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“[Waitrex For Donas’s Literary Mvszux}
AUNT
ANNIE’S STORY.
BY RUTH HATHAWAY.
“py you ever hear anything more
deliciously melancholy than that
last song of the wind spirits, ‘ O, the roar of
the wind in a forest of pines?’ Listen,
Carrie!” and the animated face of the girl-
speaker glowed with enthusiasm, as she
leaned from her chair in a listening atti-
tude.
“Listen, Georgie ? Indeed, I shall do no
such thing,” answered Carrie, putting her |:
two little thumbs straight into her ears. “I’m
sure it’s very hard-hearted in’ you to enjoy
it, when it makes me so miserable,” and
Carrie Lane glanced reproachfully at her
cousin, who sat half buried-in the yielding
cushions of a big arm-chair, and then closed
her blue eyes very tight together, to shut
in something which looked very like tears.
“Pardon me, Carrie, for being so re-
markably selfish,” replied Georgie, trying to
turn a smile into an audible yawn.
Carrie vented her impatience by giving
the pretty gray kitten dozing on the hearth-
rug, such a pettish touch with one little foot
that it sprang up and spit at her, in its sur-
prise mistaking her for its old enemy,
Watch, who calmly reposed in an opposite
corner, his venerable nose resting upon his
paws.
“Well, Inever knew you to bee! ‘SO CTOSS
before,” chimed in Carrie’s little brother’
Charley, lifting his curly head from the sofa,
where he lay, counting his fingers over for
the hundredth time, in the hope of counting
himself to sleep.
“T rather guess,” continued Charley, .
“that Carrie is mad because Frank Bowers
didn’t come to see her Jast night. She has
been as sour as vinegar ever since she saw
him go riding by to-day with Fanny Allen,
hasn’t she, mamma ?”
“ Hush, Charley,” replied mamma, trying
to make her smiling face look very serious.
“ Little boys should be scen and not heard.”
Carrie’s red lips looked anything but
kissable, while Georgie went to the window
and hid her face in the rich damask that
shrouded it.
“The moon is out, and it’s a glorious
night, in spite of the wind. What do you
say, Carrie, to a run down the hill to Aunt
Annie’s? It’s such a lonely night, we shall
be doubly welcome.”
“Twas about to propose it myself,” re-
plied Carrie. “Aunt Annie’s stories, you
know, are always balm to troubled spirits,”
and the two girls went out together for their
wrappers.
-“ You must excuse my ill-humor, Georgie,
in her amazement. “ Don’t you know you'd
be the most wretched creature in existence
if you should do so? _O, you are a misera-
ble little flirt, and don’t deserve such a no-
ble-hearted fellow as Frank Bowers.”
“ Ilow can you be so cruel, Georgie?”
sobbed , Carrie, hysterically, flourishing her
cambric ; “indeed, I’m not wholly to blame,
and—and—you know I’m not a ‘great flirt.”
“ Well, that may be, but you are coquet-
tish, and with truth I cannot recall the
word; we won't quarrel, though, for it’s
half-past seven, even now. Aunt Annie
shuts ;up at nine, remember, so we must
hurry along, if we expect a story to-night.”
It was’but a short walk to Aunt Annie’s,
as all the young folks of D— called the
lonely old maid, who dwelt peacefully in her
“ single-blessedness,” in a little brown cot-
tage in the suburbs of the village; and with-
in ten minutes after leaving their home, the
two girls paused under the shadowy trees
that stood sentinel-like before the brown
cottage, untied the hempen string that held
together the low wicker gate, and were soon
standing under. the drooping clusters of
woodbine that hung in fanciful festoons over
the rustic porch... -
The moon shone full into the little yard,
and a silver sheet lay bright over the flow-
er-beds, all gorgeous with autumn suns; but
the moonlight broke and fell in shadows
‘where.a willow bent low over a white stone
which marked the resting-place of an “earth-
wearied one.”
“ Georgie,” said Carrie, pausing, with one
hand on the door-latch, “ how mournfully the
moon sntiles on that stone to-night! Imean
to ask Aunt Annie to tell us of the sleepers
yonder.”,
“Telen’s grave; Aunt Annic’s only sister
sleeps there; there is a real romance at-
tached to her life, I've heard mother say ;
and if it won’t pain her too much, I, too,
would like to hear it,” replied Georgie, as
they opened the door, and entered a large
room, cheerful with’ the blazing wood-fire,
heaped high up in the capacious fire-place.
A pale, serene-faced old lady came for-
ward to meet the two girls, and after kiss-
ing them both, relieved them of their wrap-
pers, gave the fire a fresh stir, and after in-
sisting that both should take “just one
swallow of thoroughwort tea, to prevent
taking cold,” from a blue bowl with yellow
deer and pink dogs on it, drew two very
straight-backed rocking-chairs up before the
fire for the girls, and took a third herself,
straighter and taller than either of the oth-
for I'm a trifle—just a trifle—vexed, to | ers.
think Frank Bowers should retaliate upon
me in such a way; carry Fanny Allen to
ride, right before my eyes, when he knows
how I dislike her—all because I chose to
dance the Schottische once with Willie
Carlton. Ialways did like Willie; he’s a
great deal handsomer than Frank. I don’t
care! Imcan to marry him to spite Frank
for his incorrigibkg jealousy,” and Carrie
drew her crimson shawl very determinedly
around her pretty shoulders, and gave her
little head such a scornful toss that the
white tassels of her rigolette went dancing
about her face,and then rested upon her
golden hair, like a shower of snow-flakes.
“ Marry out of spite! Why, Carrie Lane,
are you sane, when you say so?” exclaimed
Georgie, putting both gloves on one hand,
“Well, girls,” commenced Aunt Annie,
smoothing down her apron, and pinning on
her knitting-sheath, preparatory to begin-
ning the “seam-needle,” “it’s adismal night,
for all the bright moon’s a-shinin’; and the
wind that’s a-moanin’ so kinder solemn-like
through the trees, made me feel dreadful
lonesome; and I’ve been a wishin’ you'd
happen in, all the evenin’.’
“But the fire feels so comfortable,” said
Carrie, leaving her chair to sit on a stool at
Aunt Annie’s feet. “* It is an ill wind that
blows nobody good” and Georgie and I
thought the good for us would be in one of
your beautiful stories; and, Aunt Annie, if
it will not make you too sad, and if there is
nothing in connection with it you’d not wish
to trust us with, will you please be so kind
Dadge’s Bi iterary S¥luseum,
as to tell us of your departed sister Helen ?”
“My dear Car'line, I have often thought
Yd tell you about my sister Helen; it may
do you good. There, when you look up so,
with your eyes so sky-like, you make. me
think of her,” and Aunt Annie’s hand rest-
ed a moment on the bright young head, and
the pale lips moved ‘in a silent blessing for
her. “I see Georgie has brought her knit-
ting, but I’m afraid you'll never learn to be
industrious, Car'line. Now, if you want me
to tell you astory, you must go into the
north bed-room, and get the swifts and that
bundle of white yarn that wants windin’;
it’s on the blue chest,” said Aunt Annie, re-
suming her work.
Carrie blushed at Aunt Annie’s reproof,
but obeyed with’ alacrity. The possibility
of having her long-excited curiosity grati-
fied was such an incentive to industry, that
she had brought the swifts, untied the knot-
ting-band, and commenced to ball, almost
before the sound of Aunt Annie’s voice had
ceased to echo through the room.
Aunt Annie smiled indulgently on her
wayward favorite, told Georgic to “snuff.
the candle,” drew a deep sigh, and then fell
into silence. Carrie’s cheeks had begun to
flush with impatience, and she had wound
into the second knot, just as Aunt Annie
took up the corner of her checked linen
apron, wiped away a furtive tear, and com-
menced her needles and story together:
“What I’m a-goin’ to tell you to-night,
girls, is not a made-up story, a romance, as
they call it in novel-books, but the solemn
truth, real as the blessed Book of God,” be-
gan Aunt Annie. “ But to have you under-
stand it all, I must go back to the time when
I was alittle child of ten years old. I was
|the first child my parents ever ‘had; but
when I was five years old, [had alittle baby
brother, but the angels wanted him, so one
June morning, when the roses were all
a-bloom, they took.him up through the sun-
shine to Ileaven, and I was a lonely child
for five more years. Then my sister Helen
came. to take my little nameless brother’s
place.
“T needn’t stop to tell you of all her win-
nin’ ways, and how she grew, from her
cradle, to be a merry, sweet-faced child, and
went singin’ and dancin’ about the house
from mornin’ till night. She was a blessin’
to us all, and we used to call her ‘ sunbeam,’
«rosebud, and such pet names; they seem-
ed to belong to her by right. I don’t think
Iwas ever in my life jealous of my sister
Helen. I loved her so dearly myself, it
seemed quite natural to see my parents fon-
die and make of her, she was so takin’ in all
her pretty ways, the sweet darlin’!
“?’Fore I could realize it, she had grown
up by my side, a tall, graceful girl of fifteen.
She warn’t none of your ‘ Parian marble,’
alabaster beauties, with ‘raven ringlets’ and
‘golden tresses,’ my sister Helen warn’t;
but she was a beautiful piece of flesh and
blood as God ever created. She had soft
brown hair, and a pretty mouth, always
prettier when she smiled, and there was
somethin’ in her sweet brown eyes that went
straight to your heart, and made you love
her ’most afore you knewit. Bein’ made so
much on, all her life, flattered and petted,
may be Helen was a little more fickle and
wayward than would ’a’ been natural to her
if she had been left more to her own incli-
nations. She warn’t a bit bold or forward
in her manners, though, but she had a kind
of a shy-like, tender way of stealin’ into
your heart, like a sweet strain of music, or
the warmth of a beautiful sunbeam.
“Well, when my sister Helen was about
fifteen, as I said, who should come down
from B—— to make us a visit but Uncle
John Iloward, (my mother’s only brother,)
and his wife. They were rich and fashion-
able, and had no children of their own.
They were so taken with our pretty Helen,
that they offered to take her as their own
child, edicate her, bring her up a lady, and
when they died, make an heir of her.
“At first, to all they said or promised,
our parents said ‘No;’ but they wouldn’t be
that father and mother consented to let
Ticlen take her choice. It was a trying
question for the poor child to decide; she
didn’t. want to leave any of us, and this little
brown house was her home, and she loved
it dearly, homely as it is; then she’d think
of the book-learnin’ she could get if she
went with Uncle John, and she had such a
longin’ to, go out and look into the great
world she had heard so much about, face to
face. .
“The night afore Uncle John was to go
back to the city had come, and still Helen
hadn’t made up her mind; but she said
bed-time came, Ielen and I went up stairs
to our little room together. I couldn’t talk
much, my heart was so full, thinkin’ how
lonely our little chamber would be if my
‘sunbeam’ left it. So I got into bed and
watched Helen, as she stood afore the glass,
brushin’ out her hair.
“Wer cheeks were burnin’ red, and her
She warn’t lookin’ in the glass, though she
stood afore it, for I could see her face in it,
great tears kept a-stealin’ out under her
didn’t say a word. After a while she un-
dressed, blew out the light, and Jaid down’
aside of me. We didn’t either of us speak,
though every now and then Helen would
give a little start, and a quick sob, ’most
under her breath. By’n’ by, she thought I
around my neck, and fell to cryin’, as though
she was. sorrowin’ to leave me, ber poor,
plain sister. It seemed to me as if every
sob would break my heart, and when I
couldn’t bear it any longer, I just took her
in my arms, with her dear head layin’ on
my shoulder, and rocked back and forth
with her, tryin’ to hush her, as a mother
would quiet her sufferin’ child.
“T said, ‘Ielen, my darlin, hush,’ and she
clung tight to me, and cried out,
“QO, Annie, Annie, don’t speak to me
yet!’
“Then she lay quite still, the great sobs
growin’ fainter, and when she could speak
through her tears, she told me she was goin’
to leave us, though it was almost breakin’
her heart to do it; but it would be so much
better for her—for us all. Poor child! she
flattered herself she’d do so much for us,
and she’d never call any one father and
mother but her own dear parents she was
a-goin’ to leave, and she’d always love her
dear Annie, and never forget her.
* And then she fell to cryin’ again, between
whiles kissin’ me, and callin’ me her ‘dear
sister, her own darlin’, darlin’ Annie” And
so we went on till near midnight, when
Helen said she wanted to say her prayers to
me as she used to when she was a little
child. So I sat on the side of “the bed, and
Tielen kneeled down onthe floor afore me.
“It was a beautiful sight as I ever sec.
The holy, blessed moon came shinin’ through
the window, on to Ielen’s beautiful hair and
face, and she looked like a heavenly angel,
put off, and pleaded and begged so hard’.
she’d tell us in the mornin’, and so when”
whole face looked excited and wild-like. -
lashes, and her lips kept a-quiverin’, but she |
was asleep; then she put her two arms ~
though her back was towards me, and the _
te
”
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