CHAPTER XVIII.

Mark and Mr. Alford, after their disagreeable interview with the

Clamps, went to see Mr. Hardwick, whom they wished to congratulate. At

the door they were met by Lizzie, whose sad face said, "Hush!" Mark's

spirits fell instantly. "Is he worse?" he asked. A tear was the only

answer. He asked Mr. Alford to go for Mildred. "She has just come,"

said Lizzie.

They found Mr. Hardwick propped up in bed, whence he could look out of

the window. The church-spire rose on the one hand, and on the other

the chimney of the shop was seen above the trees on the river-bank. By

night the column of sparks had gladdened his eye, as he thought of the

cheerful industry of his sons. Mark tenderly pressed his uncle's hand,

and leaned over him with an affectionate, sorrowing interest.

"Der-don't take it to heart, my boy," said Mr. Hardwick. "I am very

h-happy."

"I am glad that the boys won't lose the shop," said Mark. "I see you

are looking out to the chimney."

"Yer-yes, it was thoughtful of Mr. Kinloch, and a special

Pr-Providence that the will was found."

"You know he mentioned his claim against me," said Mark; "that is

paid, and it doesn't matter; but I can't guess the reason for the

unusual kindness he has shown towards me."

The old man answered slowly, for his breathing was difficult and often

painful.

"It is an old story,--old as the dried f-flowers that Mildred told me

of,--but it had a f-fragrance once. Yer-your mother, Mark, was as

per-pretty a girl as you'd often see. Walter Kinloch ler-loved her,

and she him. He sailed to the Indies, an' some der-diff'culty

happened, so that the letters stopped. I d-don't know how 'twas. But

arter a while sh-she married your father. Mr. Kinloch, he m-married,

too; but I guess he nun-never forgot the girl of his choice."

Mark grasped his young wife's hand, at this tale of years gone by.

"The lock of hair and the rose were your mother's, then!" she

whispered. "Dear father! faithful, even in death, to his friends, and

to the memory of his first love! How much suffering and crime would

have been prevented, if he could only have uttered the words which his

heart prompted!"

"God forgive the woman!" said Mr. Hardwick, solemnly. None knew then

how much she had need of forgiveness, standing as she was on the brink

of that last fatal plunge!

Mr. Alford suggested that the fatigue of talking would wear upon the

enfeebled man, and advised that he should be left to get some rest, if

possible.

"To-morrow is S-Sabba'-day, ef I've counted right," said Mr. Hardwick.

"I sh-should like to see the sun on the st-heeple once more."

"Dear uncle, I hope you may see it a great many times. We must leave

you to rest."

"Good-night, mum-my children," he replied. "God b-bless you all! Let

me put my hands on your h-heads."

They knelt by his bedside, and he blessed them fervently. Mr. Alford

and Lizzie remained to attend upon him, and the others withdrew.

The night passed, how wearily! None could sleep, for through all the

air there was a presage of sorrow, a solemn "tingling silentness," to

which their senses were painfully alive. Who, that has passed the

interminable gloomy hours that preceded the departure of a loved and

venerated friend into the world of spirits, does not remember this

unutterable suspense, this fruitless struggle with eternal decrees,

this clinging of affection to the parting soul? What a sinking of the

heart even the recollection of such a scene produces!

The day dawned upon sleepless, tear-stained eyes. The dying man was

conscious, cheerful, and calmly breathing. In the adjoining room the

family sat beside the table on which was spread their untasted

breakfast.

The bell began to ring for meeting. Mr. Hardwick roused up at the

sound, and called for his children. He blessed them again, and placed

his hands on their bowed heads in turn. He thought of the psalms which

he had so often led, and he asked all to join in singing Billings's

"Jordan."

"There is a land of pure delight,

Where saints immortal reign;

Infinite day excludes the night,

And pleasures banish pain."

With faltering voices they sang the triumphal hymn. The old man's

eyes were fixed upon the steeple, which pointed upward through the

clear air, and shone in the golden light of the sun. He kept time with

a feeble movement, and once or twice essayed to raise his own wavering

voice. A smile of heavenly beauty played over his pallid features as

the music ceased,--a radiance like that crimson glow which covers the

mountain-top at dawn. He spoke almost inaudibly, as if in a trance;

then repeating with a musical flow the words of his favorite author,

"Where the bright seraphim in burning row

Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow,

And the cherubic host in thousand choirs

Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,

With those just spirits that wear victorious palms

Hymns devout and holy psalms

Singing everlastingly,"--

his voice sank again, though it was easy to see that a prayer trembled

on his lips. As a strain of music fades into silence, his tones fell

away, fainter and fainter; and with the same seraphic light on his

countenance his breathing ceased.

THE BIRTH-MARK.

A.D. 12--.

See, here it is, upon my breast,--

The bloody image of a hand!

On her white bosom it was pressed,

Who should have nursed--you understand;--

I never yet have named her name,

Nor will I, till 'tis free from shame.

The good old crone that tended me

Through sickly childhood, lonely youth,

Told me the story: so, you see,

I know it is God's sacred truth,

That holy lips and holy hands

In secrecy had blessed the bands.

And well he knew it, too,--the accursed!--

To whom my grandsire gave his child

With dying breath;--for from the first

He saw, and tried to snare the wild

And frightened love that thought to rest

Its wings upon my father's breast.

You may have seen him riding by,--

This same Count Bernard, stern and cold;

You know, then, how his creeping eye

One's very soul in charm will hold.

Snow-locks he wears, and gracious art;

But hell is whiter than his heart.

Well, as I said, the secret rite

Had joined them, and the two were one;

And so it chanced, one summer night,

When the half-moon had set, and none

But faint star-shadows on the grass

Lay watching for his feet to pass,

Led by the waiting light that gleamed

From out one chamber-window, came

The husband-lover;--soon they dreamed,--

Her lips still murmuring his name

In sleep,--while, as to guard her, fell

His arm across her bosom's swell.

The low wind shook the darkened pane,

The far clock chimed along the hall,

There came a moment's gust of rain,

The swallow chirped a single call

From his eaves'-nest, the elm-bough swayed

Moaning;--they slumbered unafraid.

Without a creak the chamber-door

Crept open!--with a cat-like tread,

Shading his lamp with hand that bore

A dagger, came beside their bed

The Count. His hair was tinged with gray:

Gold locks brown-mixed before him lay.

A thrust,--a groan,--a fearful scream,

As from the peace of love's sweet rest

She starts!--O God! what horrid dream

Swells her bound eyeballs? From her breast

Fall off the garments of the night,--

A red hand strikes her bosom's white!

She knew no more that passed; her ear

Caught not the hurried cries,--the rush

Of the scared household,--nor could hear

The voice that broke the after-hush:--

"There with her paramour she lay!

He lies here!--carry her away!"

The evening after I was born

No roses on the bier were spread,

As when for maids or mothers mourn

Pure-hearted ones who love the dead;

They buried her, so young, so fair,

With hasty hands and scarce a prayer.

Count Bernard gained the lands, while I,

Cast forth, forgotten, thus have grown

To manhood; for I could not die--

I cannot die--till I atone

For her great shame; and so you see

I track him, and he flies from me.

And one day soon my hand I'll lay

Upon his arm, with lighter touch

Than ladies use when in their play

They tap you with their fans; yet such

A thrill will freeze his every limb

As if the dead were clutching him!

I think that it would make you smile

To see him kneel and hear him plead,--

I leaning on my sword the while,

With a half-laugh, to watch his need:--

At last my good blade finds his heart,

And then this red stain will depart.

RAMBLES IN AQUIDNECK.

I.

NEWPORT BEACH.

Newport has many beaches, each bearing a distinctive appellation. To

the one of which we are speaking rightfully belongs the name of

Easton; but it is more widely known by that of the town itself, and

still more familiarly to the residents as "The Beach." It lies east of

the city, a mile from the harbor, and is about half a mile in length.

Its form is that of the new moon, the horns pointing southward.

Let us go there now. No better time could be chosen by the naturalist,

for the tide will be at its lowest ebb. Descending Bath Road, the

beautiful crescent lies before us on the right,--Easton's Pond, with

its back-ground of farms, upon the left. There is no wind to-day to

break the surface of the standing water, and it gives back the dwarf

willows upon its banks and the houses on the hill-side with more than

Daguerrian fidelity. The broad ocean lies rocking in the sunshine, not

as one a-weary, but resting at his master's bidding, waiting to begin

anew the work he loves. In the horizon, the ships, motionless in the

calm, spread all sail to catch the expected breeze. The waves idly

chase each other to the shore, in childish strife to kiss first the

mother Earth.

Turning the sea-wall and crossing a bit of shingle on the right, we

stand upon the western extremity of the beach.

At our feet, a smooth, globular object, of the size of a crab-apple,

is lying half-buried in the sand. Taking it in your hand, you find it

to be a univalve shell, the inhabitant of which is concealed behind a

closely-fitting door, resembling a flake of undissolved glue.

It is a Natica. Place it gently in this pool and watch for a few

moments. Slowly and cautiously the horny operculum is pushed out,

turned back, and hidden beneath a thick fleshy mantle, which spreads

over half the shell. Two long tentacles appear upon its front, like

the horns of an ox, and it begins to glide along upon its one huge

foot.

Had you seen it thus at first, you could not have believed it possible

for so bulky a body to be retracted into so small a shell. Lift it

into the air, and a stream of water pours forth as it contracts.

Two kinds are common here, one of which has a more conical spire than

the other. The animals differ somewhat in other points, but both have

a cream-colored base, and a mantle of pale cream clouded with purple.

You may get them from half an inch to three inches in diameter. Take

them home and domesticate them, and you will see surprising things.

I kept one of middling size for many months. During two or three weeks

I wondered how he lived, for he was never seen to eat. He used to

climb to the top of the tank and slide down the slippery glass as

though it were a _montagne russe_. Then he would wander about upon the

bottom, ploughing deep furrows in the sand, and end by burrowing

beneath it. There he would stay whole days, entirely out of sight.

One morning I found him on his back, his body bent upward, with the

edge of the base turned in all round towards the centre. Did you ever

see an apple-dumpling before it was boiled, just as the cook was

pinching the dough together? Yes? Then you may imagine the appearance

of my Natica; but no greening pared and cored lay within that puckered

wrapper.

Two days passed with no visible change; but on the third day the

strange gasteropod unfolded both himself and the mystery. From his

long embrace fell the shell of a Mactra, nearly as broad as his own.

Near the hinge was a smooth, round hole, through which the poor Clam

had been sucked. Foot, stomach, siphon, muscles, all but a thin strip

of mantle, were gone. The problem of the Natica's existence was

solved, and the verification was found in more than one Buccinum minus

the animal,--the number of the latter victims being still an unknown

quantity.

Not in sport had Natty driven the plough, not in idleness had he

hollowed the sand. He sought his food in the furrow, and dug riches in

the mine.

Doubtless he killed the bivalve,--for until the time of its

disappearance it had been in full vigor,--but with what weapon? And

whereabouts in that soft bundle was hidden the wimble which bored the

hole?

A few days after, a Crab, of the size of a dime, died. Nat soon

learned the fact, and enveloped the crustacean as he had done the

mollusk. Thirty hours sufficed to drill through the Crab's

foundation-wall, and to abstract the unguarded treasure.

Every week some rifled Trivittatum tells a new tale of his felonious

deeds.

His last feat was worthy of a cannibal, for it was the savage act of

devouring a fellow-Natica. You might suppose that in this case the

trap-like operculum would afford an easy entrance to one familiar with

its use; but, true to his secret system, the burglar broke in as

before. How did he do this? Did he abrade the stone-work with flinty

sand until a hole was worn? Did he apply an acid to the limy wall

until it opened before him? Who can find the tools of the cunning

workman, or the laboratory where his corrodents are composed?

Some rods farther south, the shore is covered with smooth stones, and

there you may find the Limpet in great numbers. Patella is the Latin

name, but children call it Tent-Shell. Oval at the base, it slopes

upward to a point a little aside from the centre.

In this locality they are small, seldom more than an inch in length.

At first, you will not readily distinguish them, they are so nearly of

the color of the stones to which they are attached. This is one of

those Providential adjustments by which the weak are rendered as

secure as the strong. Slow in their movements, without offensive

weapons, their form and their coloring are their two great safeguards.

The stones to which they adhere are variegated with brown and purple

blotches of incipient Coralline, and the shells are beautifully

mottled with every shade of those colors. Some are lilac, heightening

nearly to crimson; others are dark chocolate and white, sharply

checkered.

Pebbles and Patella alike are half-covered with Confervae, and from

the top of the latter, fronds of Ulva are often found floating like

flags. I have one with a clump of Corallina rising from its apex, like

a coppice on the summit of a hill.

By atmospheric pressure, its union with the stone is so close that it

is not easy to pull it away without injury; but if you slip it along,

until by some slight inequality air is admitted beneath the hitherto

exhausted receiver, the little pneumatician is obliged to yield.

When turned upon its back, or resting against glass, the soft arms,

sprawling aimlessly about, and the bare, round head, give it the

appearance of an infant in a cradle, so that a tank well stocked with

them might be taken for a Liliputian foundling-hospital.

They are as innocent as they look, being vegetable-feeders, and

finding most of their sustenance in matters suspended in the water. A

friend of mine placed several upon the side of a vessel coated with

Conferva. In a few days, each industrious laborer had mowed round him

a circular space several times larger than himself.

They are not ambulatory, but remain on one spot for successive weeks,

perhaps longer.

Sometimes they raise the shell so as to allow a free circulation

beneath; but if some predatory Prawn draw near, the tent is lowered in

a twinkling, so as effectually to shut out the submarine Tartar.

Tread warily, or you will trip upon the slimy Fucus that fringes the

seaward side of every rock. This is one of the few Algae that grow

here in luxuriance. The slate has not the deep fissures necessary to

afford shelter to the more delicate kinds; and the heavy swell of the

sea drags them from their slight moorings. Therefore, though Ulva,

Chondrus, Cladophora, Enteromorpha, and as many more, are within our

reach, we will not stop to gather them; for Newport has other shores,

where we can get them in full perfection.

We will take some tufts of Corallina, however, for that is temptingly

fine. What a curious plant it is! Its root, a mere crustaceous disk,

and its fronds, depositing shelly matter upon their surface, bear so

strong a resemblance to the true Corals, that, until recently,

naturalists have thought it a zoophyte.

Here the plants are of a dull brick-red; but in less exposed

situations they are purple. If you wish them to live and increase, you

must chip off a bit of the rock on which they are growing. With a

chisel, or even a knife, you can do it without difficulty, for the

soft slate scales and crumbles under a slight blow.

For an herbarium, it ought to be gummed at once to the paper, for it

becomes so brittle, in drying, that it falls to pieces with the most

careful handling. In the air and light it fades white, but the

elegance of its pinnate branches will well repay any pains you may

bestow upon it.

If you have a lingering belief in its animal nature, steeping it in

acid will cause the carbonate of lime and your credulity to disappear

together, leaving the vegetable tissue clearly revealed.

Between low-water and the Cliff are hundreds of pools rich in

vegetable and animal life--Look at this one: it is a lakelet of

exquisite beauty. Bordered with the olive-colored Rock-Weed, fronds of

purple and green Laver rise from its limpid depths. Amphipods of

varied hue emerge from the clustering weeds, cleave the clear water

with easy swiftness, and hide beneath the opposite bank. Here a

graceful Annelid describes Hogarth's line of beauty upon the sandy

bottom. There another glides over the surface with sinuous course,

rowed by more oars than a Venetian galley, more brilliant in its

iridescence than the barge of Cleopatra, albeit

"The poop was beaten gold,

Purple the sails."

We loiter here, forgetful that we are only at the first end of the bow

along whose curve we propose to walk. Let us go on. The firm sand

affords pleasanter footing than the slippery stones we leave behind

us, but it seems bare of promise to the curiosity-hunter. Nevertheless

we will hunt, and quite at variance with my experience will it be, if

we return empty-handed.

Here is something already. Dark-colored, horny, flat, oblong, each

corner furnished with a wiry, thorn-like projection;--what is it? A

child tells you it is a Mermaid's Purse, and, giving the empty bag a

shake, you straightway conclude that the maids of the sea know "hard

times," as well as those of the land. But the Purse is not always so

light. Sometimes it is found to contain a most precious deposit, the

egg which is to produce a future fish.

These egg-cases belong to different members of the Ray family. I saw

one last winter, in which the inmate was fully developed. Should some

old seaman hear me, he might say that I am telling a "fish-story" in

good earnest. He might inform you furthermore, that the object in

question is "but a pod of sea-weed, and that he has seen hundreds of

them in the Gulf Stream." I cannot help it, neither do I question his

veracity. Notwithstanding, these two eyes of mine, in sound condition,

awake, and in broad day, did see the supposed pericarp, with one side

taken off, and did behold, lying within, as veritable a Raia as ever

was caught upon the New-England coast. Moreover, its countenance was

no more classical, in its minuteness, than that of its most ancient

ancestor in its hugeness.

Observe those bubbles trembling upon the edge of the wave. One is left

by the receding tide, and a nearer view shows it to be a jelly-like

globe, clearer than the crystal of Merlin. Dropped softly into a

vessel of water, at first it lies quiescent and almost invisible upon

the bottom. A moment after, it rises in quick undulations, flashing

prismatic tints with every motion. Again it rests, and we see that it

is banded by eight meridians, composed of square, overlapping plates.

It swims, and the plates become paddles, propelling the frail craft,--

prisms, dividing the sunbeams into rainbow hues. Suddenly two lines of

gossamer are dropped from unseen openings in its sides, and trailed

behind it as it goes. Twisting, lengthening, shortening, they are

drawn back and re-coiled within, and

"The ethereal substance closed,

Not long divisible."

This delicate wonder is the Cydippe. Though among the most charming of

marine creatures, none is more liable to be overlooked, owing to its

extreme subtilty. So unsubstantial and shadowy are they, that a lady,

on seeing them for the first time, declared them to be "the ghosts of

gooseberries." Indeed, you will find them ghost-like, if you attempt

to keep them, for they

"Shrink in haste away

And vanish from our sight."

The whole high-water line is strewn with the blanched and parted

valves of the Beach Clam. Here and there yellowish streaks appear upon

the gray sand, formed by the detritus of submarine shells. Among the

fragments are often found perfect specimens, some of them with the

living animal.

We can examine them as we go back, but now let us cross the "Creek."

It is a creek only by courtesy or an Americanism, at the present day;

but when those miles of fertile fields upon the north were

unreclaimed, the dank herbage hindered evaporation, and Easton's Pond

was fed by unfailing streams. Then the vast body of overflowing water

swept a deep channel, which the sea, rolling far up towards the pond,

widened and made permanent. Boats came from ships in the offing, and

followed its course to "Green End," with no fear of grounding; and

traditionary pirates there bestowed in secret caves their ill-gotten

gains.

Now, the Creek is a mere streamlet, and the flow of the tide is

restricted to its mouth. With our rubbers we may ford it dry-shod; but

if you choose to cross the bridge, we must wade through shifting sand,

and our walk will be the longer. In midsummer the bed is dry, and

almost obliterated by the drift. On the approach of autumnal rains,

the farmers plough a passage for the water, to prevent their lands

from being submerged.

On the east side, masses of conglomerate rock are strewn in wild

confusion. By the action of untold ages the connecting cement is worn

away from between the pebbles, leaving them prominent; and wherever

the attrition of the sea has loosened one from its bed, the hollow has

become the habitation of Mollusca and Algae.

Beyond that ponderous boulder are many dark recesses among the

overlying stones. Strip back your sleeve, thrust in your hand, and

grope carefully about. In this way I once grasped a prickly thing that

startled me. Drawing it to light, it proved to be an Echinus,

Sea-Urchin, or Sea-Egg. That one was not larger than a walnut, was

shaped like a _brioche_, and resembled a chestnut-burr. Its color was

a delicate green, verging to brown.

Much larger living Echini are found on this spot. There is a shell

now, more than two inches in diameter. It is wholly covered with

spines half an inch in length. Radiating from a common centre,

flexible at the base, they stand erect at right angles with the shell

when the Urchin is in health; but in disease or death order is lost,

and they lie across each other in great confusion. Their connection

with the shell is very remarkable, for it is by a ball-and-socket

joint,--the same articulation which gives the human hip its marvellous

liberty of action. Between them are five rows of minute holes, and, in

life, a transparent, hair-like foot is protruded from each, at the

pleasure of the owner. When disposed to change its situation, it

stretches forth those on the side towards which it would go, fixes

them by means of the sucker at the tip of each, and, simultaneously

withdrawing those in the rear, pulls itself along.

The mouth, placed in the centre of the base, is very large in

proportion to the size of the animal. It is formed of five shelly,

wedge-shaped pieces, each ending in a hard, triangular tooth. The

whole mouth is a conical box, called by naturalists "Aristotle's

lantern."

The shell is hardly thicker than that of a hen's egg, and is even more

fragile. When the spines are rubbed off, the brioche-like shape is

modified, and in place of the depression in the middle of the upper

side there is seen a slight prominence.

Mine was a very inoffensive creature. He occupied the same corner for

many weeks, and changed his place only when a different arrangement of

stones was made. He then wandered to a remote part of the tank and

chose a new abode. Both retreats were on the shady side of a stone

overhung with plants. There for months he quietly kept house, only

going up and down his hand-breadth of room once or twice a day.

Minding his own business without hurt to his neighbor, he dwelt in

unambitious tranquillity. Had he not fallen a victim to the most cruel

maltreatment, he might still adorn his humble station.

As he was sitting one evening at the door of his house, bending about

his lithe arms in the way he was wont, two itinerant Sticklebacks

chanced to pass that way. They paused, and, not seeing the necessity

for organs of which they had never known the use, they at once decided

on their removal.

In vain did the poor Hedgehog oppose them. With all the pertinacity of

ignorance, they maintained their certainty of his abnormal condition;

and with all the officiousness of quackery, they insisted upon

immediate amputation. Aided by two volunteer assistants, the self-made

surgeons cut off limb after limb before their reckless butchery could

be stopped.

At last I effected their dismissal. But their pitiable patient was too

far reduced for recovery. His exhausted system never rallied from the

shock, and he survived but a few days.

Alas! alas! that so exemplary a member of the community should have

perished through piscine empiricism!

How many things you have collected! Your well-filled basket attests

your industry and zeal, and suggests the fruitful question of the

novelist, "What will you do with it?" Will you throw its contents on

the sand, and go away satisfied with these imperfect glimpses of

sea-life? Will you take them home indeed, but consign them to a

crowded bowl, to die like the prisoners in the Black Hole of Calcutta?

Or will you give to each a roomy basin with water, and plants to keep

it pure?

This were well; and you could thus study their structure at leisure,

but not their habits. To know the character of an individual, you must

watch him among his fellows; you must observe his bearing to the

small; you must see how he demeans himself in presence of the great.

To do this, the surroundings must be such that none shall be conscious

of restraint, but that every one, with homely ease, may act out his

own peculiar nature. In short, you must make ready for them another

Atlantic, in all things but breadth like its grand prototype.

Nor is this a difficult undertaking. By following the advice of some

experienced person, you may avoid all those failures which are apt to

attend the experiments of a tyro. I will direct you to our pioneer in

aquarian science, Mr. Charles E. Hammett. He can furnish you with all

you want, give you most efficient aid, and add thereto a great amount

of practical information.

You need have no fears for the population of your colony; for in our

future walks we shall meet new objects of beauty and interest, and in

such variety and abundance that your only embarrassment will be which

to choose.

And now the ramble of to-day is ended. The "punctual sea" has risen,

and, waking his dreaming waves, he gives to them their several tasks.

Some, with gentle touch, lave the heated rock; these, swift of foot,

bring drink to the thirsty sand; those carry refreshing coolness to

the tepid pool. Charged with blessings come they all, and, singing

'mid their joyous labor, they join in a chorus of praise to their God

and our God; while from each of our hearts goes up the ready response,

"Thou, Lord, hast made me glad through thy works, and I will rejoice

in giving praise for the operations of thy hands!"

ANN POTTER'S LESSON.

My sister Mary Jane is older than I,--as much as four years. Father

died when we were both small, and didn't leave us much means beside

the farm. Mother was rather a weakly woman; she didn't feel as though

she could farm it for a living. It's hard work enough for a man to get

clothes and victuals off a farm in West Connecticut; it's up-hill work

always; and then a man can turn to, himself, to ploughin' and

mowin';--but a woman a'n't of no use, except to tell folks what to do;

and everybody knows it's no way to have a thing done, to send.

Mother talked it all over with Deacon Peters, and he counselled her to

sell off all the farm but the home-lot, which was sot out for an

orchard with young apple-trees, and had a garden-spot to one end of

it, close by the house. Mother calculated to raise potatoes and beans

and onions enough to last us the year round, and to take in sewin'

so's to get what few groceries we was goin' to want. We kept Old Red,

the best cow; there was pasture enough for her in the orchard, for the

trees wa'n't growed to be bearin' as yet, and we 'lotted a good deal

on milk to our house; besides, it saved butcher's meat.

Mother was a real pious woman, and she was a high-couraged woman too.

Old Miss Perrit, an old widder-woman that lived down by the bridge,

come up to see her the week after father died. I remember all about

it, though I wa'n't but ten years old; for when I see Miss Perrit

comin' up the road, with her slimpsy old veil hanging off from her

bumbazine bonnet, and her doleful look, (what Nancy Perrit used to

call "mother's company-face,") I kinder thought she was comin' to our

house; and she was allers so musical to me, I went in to the

back-door, and took up a towel I was hemmin', and set down in the

corner, all ready to let her in. It don't seem as if I could 'a' been

real distressed about father's dyin' when I could do so; but children

is just like spring weather, rainin' one hour and shinin' the next,

and it's the Lord's great mercy they be; if they begun to be feelin'

so early, there wouldn't be nothin' left to grow up. So pretty quick

Miss Perrit knocked, and I let her in. We hadn't got no spare room in

that house; there was the kitchen in front, and mother's bed-room, and

the buttery, and the little back-space opened out on't behind. Mother

was in the bed-room; so, while I called her, Miss Perrit set down in

the splint rockin'-chair that creaked awfully, and went to rockin'

back and forth, and sighin', till mother come in. "Good-day, Miss

Langdon!" says she, with a kind of a snuffle, "how _dew_ you dew? I

thought I'd come and see how you kep' up under this here affliction. I

rec'lect very well how I felt when husband died. It's a dreadful thing

to be left a widder in a hard world;--don't you find it out by this?"

I guess mother felt quite as bad as ever Miss Perrit did, for

everybody knew old Perrit treated his wife like a dumb brute while he

was alive, and died drunk; but she didn't say nothin'. I see her give

a kind of a swaller, and then she spoke up bright and strong.

"I don't think it is a hard world, Miss Perrit. I find folks kind and

helpful, beyond what I'd any right to look for. I try not to think

about my husband, any more than I can help, because I couldn't work,

if I did, and I've got to work. It's most helpful to think the Lord

made special promises to widows, and when I remember Him I a'n't

afeard."

Miss Perrit stopped rockin' a minute, and then she begun to creak the

chair and blow her nose again, and she said,--

"Well, I'm sure it's a great mercy to see anybody rise above their

trouble the way you do; but, law me! Miss Langdon, you a'n't got

through the fust pair o' bars on't yet. Folks is allers kinder

neighborly at the fust; they feel to help you right off, every way

they can,--but it don't stay put, they get tired on't; they blaze

right up like a white-birch-stick, an' then they go out all of a heap;

there's other folks die, and they don't remember you, and you're just

as bad off as though you wa'n't a widder."

Mother kind of smiled,--she couldn't help it; but she spoke up again

just as steady.

"I don't expect to depend on people, Miss Perrit, so long as I have my

health. I a'n't above takin' friendly help when I need to, but I mean

mostly to help myself. I can get work to take in, and when the girls

have got their schoolin' they will be big enough to help me. I am not

afraid but what I shall live and prosper, if I only keep my health."

"Hem, well!" whined out Miss Perrit. "I allers thought you was a

pretty mighty woman, Miss Langdon, and I'm glad to see you're so

high-minded; but you a'n't sure of your health, never. I used to be

real smart to what I am now, when Perrit was alive; but I took on so,

when he was brought home friz to death that it sp'iled my nerves; and

then I had to do so many chores out in the shed, I got cold and had

the dreadfullest rheumatiz! and when I'd got past the worst spell of

that and was quite folksy again, I slipped down on our door-step and

kinder wrenched my ankle, and ef't hadn't 'a' been for the neighbors,

I don't know but what Nancy and I should 'a' starved."

Mother did laugh this time. Miss Perrit had overshot the mark.

"So the neighbors were helpful, after all!" said she. "And if ever I

get sick, I shall be willin' to have help, Miss Perrit. I'm sure I

would take what I would give; I think givin' works two ways. I don't

feel afraid yet."

Miss Perrit groaned a little, and wiped her eyes, and got up to go

away. She hadn't never offered to help mother, and she went off to the

sewing-circle and told that Miss Langdon hadn't got no feelings at

all, and she b'lieved she'd just as soon beg for a livin' as not.

Polly Mariner, the tailoress, come and told mother all she said next

day, but mother only smiled, and set Polly to talkin' about the best

way to make over her old cloak. When she was gone, I begun to talk

about Miss Perrit, and I was real mad; but mother hushed me right up.

"It a'n't any matter, Ann," said she. "Her sayin' so don't make it so.

Miss Perrit's got a miserable disposition, and I'm sorry for her; a

mint of money wouldn't make her happy; she's a doleful Christian, she

don't take any comfort in anything, and I really do pity her."

And that was just the way mother took everything.

At first we couldn't sell the farm. It was down at the foot of

Torringford Hill, two good miles from meetin', and a mile from the

school-house; most of it was woodsy, and there wa'n't no great market

for wood about there. So for the first year Squire Potter took it on

shares, and, as he principally seeded it down to rye, why, we sold the

rye and got a little money, but 'twa'n't a great deal,--no more than

we wanted for clothes the next winter. Aunt Langdon sent us down a lot

of maple-sugar from Lee, and when we wanted molasses we made it out of

that. We didn't have to buy no great of groceries, for we could spin

and knit by fire-light, and, part of the land bein' piny woods, we had

a good lot of knots that were as bright as lamps for all we wanted.

Then we had a dozen chickens, and by pains and care they laid pretty

well, and the eggs were as good as gold. So we lived through the first

year after father died, pretty well.

Anybody that couldn't get along with mother and Major (I always called

Mary Jane "Major" when I was real little, and the name kind of stayed

by) couldn't get along with anybody. I was as happy as a cricket

whilst they were by, though, to speak truth, I wasn't naturally so

chirpy as they were; I took after father more, who was a kind of a

despondin' man, down-hearted, never thinkin' things could turn out

right, or that he was goin' to have any luck. That was my natur', and

mother see it, and fought ag'inst it like a real Bunker-Hiller; but

natur' is hard to root up, and there was always times when I wanted to

sulk away into a corner and think nobody wanted me, and that I was

poor and humbly, and had to work for my living.

I remember one time I'd gone up into my room before tea to have one of

them dismal fits. Miss Perrit had been in to see mother, and she'd

been tellin' over what luck Nancy'd had down to Hartford: how't she

had gone into a shop, and a young man had been struck with her good

looks, an' he'd turned out to be a master-shoemaker, and Nancy was

a-goin' to be married, and so on, a rigmarole as long as the moral

law,--windin' up with askin' mother why she didn't send us girls off

to try our luck, for Major was as old as Nance Perrit. I'd waited to

hear mother say, in her old bright way, that she couldn't afford it,

and she couldn't spare us, if she had the means, and then I flung up

into our room, that was a lean-to in the garret, with a winder in the

gable end, and there I set down by the winder with my chin on the

sill, and begun to wonder why we couldn't have as good luck as the

Perrits. After I'd got real miserable, I heerd a soft step comin' up

stairs, and Major come in and looked at me and then out of the winder.

"What's the matter of you, Anny?" said she.

"Nothing," says I, as sulky as you please.

"Nothing always means something," says Major, as pleasant as pie; and

then she scooched down on the floor and pulled my two hands away, and

looked me in the face as bright and honest as ever you see a dandelion

look out of the grass. "What is it, Anny? Spit it out, as John Potter

says; you'll feel better to free your mind."

"Well," says I, "Major, I'm tired of bad luck."

"Why, Anny! I didn't know as we'd had any. I'm sure, it's three years

since father died, and we have had enough to live on all that time,

and I've got my schooling, and we are all well; and just look at the

apple-trees,--all as pink as your frock with blossoms; that's good for

new cloaks next winter, Anny."

"'Ta'n't that, Major. I was thinkin' about Nancy Perrit. If we'd had

the luck to go to Hartford, may-be you'd have been as well off as she;

and then I'd have got work, too. And I wish I was as pretty as she is,

Major; it does seem too bad to be poor and humbly too."

I wonder she didn't laugh at me, but she was very feelin' for folks,

always. She put her head on the window-sill along of mine, and kinder

nestled up to me in her lovin' way, and said, softly,--

"I wouldn't quarrel with the Lord, Anny."

"Why, Major! you scare me! I haven't said nothing against the Lord.

What do you mean?" said I,--for I was touchy, real touchy.

"Well, dear, you see we've done all we can to help ourselves; and

what's over and above, that we can't help,--that is what the Lord

orders, a'n't it? and He made you, didn't He? You can't change your

face; and I'm glad of it, for it is Anny's face, and I wouldn't have

it changed a mite: there'll always be two people to think it's sightly

enough, and may-be more by-and-by; so I wouldn't quarrel with it, if I

was you."

Major's happy eyes always helped me. I looked at her and felt better.

She wasn't any better-lookin' than I; but she always was so chirk, and

smart, and neat, and pretty-behaved, that folks thought she was

handsome after they knowed her.

Well, after a spell, there was a railroad laid out up the valley, and

all the land thereabouts riz in price right away; and Squire Potter he

bought our farm on speculation, and give a good price for it; so't we

had two thousand dollars in the bank, and the house and lot, and the

barn, and the cow. By this time Major was twenty-two and I was

eighteen; and Squire Potter he'd left his house up on the hill, and

he'd bought out Miss Perrit's house, and added on to't, and moved down

not far from us, so's to be near the railroad-depot, for the sake of

bein' handy to the woods, for cuttin' and haulin' of them down to the

track. Twasn't very pleasant at first to see our dear old woods goin'

off to be burned that way; but Squire Potter's folks were such good

neighbors, we gained as much as we lost, and a sight more, for folks

are greatly better'n trees,--at least, clever folks.

There was a whole raft of the Potters, eight children of 'em all, some

too young to be mates for Major and me; but Mary Potter, and Reuben,

and Russell, they were along about as old as we were: Russell come

between Major and me; the other two was older.

We kinder kept to home always, Major and me, because we hadn't any

brothers to go out with us; so we were pretty shy of new friends at

first. But you couldn't help bein' friendly with the Potters, they was

such outspoken, kindly creturs, from the Squire down to little Hen.

And it was very handy for us, because now we could go to

singin'-schools and quiltin's, and such-like places, of an evenin';

and we had rather moped at home for want of such things,--at least I

had, and I should have been more moped only for Major's sweet ways.

She was always as contented as a honey-bee on a clover-head, for the

same reason, I guess.

Well, there was a good many good things come to us from the Potters'

movin' down; but by-and-by it seemed as though I was goin' to get the

bitter of it. I'd kept company pretty steady with Russell. I hadn't

give much thought to it, neither; I liked his ways, and he seemed to

give in to mine very natural, so't we got along together first-rate.

It didn't seem as though we'd ever been strangers, and I wasn't one to

make believe at stiffness when I didn't feel it. I told Russell pretty

much all I had to tell, and he was allers doin' for me and runnin'

after me jest as though he'd been my brother. I didn't know how much I

did think of him, till, after a while, he seemed to take a sight of

notice of Major. I can't say he ever stopped bein' clever to me, for

he didn't; but he seemed to have a kind of a hankerin' after Major all

the time. He'd take her off to walk with him; he'd dig up roots in the

woods for her posy-bed; he'd hold her skeins of yarn as patient as a

little dog; he'd get her books to read. Well, he'd done all this for

me; but when I see him doin' it for her, it was quite different; and

all to once I know'd what was the matter. I'd thought too much of

Russell Potter.

Oh, dear! those was dark times! I couldn't blame him; I knew well

enough Major was miles and miles better and sweeter and cleverer than

I was; I didn't wonder he liked her; but I couldn't feel as if he'd

done right by me. So I schooled myself considerable, talking to myself

for being jealous of Major. But 'twasn't all that;--the hardest of it

all was that I had to mistrust Russell. To be sure, he hadn't said

nothin' to me in round words; I couldn't ha' sued him; but he'd looked

and acted enough; and now,--dear me! I felt all wrung out and flung

away!

By-and-by Major begun to see somethin' was goin' wrong, and so did

Russell. She was as good as she could be to me, and had patience with

all my little pettish ways, and tried to make me friendly with

Russell; but I wouldn't. I took to hard work, and, what with cryin'

nights, and hard work all day, I got pretty well overdone. But it all

went on for about three months, till one day Russell come up behind

me, as I was layin' out some yarn to bleach down at the end of the

orchard, and asked me if I'd go down to Meriden with him next day, to

a pic-nic frolic, in the woods.

"No!" says I, as short as I could.

Russell looked as though I had slapped him. "Anny," says he, "what

have I done?"

I turned round to go away, and I catched my foot in a hank of yarn,

and down I come flat on to the ground, havin' sprained my ankle so bad

that Russell had to pick me up and carry me into the house like a

baby.

There was an end of Meriden for me; and he wouldn't go, either, but

come over and sat by me, and read to me, and somehow or other, I don't

remember just the words, he gave me to understand that--well--that he

wished I'd marry him.

It's about as tirin' to be real pleased with anything as it is to be

troubled, at first. I couldn't say anything to Russell; I just cried.

Major wasn't there; mother was dryin' apples out in the shed; so

Russell he didn't know what to do; he kind of hushed me up, and begged

of me not to cry, and said he'd come for his answer next day. So he

come, and I didn't say, "No," again. I don't believe I stopped to

think whether Major liked him. She would have thought of me, first

thing;--I believe she wouldn't have had him, if she'd thought I wanted

him. But I a'n't like Major; it come more natural to me to think about

myself; and besides, she was pious, and I wasn't. Russell was.

However, it turned out all right, for Major was 'most as pleased as I

was; and she told me, finally, that she'd known a long spell that

Russell liked me, and the reason he'd been hangin' round her so long

was, he'd been tellin' her his plans, and they'd worked out

considerable in their heads before she could feel as though he had a

good enough lookout to ask me to marry him.

That wasn't so pleasant to me, when I come to think of it; I thought

I'd ought to have been counselled with. But it was just like Major;

everybody come to her for a word of help or comfort, whether they took

her idee or not,--she had such feelin' for other folks's trouble.

I got over that little nub after a while; and then I was so pleased,

everything went smooth ag'in. I was goin' to be married in the spring;

and we were goin' straight out to Indiana, onto some wild land Squire

Potter owned out there, to clear it and settle it, and what Russell

cleared he was to have. So mother took some money out of the bank to

fit me out, and Major and I went down to Hartford to buy my things.

I said before, we wasn't either of us any great things to look at; but

it come about that one day I heerd somebody tell how we did look, and

I thought considerable about it then and afterwards. We was buyin'

some cotton to a store in the city, and I was lookin' about at all the

pretty things, and wonderin' why I was picked out to be poor when so

many folks was rich and had all they wanted, when presently I heerd a

lady in a silk gown say to another one, so low she thought I didn't

hear her,--"There are two nice-looking girls, Mrs. Carr."

"Hem,--yes," said the other one; "they look healthy and strong: the

oldest one has a lovely expression, both steady and sweet; the other

don't look happy."

I declare, that was a fact. I was sorry, too, for I'd got everything

in creation to make anybody happy, and now I was frettin' to be rich.

I thought I'd try to be like Major; but I expect it was mostly because

of the looks of it, for I forgot to try before long.

Well, in the spring we was married; and when I come to go away, Major

put a little red Bible into my trunk for a weddin' present; but I was

cryin' too hard to thank her. She swallowed down whatever choked her,

and begged of me not to cry so, lest Russell should take it hard that

I mourned to go with him. But just then I was thinkin' more of Major

and mother than I was of Russell; they'd kept me bright and cheery

always, and kept up my heart with their own good ways when I hadn't no

strength to do it for myself; and now I was goin' off alone with

Russell, and he wasn't very cheerful-dispositioned, and somehow my

courage give way all to once.

But I had to go; railroads don't wait for nobody; and what with the

long journey, and the new ways and things and people, I hadn't no time

to get real down once before we got to Indiana. After we left the boat

there was a spell of railroad, and then a long stage-ride to

Cumberton; and then we had to hire a big wagon and team, so's to get

us out to our claim, thirty miles west'ard of Cumberton. I hadn't no

time to feel real lonesome now, for all our things hed got to be

onpacked, and packed over ag'in in the wagon; some on 'em had to be

stored up, so's to come another time. We was two days gettin' to the

claim, the roads was so bad,--mostly what they call corduroy, but a

good stretch clear mud-holes. By the time we got to the end on't, I

was tired out, just fit to cry; and such a house as was waitin' for

us!--a real log shanty! I see Russell looked real beat when he see my

face; and I tried to brighten up; but I wished to my heart I was back

with mother forty times that night, if I did once. Then come the worst

of all, clutterin' everything right into that shanty; for our

frame-house wouldn't be done for two months, and there wa'n't scarce

room for what we'd brought, so't we couldn't think of sendin' for what

was stored to Cumberton. I didn't sleep none for two nights, because

of the whip-poor-wills that set on a tree close by, and called till

mornin' light; but after that I was too tired to lie awake.

Well, it was real lonesome, but it was all new at first, and Russell

was to work near by, so't I could see him, and oftentimes hear him

whistle; and I had the garden to make, round to the new house, for I

knew more about the plantin' of it than he did, 'specially my

posy-bed, and I had a good time gettin' new flowers out of the woods.

And the woods was real splendid,--great tall tulip-trees, as high as a

steeple and round as a quill, without any sort o' branches ever so fur

up, and the whole top full of the yeller tulips and the queer

snipped-lookin' shiny leaves, till they looked like great bow-pots on

sticks; then there's lots of other great trees, only they're all

mostly spindled up in them woods. But the flowers that grow round on

the ma'sh edges and in the clearin's do beat all.

So time passed along pretty glib till the frame-house was done, and

then we had to move in, and to get the things from Cumberton, and

begin to feel as though we were settled for good and all; and after

the newness had gone off, and the clearin' got so fur that I couldn't

see Russell no more, and nobody to look at, if I was never so

lonesome, then come a pretty hard spell. Everything about the house

was real handy, so't I'd get my work cleared away, and set down to sew

early; and them long summer-days that was still and hot, I'd set, and

set, never hearin' nothin' but the clock go "tick, tick, tick," (never

"tack," for a change,) and every now'n'then a great crash and roar in

the woods where he was choppin', that I knew was a tree; and I worked

myself up dreadfully when there was a longer spell 'n common come

betwixt the crashes, lest that Russell might 'a' been ketched under

the one that fell. And settin' so, and worryin' a good deal, day in

and day out, kinder broodin' over my troubles, and never thinkin'

about anybody but myself, I got to be of the idee that I was the

worst-off creature goin'. If I'd have stopped to think about Russell,

may-be I should have had some sort of pity for him, for he was jest as

lonesome as I, and I wasn't no kind of comfort to come home to,--'most

always cryin', or jest a-goin' to.

So the summer went along till 'twas nigh on to winter, and I wa'n't in

no better sperrits. And now I wa'n't real well, and I pined for

mother, and I pined for Major, and I'd have given all the honey and

buckwheat in Indiana for a loaf of mother's dry rye-bread and a drink

of spring-water. And finally I got so miserable, I wished I wa'n't

never married,--and I'd have wished I was dead, if 'twa'n't for bein'

doubtful where I'd go to, if I was. And worst of all, one day I got so

worked up I told Russell all that. I declare, he turned as white as a

turnip. I see I'd hurt him, and I'd have got over it in a minute and

told him so,--only he up with his axe and walked out of the door, and

never come home till night, and then I was too stubborn to speak to

him.

Well, things got worse, 'n' one day I was sewin' some things and

cryin' over 'em, when I heard a team come along by, and, before I

could get to the door, Russell come in, all red for joy, and says,--

"Who do you want to see most, Anny?"

Somehow the question kind of upset me;--I got choked, and then I bu'st

out a-cryin'.

"Oh, mother and Major!" says I; and I hadn't more'n spoke the word

before mother had both her good strong arms round me, and Major's real

cheery face was a-lookin' up at me from the little pine cricket, where

she'd sot down as nateral as life. Well, I _was_ glad, and so was

Russell, and the house seemed as shiny as a hang-bird's-nest, and

by-and-by the baby came;--but I had mother.

'Twas 'long about in March when I was sick, and by the end of April I

was well, and so's to be stirrin' round again. And mother and Major

begun to talk about goin' home; and I declare, my heart was up in my

mouth every time they spoke on't, and I begun to be miserable ag'in.

One day I was settin' beside of mother; Major was out in the garden,

fixin' up things, and settin' out a lot of blows she'd got in the

woods, and singin' away, and says I to mother,--

"What be I going to do, mother, without you and Major? I 'most died of

clear lonesomeness before you come!"

Mother laid down her knittin', and looked straight at me.

"I wish you'd got a little of Major's good cheer, Anny," says she.

"You haven't any call to be lonely here; it's a real good country, and

you've got a nice house, and the best of husbands, and a dear little

baby, and you'd oughter try to give up frettin'. I wish you was pious,

Anny; you wouldn't fault the Lord's goodness the way you do."

"Well, Major don't have nothin' to trouble her, mother," says I.

"She's all safe and pleasant to home; she a'n't homesick."

Mother spoke up pretty resolute:--

"There a'n't nobody in the world, Anny, but what has troubles. I

didn't calculate to tell you about Major's; but sence you lay her

lively ways to luck, may-be you'd better know 'em. She's been engaged

this six months to Reuben Potter, and he's goin' off in a slow

consumption; he won't never live to marry her, and she knows it."

"And she come away to see me, mother?"

"Yes, she did. I can't say I thought she need to, but Russell wrote

you was pinin' for both of us, and I didn't think you could get along

without me, but I told her to stay with Reuben, and I'd come on alone.

And says she, 'No, mother, you a'n't young and spry enough to go alone

so fur, and the Lord made you my mother and Anny my sister before I

picked out Reuben for myself. I can't never have any kin but you, and

I might have had somebody beside Reuben, though it don't seem likely

now; but he's got four sisters to take care of him, and he thinks and

I think it's what I ought to do; so I'm goin' with you.' So she come,

Anny; and you see how lively she keeps, just because she don't want to

dishearten you none. I don't know as you can blame her for kinder

hankerin' to get home."

I hadn't nothin' to say; I was beat. So mother she went on:--

"Fact is, Anny, Major's always a-thinkin' about other folks; it comes

kind of nateral to her, and then bein' pious helps it. I guess, dear,

when you get to thinkin' more about Russell an' the baby, you'll

forget some of your troubles. I hope the Lord won't have to give you

no harder lesson than lovin', to teach you Major's ways."

So, after that, I couldn't say no more to mother about stayin'; but

when they went away, I like to have cried myself sick,--only baby had

to be looked after, and I couldn't dodge her.

Bym-by we had letters from home; they got there all safe, and Reuben

wa'n't no worse, Major said;--ef't had been me wrote the letter, I

should have said he wa'n't no better!--And I fell back into the old

lonesome days, for baby slept mostly; and the summer come on extreme

hot; and in July, Russell, bein' forced to go to Cumberton on some

land business, left me to home with baby and the hired man,

calculatin' to be gone three days and two nights.

The first day he was away was dreadful sultry; the sun went down away

over the woods in a kind of a red-hot fog, and it seemed as though the

stars were dull and coppery at night; even the whip-poor-wills was too

hot to sing; nothin' but a doleful screech-owl quavered away, a half a

mile off, a good hour, steady. When it got to be mornin', it didn't

seem no cooler; there wa'n't a breath of wind, and the locusts in the

woods chittered as though they was fryin'. Our hired man was an old

Scotchman, by name Simon Grant; and when he'd got his breakfast, he

said he'd go down the clearin' and bring up a load of brush for me to

burn. So he drove off with the team, and, havin' cleared up the

dishes, I put baby to sleep, and took my pail to the barn to milk the

cow,--for we kept her in a kind of a home-lot like, a part that had

been cleared afore we come, lest she should stray away in the woods,

if we turned her loose; she was put in the barn, too, nights, for fear

some stray wild-cat or bear might come along and do her a harm. So I

let her into the yard, and was jest a-goin' to milk her when she begun

to snort and shake, and finally giv' the pail a kick, and set off,

full swing, for the fence to the lot. I looked round to see what was

a-comin', and there, about a quarter of a mile off, I see the most

curus thing I ever see before or since,--a cloud as black as ink in

the sky, and hangin' down from it a long spout like, something like an

elephant's trunk, and the whole world under it looked to be all beat

to dust. Before I could get my eyes off on't, or stir to run, I see it

was comin' as fast as a locomotive; I heerd a great roar and

rush,--first a hot wind, and then a cold one, and then a crash,--an'

'twas all as dark as death all round, and the roar appeared to be

a-passin' off.

I didn't know for quite a spell where I was. I was flat on my face,

and when I come to a little, I felt the grass against my cheek, and I

smelt the earth; but I couldn't move, no way; I couldn't turn over,

nor raise my head more'n two inches, nor draw myself up one. I was

comfortable so long as I laid still; but if I went to move, I

couldn't. It wasn't no use to wriggle; and when I'd settled that, I

jest went to work to figger out where I was and how I got there, and

the best I could make out was that the barn-roof had blowed off and

lighted right over me, jest so as not to hurt me, but so't I could'nt

move.

Well, there I lay. I knew baby was asleep in the trundle-bed, and

there wa'n't no fire in the house; but how did I know the house wa'n't

blowed down? I thought that as quick as a flash of lightnin'; it

kinder struck me; I couldn't even see, so as to be certain! I wasn't

naterally fond of children, but somehow one's own is different, and

baby was just gettin' big enough to be pretty; and there I lay,

feelin' about as bad as I could, but hangin' on to one hope,--that old

Simon, seein' the tornado, would come pretty soon to see where we was.

I lay still quite a spell, listenin'. Presently I heerd a low,

whimperin', pantin' noise, comin' nearer and nearer, and I knew it was

old Lu, a yeller hound of Simon's, that he'd set great store by,

because he brought him from the Old Country. I heerd the dog come

pretty near to where I was, and then stop, and give a long howl. I

tried to call him, but I was all choked up with dust, and for a while

I couldn't make no sound. Finally I called, "Lu! Lu! here, Sir!" and

if ever you heerd a dumb creature laugh, he barked a real laugh, and

come springin' along over towards me. I called ag'in, and he begun to

scratch and tear and pull,--at boards, I guessed, for it sounded like

that; but it wa'n't no use, he couldn't get at me, and he give up at

length and set down right over my head and give another howl, so long

and so dismal I thought I'd as lieves hear the bell a-tollin' my age.

Pretty soon, I heerd another sound,--the baby cryin'; and with that Lu

jumped off whatever 'twas that buried me up, and run. "At any rate,"

thinks I, "baby's alive." And then I bethought myself if 'twa'n't a

painter, after all; they scream jest like a baby, and there's a lot of

them, or there was then, right round in our woods; and Lu was dreadful

fond to hunt 'em; and he never took no notice of baby;--and I couldn't

stir to see!

Oh, dear! the sweat stood all over me! And there I lay, and Simon

didn't come, nor I didn't hear a mouse stir; the air was as still as

death, and I got nigh distracted. Seemed as if all my life riz right

up there in the dark and looked at me. Here I was, all helpless,

may-be never to get out alive; for Simon didn't come, and Russell was

gone away. I'd had a good home, and a kind husband, and all I could

ask; but I hadn't had a contented mind; I'd quarrelled with

Providence, 'cause I hadn't got everything,--and now I hadn't got

nothing. I see just as clear as daylight how I'd nussed up every

little trouble till it growed to a big one,--how I'd sp'ilt Russell's

life, and made him wretched,--how I'd been cross to him a great many

times when I had ought to have been a comfort; and now it was like

enough I shouldn't never see him again,--nor baby, nor mother, nor

Major. And how could I look the Lord in the face, if I did die? That

took all my strength out. I lay shakin' and chokin' with the idee, I

don't know how long; it kind of got hold of me and ground me down; it

was worse than all. I wished to gracious I didn't believe in hell; but

then it come to mind, What should I do in heaven, ef I was there? I

didn't love nothin' that folks in heaven love, except the baby; I

hadn't been suited with the Lord's will on earth, and 'twa'n't likely

I was goin' to like it any better in heaven; and I should be ashamed

to show my face where I didn't belong, neither by right nor by want. So

I lay. Presently I heerd in my mind this verse, that I'd learned years

back in Sabbath School,--

"Wherefore He is able also to save them to

the uttermost"--

there it stopped, but it was a plenty for me. I see at once there

wasn't no help anywhere else, and for once in my life I did pray, real

earnest, and--queer enough--not to get out, but to be made good. I

kind of forgot where I was, I see so complete what I was; but after a

while I did pray to live in the flesh; I wanted to make some amends to

Russell for pesterin' on him so.

It seemed to me as though I'd laid there two days. A rain finally come

on, with a good even-down pour, that washed in a little, and cooled my

hot head; and after it passed by I heerd one whip-poor-will singin',

so't I knew it was night. And pretty soon I heerd the tramp of a

horse's feet;--it come up; it stopped; I heerd Russell say out loud,

"O Lord!" and give a groan, and then I called to him. I declare, he

jumped!

So I got him to go look for baby first, because I could wait; and lo!

she was all safe in the trundle-bed, with Lu beside of her, both on

'em stretched out together, one of her little hands on his nose; and

when Russell looked in to the door she stirred a bit, and Lu licked

her hand to keep her quiet. It tells in the Bible about children's

angels always seein' the face of God, so's to know quick what to do

for 'em, I suppose; and I'm sure her'n got to her afore the tornado;

for though the house-roof had blowed off, and the chimbley tumbled

down, there wa'n't a splinter nor a brick on her bed, only close by

the head on't a great hunk of stone had fell down, and steadied up the

clothes-press from tumblin' right on top of her.

So then Russell rode over, six miles, to a neighbor's, and got two

men, and betwixt 'em all they pried up the beams of the barn, that had

blowed on to the roof and pinned it down over me, and then lifted up

the boards and got me out; and I wa'n't hurt, except a few bruises:

but after that day I begun to get gray hairs.

Well, Russell was pretty thankful, I b'lieve,--more so'n he need to be

for such a wife. We fixed up some kind of a shelter, but Lu howled so

all night we couldn't sleep. It seems Russell had seen the tornado to

Cumberton, and, judgin' from its course 'twould come past the

clearin', he didn't wait a minute, but saddled up and come off; but it

had crossed the road once or twice, so it was nigh about eleven

o'clock afore he got home; but it was broad moonlight. So I hadn't

been under the roof only about fifteen hours; but it seemed more.

In the mornin' Russell set out to find Simon, and I was so trembly I

couldn't bear to stay alone, and I went with him, he carryin' baby,

and Lu goin' before, as tickled as he could be. We went a long spell

through the woods, keepin' on the edge of the tornado's road; for't

had made a clean track about a quarter of a mile wide, and felled the

trees flat,--great tulips cut off as sharp as pipe-stems, oaks twisted

like dandelion-stems, and hickories curled right up in a heap.

Presently Lu give a bark, and then such a howl! and there was Simon,

dead enough; a big oak had blowed down, with the trunk right acrost

his legs above the knees, and smashed them almost off. 'Twas plain it

hadn't killed him to once, for the ground all about his head was tore

up as though he'd fought with it, and Russell said his teeth and hands

was full of grass and grit where he'd bit and tore, a-dyin' so hard. I

declare, I shan't never forget that sight! Seems as if my body was

full of little ice-spickles every time I think on't.

Well, Russell couldn't do nothin'; we had no chance to lift the tree,

so we went back to the house, and he rode away after neighbors; and

while he was gone, I had a long spell of thinkin'. Mother said she

hoped I wouldn't have no hard lesson to teach me Major's ways; but I

had got it, and I know I needed it, 'cause it did come so hard. I

b'lieve I was a better woman after that. I got to think more of other

folks's comfort than I did afore, and whenever I got goin' to be

dismal ag'in I used to try 'n' find somebody to help; it was a sure

cure.

When the neighbors come, Russell and they blasted and chopped the tree

off of Simon, and buried him under a big pine that we calculated not

to fell. Lu pined, and howled, and moaned for his master, till I got

him to look after baby now and then, when I was hangin' out clothes or

makin' garden, and he got to like her in the end on't near as well as

Simon.

After a while there come more settlers out our way, and we got a

church to go to; and the minister, Mr. Jones, he come to know if I was

a member, and when I said I wa'n't, he put in to know if I wasn't a

pious woman.

"Well," says I, "I don't know, Sir." So I up and told him all about

it, and how I had had a hard lesson; and he smiled once or twice, and

says he,--

"Your husband thinks you are a Christian, Sister Potter, don't he?"

"Yes, I do," says Russell, a-comin' in behind me to the door,--for

he'd just stepped out to get the minister a basket of plums. "I ha'n't

a doubt on't, Mr. Jones."

The minister looked at him, and I see he was kinder pleased.

"Well," says he, "I don't think there's much doubt of a woman's bein'

pious when she's pious to home; and I don't want no better testimony'n

yours, Mr. Potter. I shall admit you to full fellowship, sister, when

we have a church-meetin' next; for it's my belief you experienced

religion under that blowed-down barn."

And I guess I did.

LE MARAIS DU CYGNE.[1]

[1: The massacre of unarmed and unoffending men in Southern Kansas

took place near the Marais du Cygne of the French _voyageurs_.]

A blush as of roses

Where rose never grew!

Great drops on the bunch-grass,

But not of the dew!

A taint in the sweet air

For wild bees to shun!

A stain that shall never

Bleach out in the sun!

Back, steed of the prairies!

Sweet song-bird, fly back!

Wheel hither, bald vulture!

Gray wolf, call thy pack!

The foul human vultures

Have feasted and fled;

The wolves of the Border

Have crept from the dead.

From the hearths of their cabins,

The fields of their corn,

Unwarned and unweaponed,

The victims were torn,--

By the whirlwind of murder

Swooped up and swept on

To the low, reedy fen-lands,

The Marsh of the Swan.

With a vain plea for mercy

No stout knee was crooked;

In the mouths of the rifles

Right manly they looked.

How paled the May sunshine,

Green Marais du Cygne,

When the death-smoke blew over

Thy lonely ravine!

In the homes of their rearing,

Yet warm with their lives,

Ye wait the dead only,

Poor children and wives!

Put out the red forge-fire,

The smith shall not come;

Unyoke the brown oxen,

The ploughman lies dumb.

Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh,

O dreary death-train,

With pressed lips as bloodless

As lips of the slain!

Kiss down the young eyelids,

Smooth down the gray hairs;

Let tears quench the curses

That burn through your prayers.

Strong man of the prairies,

Mourn bitter and wild!

Wail, desolate woman!

Weep, fatherless child!

But the grain of God springs up

From ashes beneath,

And the crown of His harvest

Is life out of death.

Not in vain on the dial

The shade moves along

To point the great contrasts

Of right and of wrong:

Free homes and free altars

And fields of ripe food;

The reeds of the Swan's Marsh,

Whose bloom is of blood.

On the lintels of Kansas

That blood shall not dry;

Henceforth the Bad Angel

Shall harmless go by:

Henceforth to the sunset,

Unchecked on her way,

Shall Liberty follow

The march of the day.

YOUTH.

The ancient statue of Minerva, in the Villa Albani, was characterized

as the Goddess of Wisdom by an aged countenance. Phidias reformed this

idea, and gave to her beauty and youth. Previous artists had imitated

Nature too carelessly,--not deeply perceiving that wisdom and virtue,

striving in man to resist senescence and decay, must in a goddess

accomplish their purpose, and preserve her in perpetual bloom. Yet

even decay and disease are often ineffectual; the young soul gleams

through these impediments, and would be poorly expressed in figures of

age. Accepting, therefore, this ideal representation, age and wisdom

can never be companions; youth is wise, and age is imbecile.

Our childhood grows in value as we grow in years. It is to that time

that every one refers the influence which reaches to his present and

somehow moulds it. It may have been an insignificant circumstance,--a

word,--a book,--praise or reproof; but from it has flowed all that he

is. We should seem ridiculous in men's eyes, were we known to give

that importance to certain trifles which in our private and inmost

thought they really have. Each finds somewhat in his childhood

peculiar and remarkable, on which he loves to dwell. It gives him a

secret importance in his own eyes, and he bears it about with him as a

kind of inspiring genius. Intimations of his destiny, gathered from

early memories, float dimly before him, and are ever beckoning him on.

That which he really is no one knows save himself. His words and

actions do but inadequately reveal the being he is. We are all greater

than we seem to each other. The heart's deepest secrets will not be

told. The secret of the interest and delight we take in romances and

poetry is that they realize the expectations and hopes of youth. It is

the world we had painted and expected. He is unhappy who has never

known the eagerness of childish anticipation.

Full of anticipations, full of simple, sweet delights, are these

years, the most valuable of lifetime. Then wisdom and religion are

intuitive. But the child hastens to leave its beautiful time and

state, and watches its own growth with impatient eye. Soon he will

seek to return. The expectation of the future has been disappointed.

Manhood is not that free, powerful, and commanding state the

imagination had delineated. And the world, too, disappoints his hope.

He finds there things which none of his teachers ever hinted to him.

He beholds a universal system of compromise and conformity, and in a

fatal day he learns to compromise and conform. At eighteen the youth

requires much stricter truth of men than at twenty-four.

At twenty-four the prophecies of childhood and boyhood begin to be

fulfilled, the longings of the heart to be satisfied. He finds and

tastes that life which once seemed to him so full of satisfaction and

advantage. The inclination to speak in the first person passes away,

and his composition is less autobiographical. The claims of society

and friends begin to be respected. Solitude and musing are less sweet.

The morbid effusions of earlier years, once so precious, no longer

please. Now he regards most his unwritten thought. He uses fewer

adjectives and alliterations, more verbs and dogmatism. There was a

time when his genius was not domesticated, and he did his work

somewhat awkwardly, yet with a fervor prophetic of settled wisdom and

eloquence. The youth is almost too much in earnest. He aims at nothing

less than all knowledge, all wisdom, all power. Perchance the end of

all this is that he may discover his own proper work and tendency, and

learn to know himself from the revelations of his own nature in

universal nature.

For it is by this sign we choose companions and books. Not that they

are the best persons or the best thoughts; but some subtile affinity

attracts and invites as to another self. In the choosing of companions

there seems to be no choice at all. "We meet, we know not how or when;

and though we should remember the history, yet friendship has an

anterior history we know not of. We all have friends, but the one want

of the soul is a friend,--that other self, that one without whom man

is incomplete and but the opaque face of a planet. For such we

patiently wait and hope, knowing that when we become worthy of him,

continents, nor caste, nor opinion can separate us."

A like experience is known to the young man in his reading. 'Tis in

vain to advise as to reading; a higher power controls the matter. Of

course there are some books all must read, as every one learns the

alphabet and spelling-book; but his use and combination of them he

shall share with no one. Some spiritual power is ever drawing us

towards what we love. Thus in books one constantly meets his own idea,

his own feelings, even his most private ones, which he thought could

not be known or appreciated beyond his own bosom. Therefore he quickly

falls in love with those books that discover him to himself, and that

are the keepers of his secrets. Here is a part of himself written out

in immortal letters. Here is that thought long dimly haunting the

mind, but which never before found adequate expression. Here is a

memorable passage transcribed out of his experience.

The fascination of books consists in their revelations of the

half-conscious images of the reader's mind. There is a wonderful

likeness and coincidence in the thoughts of men. But not alone in

books does one meet his own image at every turn. He beholds himself

strewn in a thousand fragments throughout the world; and all his

culture is nothing but assimilation of himself to them, until he can

say with wise Ulysses, "I am a part of all that I have met."

Thus Nature compels the youth to seek every means of stimulating

himself to activity. He has learned that in periods of transition and

change fresh life flows in upon him, dilating the heart and disclosing

new realms of thought. He thanks the gods for every mood, Doric or

dithyrambic, for each new relation, for each new friend, and even for

his sorrows and misfortunes. Out of these comes the complete wisdom

which shall make old age but another more fair and perfect youth. Even

the face and form shall be fortified against time and fate. In the

physiognomy of age much personal history is revealed. The dimples and

folds of infancy have become the furrows of thought and care. Yet,

sometimes retaining their original beauty, they are an ornament, and

in them we read the record of deep thought and experience.

But the wrinkles of some old people are characterless; running in all

directions, appearing as though a finely-woven cloth had left its

impress upon the face, revealing a life aimless and idle, or

distracted by a thousand cross-purposes and weaknesses.

If now youth will permit us to look a little deeper into its heart, we

will attempt to celebrate that unpublished and vestal wisdom written

there. Age does us only indirect justice,--by the value it gives to

memory. It slights and forgets its own present. This day with its

trivialities dwindles and vanishes before the teeming hours wherein it

learned and felt and suffered;--so the circles, which are the tree's

memories of its own growth, are more distinct near the centre, where

its growth began, than in the outer and later development. Give age

the past, and let us be content with our legacy, which is the future.

Still shall youth cast one retrospective glance at the experience of

its nonage, ere it assumes its prerogative, and quite forgets it.

When the first surprise at the discovery of the faculties is over,

begins the era of experience. The aspiration conducting to experiment

has revealed the power or the inability. Henceforth the youth will

know his relations to the world. But as yet men are ignorant how it

stands between them. There has been only a closet performance, a

morning rehearsal. He sees the tribute to genius, to industry, to

birth, to fortune. At first he yields reluctantly to novitiate and

culture; he yearns for action. His masters tell him that the world is

coy, must be approached cautiously, and with something substantial in

the hand. The old bird will not be caught with chaff. He does not yet

understand the process of accumulation and transmutation. The fate of

the Danaides is his, and he draws long with a bottomless bucket. But

at last his incompetency can no further be concealed. Then he either

submits to the suggestions of despair and oblivion or bravely begins

his work. The exhilaration and satisfaction which he felt at his first

performances, in this hour of renunciation, are changed to bitterness

and disgust. He remembers the old oracle: "In the Bacchic procession

many carry the thyrsus, but few are inspired." The possibility of

ultimate failure threatens him more and more while he reflects; as the

chasm which you wish to leap grows impassable, if you measure and

deliberate. But the vivacity of youth preserves him from any permanent

misanthropy or doubt. Nature makes us blind where we should be injured

by seeing. We partake of the lead of Saturn, the activity of fire, the

forgetfulness of water. His academic praises console him, maugre his

depreciation of them. His little fame, the homage of his little world,

have in them the same sweetness as the reverberation of ages. Heaven

would show him his capacity for those things to which he aspires by

giving him an early and representative realization of them. It is a

happy confidence. Reality is tyrannous. Let him construe everything in

the poet's mood. He shall dream, and the day will have more

significance. Youth belongs to the Muse.

How the old men envy us! They wisely preclude us from their world,

since they know how it would bereave us of all that makes our state so

full of freedom and delight, and to them so suggestive of the past.

"I remember, when I think,

That my youth was half divine."

Thus the great have ever chosen young men for companions. Was it not

Plato who wished he were the heavens, that he might look down upon his

young companion with a thousand eyes? Thus they do homage to the gift

of youth, and by its presence contrive to nestle into its buoyant and

pure existence. If youth will enjoy itself virtuously with gymnastics,

with music, with friendship, with poetry, there will come no hours of

lamentation and repentance. They attend the imbecile and thoughtless.

These halcyon days will return to temper and grace the period of old

age; as upon the ripened peach reappear the hues of its early

blossoms.

Among his seniors the youth perceives a certain jealousy of him. They

pretend that all has been said and done. They awe him with their great

names. He has to learn, that, though Jew and Greek have spoken,

nevertheless he must reiterate and interpret to his own people and

generation. Perchance in the process something new will likewise be

added. Many things still wait an observer. Still is there infinite

hope and expectation, which youth must realize. In war, in peace, in

politics, in books, all eyes are turned to behold the rising of his

star.

Reluctantly does the youth yield to the claims of moderation and

reserve. Abandonment to an object has hitherto been his highest

wisdom. But in the pursuit of the most heroic friendship, or the most

sovereign passion, the youth discovers that a certain continence is

necessary. He cannot approach too closely; for that moment love is

changed into disgust and hate. He would drink the nectar to the lees.

This is one of Nature's limitations, and has many analogies; and he

who would never see the bottom of any cup, and always be possessed

with a divine hunger, must observe them. I remember how it piqued my

childish curiosity that the moon seemed always to retreat when I ran

towards her, and to pursue when I fled. It was a very significant

symbol. Stand a little apart, and things of their own accord will come

more than half-way. Nobody ever goes to meet a loafer. Self-centred,

domesticated persons attract. What would be the value of the heavens,

if we could bring the stars into our lap? They cannot be approached or

appropriated. Upon the highest mountain the horizon sinks you in a

valley, and far aloft in night and mystery gleam the retreating stars.

It must be remembered that indirect vision is much more delicate than

direct. Looking askance, with a certain oblique and upward glance,

constitutes the art and power of the poet; for so a gentle invitation

is offered the imagination to contribute its aid. We see clearest when

the eye is elongated and slightly curtained. Persons with round,

protuberant eyes are obliged to reduce their superfluous visual power

by artificial means. We subordinate the external organ in order to

liberate the inner eye of the mind. The musing, pensive Hindoos, who

have elongated eyes, look through the surface of things to their

essence, and call the world Illusion,--the illusory energy of Vishnu.

There is a vulgar trick of wishing to touch everything. But the

greatest caution is necessary, in beholding a statue or painting, not

to draw too near; and it is thus with every other beautiful thing.

Nature secretly writes, _Hands off!_--and men do but translate her

hieroglyph in their galleries and museums. The sense of touch is only

a provision against the loss of sight and hearing. We should cultivate

these, until, like the Scandinavian Heimdal, we can hear the trees and

the flowers grow, and see with Heraclitus the breathing of the stars.

The youth once loved Nature after this somewhat gross and material

fashion, for the berries she gave him, the flowers she wove in his

hair, and the brooks that drove his mimic mills. He chased the

butterfly, he climbed the trees, he would stand in the rain, paint his

cheeks with berry juice, dabble in the mud, and nothing was secure

from his prying fingers and curious eyes. He must touch and taste of

everything, and know every secret. But it eluded him; and he lay down

from his giddy chase, tired and unsatisfied, yet still anticipating

that the morning would reveal all. Later he approaches men and things

in a different mood. Experience has taught him so much. He begins to

feel the use of the past. Memory renders many present advantages as

nothing, and there is a rare and peculiar value to every reminiscence

that connects him with the years from which he is so fast receding.

The bower which his own hands wove from birch-trees and interwove with

green brakes, where at the noon-time he was wont to retreat from the

hot school-house, with the little maid of his choice, and beguile the

hour so happily, suggests a spell and charm to preserve him in

perpetual childhood.

* * * * *

PINTAL.

In San Francisco, in 1849, on Dupont Street near Washington, a

wretched tent, patched together from mildewed and weather-worn sails,

was pitched on a hill-side lot, unsightly with sand and thorny bushes,

filthy cast-aways of clothing, worn-out boots, and broken bottles. The

forlorn loneliness of this poor abode, and the perfection of its

Californianness, in all the circumstances of exposure, frailness,

destitution, and dirt, were enough of themselves to make it an object

of interest to the not-too-busy passer; yet, to complete its pitiful

picturesqueness, Pathos had bestowed a case of miniatures and a

beautiful child. Beside the entrance of the tent a rough shingle was

fastened to the canvas, and against this hung an unpainted

picture-frame of pine, in humble counterpart of those gilded rosewood

signs which, at the doors of Daguerreotype galleries, display fancy

"specimens" to the goers-to-and-fro of Broadway. Attracted by an

object so novel in San Francisco then, I paused one morning, in my

walk officeward from the "Anglo-Saxon Dining-Saloon," to examine it.

There were six of them,--six dainty miniature portraits on ivory,

elaborately finished, and full of the finest marks of talent. The

whole were seemingly reproductions of but two heads, a lady's and a

child's,--the lady well fitted to be the mother of the child, which

might well have been divine. There were three studies of each; each

was presented in three characters, chosen as by an artist possessed of

a sentiment of sadness, some touching reminiscence.

In one picture, the lady--evidently English, a pensive blonde, with

large and most sweet blue eyes curtained by the longest lashes,

regular and refined features suggestive of pure blood, budding lips

full of sensibility, a chin and brow that showed intellect as well as

lineage, and cheeks touched with the young rose's tint--was as a

beautiful _debutante_, the flower of rich drawing-rooms, in her first

season: one white moss-rosebud in her smoothly-braided hair; her

dimpled, round, white shoulders left to their own adornment; and for

jewels, only one opal on her ripening bosom;--as much of her dress as

was shown was the simple white bodice of pure maidenhood.

In the next, she had passed an interval of trial, for her courage, her

patience, and her pride,--a very few years, perhaps, but enough to

bestow that haughty, defiant glance, and fix those matchless features

in an almost sneer. No longer was her fair head bowed, her eyes

downcast, in shrinking diffidence; but erect and commanding, she

looked some tyranny, or insolence, or malice, in the face, to look it

down. Jewels encircled her brow, and a bouquet of pearls was happy on

her fuller bosom.

Still a few years further on,--and how changed! "So have I seen a

rose," says that Shakspeare of the pulpit, old Jeremy Taylor, when it

has "bowed the head and broke its stalk; and at night, having lost

some of its leaves and all its beauty, it has fallen into the portion

of weeds and outworn faces." Alas, Farewell, and Nevermore sighed from

those hollow cheeks, those woebegone eyes, those pallid lips, that

willow-like long hair, and the sad vesture of the forsaken Dido.

So with the child. At first, a rosy, careless, curly-pate of three

years or so,--wonder-eyed and eager, all spring and joyance, and

beautiful as Love.

Then pale and pain-fretted, heavy-eyed and weary, feebly half-lying in

a great chair, still,--an unheeded locket scarce held by his thin

fingers, his forehead wrinkled with cruel twinges, the sweet bowed

lines of his lips twisted in whimpering puckers, the curls upon his

vein-traced temples unnaturally bright, as with clamminess,--a painful

picture for a mother's eyes!

But not tragic, like the last; for there the boy had grown. Nine years

had deepened for his clustered curls their hue of golden brown, and

set a seal of anxious thought upon the cold, pale surface of his

intellectual brow, and traced his mouth about with lines of a martyr's

resignation, and filled his profound eyes, dim as violets, with

foreboding speculation, making the lad seem a seer of his own sad

fate. Here, thought I, if I mistake not, is another melancholy chapter

in this San Franciscan romance. This painter learned his art of

Sorrow, and pitiless Experience has bestowed his style; he shall be

for my finding-out.

Home-sickness had marked me for its own one day. I sat alone in my

rude little office, conning over again for the hundredth time strange

chapters of a waif's experience,--reproducing auld-lang-syne, with all

its thronged streets and lonely forest-paths, its old familiar faces,

talks, and songs,--ingathering there, in the name of Love or

Friendship, forms that were dim and voices that were echoes; and many

an "alas," and "too late," and "it might have been," they brought

along with them.

"Let this remembrance comfort me,--that when

My heart seemed bursting,--like a restless wave

That, swollen with fearful longing for the shore,

Throws its strong life on the imagined bliss

Of finding peace and undisturbed calm,--

It fell on rocks and broke in many tears.

"Else could I bear, on all days of the year,--

Not now alone, this gentle summer night,

When scythes are busy in the headed grass,

And the full moon warms me to thoughtfulness,--

This voice that haunts the desert of my soul:

'It might have been!' Alas! 'It might have been!'"