of you to come,” said
Miss Fronde, and her words filled the boy’s heart to overflowing with
delight.
And he served with zeal and dispatch.
After breakfast Roma took Owlet up to her room, and said:
“Now, my dear, the very first thing we have to do this morning is to go
down to Pennsylvania Avenue and get you an outfit.”
Owlet looked down at her common pink calico frock and white apron
critically, and said:
“Yes. This was pretty. I liked it very much when Mrs. Annie first gave
it to me, but now it is all rumpled up, isn’t it?”
“I should think so,” said Roma, with a smile.
“Well, you see, I wore it all day Monday, and rode in it all day
yesterday, and went to sleep in it on the cars, and tumbled about in it
on the cushions, I reckon, so now my frock is a sight to behold. Oh!
isn’t it, though?”
“Never mind, dear. Cover it with your little coat. That is very decent,”
said Roma.
“Yes. You see, woolen things don’t rumple like calico, do they, now?”
said Owlet as she drew on the little brown coat and carefully buttoned
it up before.
She next put on her little brown hat and gloves, and was ready to go out
by the time Miss Fronde got on her own walking jacket, hat and gloves.
They went down together, and out upon the sidewalk.
“Would you like to go and see where Aunt Lucy and Tom live?” Roma asked
as they left the house.
“Oh, wouldn’t I though!” Owlet exclaimed.
“Very well, then; we will go.”
They turned around the corner, scrambled though the bramble lot, and
reached the piece of woods in which Lucy’s bird nest stood.
“Oh! ain’t it just like a chicken coop?” merrily demanded Owlet.
“Something of the sort,” assented Roma.
They entered the cabin, and found Lucy mending old clothes, and Tom, who
had returned from the restaurant, was actually helping her, with needle,
thread and thimble.
As soon as Tom saw the visitors he sneaked his work behind his back,
with all a boy’s false shame at being caught at woman’s work.
“Mornin’ youn’ mist’ess. Hopes I sees yo’ well, ma’am,” said Lucy,
rising and placing two three-legged chairs for her visitors. “How do,
Miss Cafferine? Yo’ doane look as peart as yo’ used to did. Been sick?”
“Yes,” said Owlet as she seated herself on a very low stool beside Miss
Fronde’s rather larger one. “I should think I had been sick. And I have
been away from Lady so long—years and years and years. And I have had
’ventures. Not stories, mind you, like Jack the Giant Killer, and that,
because that’s nonsense; but real, bloody-minded ’ventures. No wonder I
look bad. Wonder my hair isn’t turned gray. I should have been dead and
gone by this time if Mr. William hadn’t found me and fetched me back.”
Lucy, with eyes and mouth both wide open, turned from the child to the
lady, and inquired:
“Wot de yittle fing mean, youn’ mist’ess?”
“She was stolen from me while we were at Goblin Hall, and she has been
very ill. But she was brought back to me, safe and well, last night. We
will not talk any more about it at present, Lucy.”
“All yight, youn’ mist’ess, ef yo’ say so, we won’t. But, oh, the
williany ob some people on dis yeth! Ef eber I cotch my eye on dat
lowlife trash, whoeber it was wot don’ it—umph-humphe!—dere’ll be a foot
yace or a fun’al. Now min’!”
“Well, Lucy, I only come to let Catherine see your little house, and now
we must go. Good-by,” said Miss Fronde, rising.
“Good-by, youn’ mist’ess. Me an’ Tom’ll be ready to go ’long ob yo’ any
time now.”
“I shall not go before next week; but in the meantime you may want to
make purchases before you go. Take this on account, for you and him,”
said Miss Fronde, and she put a twenty-dollar note in Lucy’s hand.
“Oh! thanky, youn’ mist’ess! Thanky, ma’am! Lor’! dis is twice mo’
money’n ebber I had ’fo’ in all de days ob my pilg’imidge,” said Lucy,
courtesying between every sentence.
“I gwine to come to wait on yo’ at dinner time, mist’ess. I gwine to
come wait on yo’ table ebbery time w’ile yo’ stay inter dat house. Mr.
’Pollyon Syphax say how I may. Mr. ’Pollyon Syphax moughty ’bligin’
colored gemman, Mr. ’Pollyon Syphax am,” said Tom, smiling in delight.
“Well, I fink ’Pollyon Syphax mought be ’bligin’ on such ’casions. Yo’
doin’ his work fo’ him, an’ me a gibbin’ Sa’ Ann Syphax my own house,
wot me an’ yo’ knock togedder wiv our own han’s out’n de ole camp
lumber, an’ all de stools an’ de fings as we made ourse’ves! An’ all a
f’ee gif’! I des yeckon how ’Pollyon Syphax mought be ’bligin’.”
Roma left Lucy holding forth on the Syphax indebtedness, and with a
smiling nod turned away from the cabin.
She led Owlet back across the bramble lot and down the street to the
northern starting point of the Fourteenth Street cars, found one empty,
and got into it with her.
They rode all the way down to the southern terminus, corner of F Street,
where they got out.
Roma, leading her protégée, walked across to the avenue, and down it to
a well-known emporium of ready-made clothing.
They entered this establishment, which was a perfect treasury of
necessary, useful and beautiful articles of wearing apparel for women
and children of all ages and conditions.
It required but a short time to select from such stores a sufficient
outfit for the child.
Having ordered her purchases to be sent to her address, Roma took Owlet
to the Children’s Hospital, to see Titus Blair.
The lad was quite overjoyed to see so soon again the lady who had
promised to take him to the seaside, and with her the little playmate
whom he had known at the Wesleyan Flats.
“She used to ride up and down in the elevator with me a great many times
a day, ma’am. It was almost the onliest amoosement she had, afore yo’
took her in han’, poor little thing!” Titus explained, looking fondly at
the child.
“I know,” said Miss Fronde.
Owlet seated herself beside the invalid boy, and said:
“Titus, I have got such lots and lots and lots to tell you! Not such
stories like Cinderella, because them’s all lies, you know; but real,
awful ’ventures with a wicked man, who was not possessed of a grain of
common sense, and stole children away and made them go dead! Yes, and
about horrid old women who smell enough to knock you down, and tell you
such lies! Oh! I’ve got lots of ’ventures to tell you, Titus.”
The boy stared first at the child and then at the lady.
“Yes, Titus,” she said, “little Catherine was stolen from Goblin Hall,
but you see we have got her back, safe and well. Now do not let us talk
about it any more to-day. It is not good for either of you. The doctor
says you can go to the seaside any time with me now.”
“Oh! can I, ma’am? Oh! won’t that be just glorious!”
“I hope it will do you good. I expect to leave on next Saturday. Have
you clothes enough, my boy? Or have you lost them during your illness?”
“I have some underclo’es here, ma’am, an’ this suit wot I’m a-wearin’ ob
now; an’ I’ve got a Sunday suit in my ole garret loft at the Vesleyan,
ma’am,” said the boy, with some pride in his poor wardrobe.
“Yes, I know you had very nice clothes when you ran the elevator. You
were always very neat.”
“Had to be, ma’am, an’ it took ’mos’ all my wages fo’ to keep me so; but
ef I hadn’t been I’d ’a’ lost my place, sure as a gun.”
“Have you any money left, my boy?”
“Just a dollar ’n eighty cents, ma’am, an’ I’m thinkin’ as I ought to
pay that to the hospital, ma’am. It aine much to offer ’em fo’ all dey
don’ fo’ me, but it’s ev’ry cen’ I have, an’ I think I ought ter offer
it ter ’em. What do yo’ think, ma’am?”
“I think you are quite right, and you might offer it to the hospital,”
said Miss Fronde, who was much too wise to discourage a boy in his
impulse of justice or generosity, from any mistaken kindness to him.
“Mrs. Brown has got it keepin’ fo’ me. Will yo’ please ask her to send
it ter me, so I kin give it ter ’em?”
“Certainly; and I will send it over by Tom this afternoon,” Roma
replied. Then, wishing to test the boy further, she inquired:
“If you pay all your savings away, Titus, what will you do when you get
well?”
“Go to work, ma’am. An’ I should do that anyways, whether I had any tin
or no,” promptly replied the lad.
“But perhaps you might not be able to get work.”
“Oh, yes, I should, ma’am. I never was out’n it till I got sick. Ef I
can’t get one sort o’ work I can get anudder. Yo’ see, ma’am, I can turn
my han’ to ’mos’ anythin’ in the way o’ plain, hard work,” said the lad,
with sublime self-reliance, and with unconscious heroism.
“Oh-h-h! Ain’t he possessed of common sense!” exclaimed Owlet in a
rapture of admiration.
“I quite agree with you, my little owl,” said Roma as she arose to take
leave of the boy, repeating her promise to send Tom with his money in
the afternoon.
“Thanky, ma’am. I’ll be awful glad to see old Tom! I haven’t seen him
since I have been in de hospital. I reckon Tom was too bashful to come
an’ see me, ’mong so many strangers.”
“Very likely; but he will be glad to come when he has the excuse of
being sent on an errand,” said Miss Fronde.
Before Roma left the hospital she spoke to both nurse and doctor,
telling them that as she had permission to do so, she should take Titus
Blair away on some evening, so as to have him ready to go with her party
the next week.
When they reached Miss Fronde’s apartments at the Wesleyan they found
that Owlet’s new outfit had arrived.
Owlet dressed herself in a seal-brown cashmere frock, trimmed with satin
of the same color, and went down with her lady to dinner.
They found Tom there, waiting to serve them.
When the dishes of the first course had been placed upon the table Roma
said:
“Tom, I wish to send you on an errand this afternoon, to take something
to Titus Blair, at the Children’s Hospital.”
“All yight, mist’ess,” said the boy, with a bow. “I’ll be yeady to go
’mediately arter dinner. I be moughty p’oud to go see po’ Titus.”
Half an hour later Roma got the sick boy’s little purse from Mrs. Brown
and gave it to Tom to take to its owner.
“You may tell Titus that you are going to the Isle of Storms with us,
Tom. I forgot to do so,” said Miss Fronde.
“Oh, mist’ess, I doane like to do dat,” replied the boy.
“But why?”
“’Ca’se it make po’ sick Titus feel so bad ’ca’se he can’t go, too.”
“But Titus is going with us.”
“Oh, Lor’, mist’ess! yo’ doane say so? Oh, aine I glad!”
“Yes. Now run away, or it will be too late for you to get admission to
the hospital.”
Tom only waited until he reached the sidewalk before he turned a
somersault for joy, stood on his head, and kicked, toppled over, picked
himself up, and ran, leaping and dancing, to the corner of Fourteenth
Street, to take the car for the Children’s Hospital.
That afternoon Roma found her first opportunity of questioning Owlet.
She heard every detail of her abduction from Goblin Hall, her journey,
and her sojourn in New York, that the child knew, and, much more than
any one else, had been able to draw from her.
All Miss Fronde’s worst suspicions were confirmed, and she resolved to
defend little Owlet against Hanson, even if she should have to do so in
the courts of justice, as the child’s “best friend.” She also emphasized
her resolution to take the orphan to Scotland with her, and to bring
her, if possible, to the acquaintance of that austere ancestress of whom
poor Marguerite Nouvellini had spoken with so much awe. She had written
three letters to that great lady, but had received no answers.
All the remainder of that week Roma spent in making her purchases and
other preparations for the sanitorium; in doing all of which she was
advised and assisted by Dr. Washburn.
By Tuesday evening all these goods had been packed and shipped on board
the _John Gordon_, bound from the port of Georgetown to Norfolk and New
York, and taking in the Isle of Storms, with other points, in its
course.
She had also engaged passage for herself and friends on the same
comfortable little boat.
The events of the voyage will be chronicled in the third and last of
this series, under the title of “TO HIS FATE,” published in cloth
binding, uniform with this volume.
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Good Fiction Worth Reading.
A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the
field of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and
diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.
A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE. A story of American Colonial Times. By Chauncey
C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary
scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true
American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter,
until the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love
story is a singularly charming idyl.
THE TOWER OF LONDON. A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady Jane Grey
and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four
illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.
This romance of the “Tower of London” depicts the Tower as palace,
prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is the
middle of the sixteenth century.
The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey,
and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable
characters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the
reader in the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably
over a half a century.
IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A Romance of the American Revolution. By
Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery,
and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of
the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking
a part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so
absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a
love romance it is charming.
GARTHOWEN. A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo.
with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
“This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare
before us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some
strong points of Welsh character—the pride, the hasty temper, the
quick dying out of wrath.... We call this a well-written story,
interesting alike through its romance and its glimpses into another
life than ours. A delightful and clever picture of Welsh village life.
The result is excellent.”—Detroit Free Press.
MIFANWY. The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with
four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
“This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to
read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it
is apparent at once, are as true to life as though the author had
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worked up in that touching and quaint strain which never grows
wearisome, no matter how often the lights and shadows of love are
introduced. It rings true, and does not tax the imagination.”—Boston
Herald.
DARNLEY. A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. By
G.P.R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
In point of publication, “Darnley” is that work by Mr. James which
follows “Richelieu,” and, if rumor can be credited, it was owing to
the advice and insistence of our own Washington Irving that we are
indebted primarily for the story, the young author questioning whether
he could properly paint the difference in the characters of the two
great cardinals. And it is not surprising that James should have
hesitated; he had been eminently successful in giving to the world the
portrait of Richelieu as a man, and by attempting a similar task with
Wolsey as the theme, was much like tempting fortune. Irving insisted
that “Darnley” came naturally in sequence, and this opinion being
supported by Sir Walter Scott, the author set about the work.
As a historical romance “Darnley” is a book that can be taken up
pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm
which those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have
claimed was only to be imparted by Dumas.
If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial
attention, the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic
“field of the cloth of gold” would entitle the story to the most
favorable consideration of every reader.
There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author
has taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom
history has credited with having entertained the tender passion one
for another, and he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world
must love.
CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE. By Lieut. Henry A. Wise,
U.S.N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns
who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come
through the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea
and those “who go down in ships” been written by one more familiar
with the scenes depicted.
The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which
will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is “Captain Brand,”
who, as the author states on his title page, was a “pirate of eminence
in the West Indies.” As a sea story pure and simple, “Captain Brand”
has never been excelled and as a story of piratical life, told without
the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no equal.
NICK OF THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By Robert
Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in
Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long
out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic
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settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of a
practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the story.
This new and tasteful edition of “Nick of the Woods” will be certain
to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird’s
clever and versatile pen.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 114–120 East 23d Street, New York
GUY FAWKES, A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason, By Wm. Harrison
Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank.
Price, $1.00.
The “Gunpowder Plot” was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the
King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was
weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of
extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In
their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits
concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were
arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other
prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the
entire romance.
THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio
Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth. 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
A book rather out of the ordinary is this “Spirit of the Border.” The
main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian
missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given
details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the
wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these,
as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and
at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent
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comparative security.
Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian “Village
of Peace” are given at some length, and with minute description. The
efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have
been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders
of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be
of interest to the student.
By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid
word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings
of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.
It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by
it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly
braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the
star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story,
simple and tender, runs through the book.
RICHELIEU. A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P. R.
James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,
$1.00.
In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, “Richelieu,” and was
recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.
In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great
cardinal’s life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it
was yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic
outbursts which overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost
wave of prosperity. One of the most striking portions of the story is
that of Cinq Mar’s conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal
cases; and the political trickery resorted to by royal favorites,
affording a better insight into the statecraft of that day than can be
had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful romance
of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and absorbing
interest has never been excelled.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52–58 Duane St., New York
WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII.,
Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth
12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.
“Windsor Castle” is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne
Boleyn. “Bluff King Hal,” although a well-loved monarch, was none too
good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable
acts, none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and
his marriage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King’s love was as
brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen,
attracted him, and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room
for her successor. This romance is one of extreme interest to all
readers.
HORSESHOE ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in
1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical
fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans
than Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which
depicts with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists
in South Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression
of the British under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton.
The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread of
the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning
those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is
never overdrawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared
neither time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love
story all that price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as
their share in the winning of the republic.
Take it all in all, “Horseshoe Robinson” is a work which should be
found on every book shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining
story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning
the colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once
more, well illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to
thousands who have long desired an opportunity to read the story
again, and to the many who have tried vainly in these latter days to
procure a copy that they might read it for the first time.
THE PEARL OF ORR’S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet
Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00
Written prior to 1862, the “Pearl of Orr’s Island” is ever new: a body
filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew
each time one reads them. One sees the “sea like an unbroken mirror
all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr’s Island,” and
straightway comes “the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach,
like the wild angry howl of some savage animal.”
Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which
came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel’s wings,
without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud
blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the
character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid
the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother’s breast.
There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that
Which Mrs. Stowe gives in “The Pearl of Orr’s Island.”
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 114–120 East 23d Street, New York
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.