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OLMSTEAD & CO., PUBLISHERS.
IN AN AMBULANCE. *
“I wish—O how I wish I could go too !”
A child’s voice, a sweet child’s voice wavered
and steadied itself along these words, and a little
girl’s face, hardly pretty, but bright and intelligent, | .
looked out of the window of the large and stately
* house, in the large and stately city of Washington.
* Do you, daughter? well, then, go and ask
. mother what she says about it.” ,
The little gitl of whom this story will tell you,
darted off in her rapid way the next moment. The
~ kind ald gentleman, who was a boarder at the hotel,
busied himself in arranging the various boxes and
bundles carelessly. bestowed ‘on the corner of the
~ sofa, and which were designed for the invalid sol-
diers at the hospital. Outside stood the ambu-
“ lance, like a great brown tent, with the small,
patient mules . pricking their ears and drooping
their heads despondently.
It was a beautiful morning in the early spring,
although far away, in colder, northern climes,
~ the robins had not yet sung the welcome of the
i spring, and the snow, stained and torn by the sun
. and the rains, lay like heaps of soiled linen on the
r hills and along the roadside.
__. Mr. Irving, the old gentleman, with his pleasant,
benevolent: face, was on a brief business visit to
* Washington, and a strong, though somewhat sud-
den attachment had been cemented betwixt himself
: and the youngest boarder at the hotel, Eva Ken-
nedy, who was passing the winter with her parents
” at the capital. Mr. Irving had just disposed of his
last package, when there came a soft knock at the
....door,.and Mrs. Kennedy entered the room with
Eva’s hat and walking sacque in ber hand.
“Eya has brought me your kind invitation, but
I fear that she may prove a great trouble to you,
Mr. Irving,” said the lady.
“Not at all, not at all, Mrs. Kennedy. Let the
child ‘go. I will take good care of her, and the
sight of her young,- bright face may gladden the
heart of some soldier who has left another like it in
his far away home.” . uo
And Mrs,'Kennedy made no further - protest.
She smiled a little sadly as she drew her daughter
towards her, and‘ smoothed the soft, brown hair
from her’forehead; and it was very natural that
her smile should be tinged with mournfulness, after
Mr. Irving’s'remark. So, with her little brain full
of wonder, eagerness, curiosity, little Eva Kennedy
was bestowed among the boxes and bundles in one
corner of the ambulance. :
When they first started out, Eva fancied that
they were on the point of upsetting, and seized,
frightened and half frantic, on her, side of the seat.
But Mr. Irving drew his arm about her, and as-
sured her that there was not the least danger ; and
although the strange vebicle pitched this side and
that, reminding little Eva of a ship in a storm at
sea, yet she soon gained confidence, and rather en-
joyed her novel mode of locomotion. . .
Tt was a beautiful, beautiful morning in the wide
old city of Washington, There were the flavor of
ing grasses in the air, the promise of summer
ee: smiling deep blue of the sky, and over all,
the joy of the sunshine. Eva had a soul that per-
* ceived and was gladdened by all these things; and
for awhile she was 80 absorbed in them that she
was quite unconscious of the brisk conversation
which was transpiring betwixt Mr. Irving and the
driver. But at last her attention was drawn and
riveted to it, for the driver was describing some of
the terrible scenes to which he had been a witness
after the battle of Antietam, and how he had
carried the poor wounded soldiers away from the
battle field, and how their groans had filled all the
air, and how several had not been able- to endure
the long, hard, terrible ride, and when they came
to remove them at last from the ambulance, they
were—where one day we must all be!
«Was it here, in this very ambulance ?” inter-
posed the voice of Eva Kennedy. .
“Yes, here in this very one,” answered the driver.
‘Aufd the little girl looked up at, the brown-white
* roof which sheltered her with a new feeling of in-
terest, and awe, and pity. Alas! what scenes had
it witnessed; what aching hearts, what brokén
hopes, what anguished limbs, what fevered brains
ad it sheltered!
. At last they reached the hospitals, and Eva fed
her young eyes for the first time on the sight of
those long, low rows of barracks which rose on all
sides around her, and were the only homes of the
soldiers. She went in, holding fast to the hand of
her friend. The sick men lifted their brown, hag-
gard faces, and looked eagerly on the little girl, as
she passed with her sweet, wondering, pitying face
among them. : , '
Mr. Irving was just the sort of man, Eva thought,
to go among the hospitals. He hada kind inquiry,
a sympathetic word for every one; and then his
ind, manly face, his cheerful, pleasant, bright
way; his smiles and jokes—his funny ways of say-
ing things, why, it seemed to Eva as though the
very sunshine followed him, and she saw. the pale,
haggard faces light up with smiles, the dull eyes
kindle, the weary, dejected expressions vanish.
Mr. Irving treated all of those soldiers as though
they richly merited blessing, and honor, and praise ;
as though every one who had gone to the battle
field to do and to suffer for his country’s sake had
done him a vast personal favor, and laid him under
a debt which he would be prompt and proud to ac-
knowledge so long as he lived. And the heart of
Eva Kennedy, a heedless, wayward heart too often,
but with many springs of tenderness, generosity,
sympathy, hidden in its silent alleys and shady cor-
ners, grew full of interest and pity for the strong
men laid low on those narrow couches, so far away
from their pleasant homes, from the sight of loving
faces and the touch of tender hands.
At last they stopped at a bed on which lay a
man at the sight of whose face Eva drew her
breath a moment for fear. It seemed to her that
that white, sharpened, ghastly face had settled into
the stillness of death; but the man slowly lifted his
head, and gazed at her with eyes which looked
wildly bright and strangely large out of that atten-
uated face. The soldier was just convalescing from
a terrible attack of typhoid fever; and as he told
his story, he kept his eyes fastened greedily on the
little girl’s face. Mr. Irving could not choose but
notice it. :
“She is a nice little girl,” said the gentleman.
“Yes; and she looks so much like ongI left a
year ago, away off in Ohio—my little Maggie id
The sick soldier’s voice choked here, so did his eyes
with tears. . .
Eva drew nearer the sick man.
“Did your little girl know you were going to
leave her for.the war?” she asked. +
The soldier took the little soft, plump, hand in his
jong, thin one.
time came, and I took her in my arms and kissed
her; ‘and the poor little lips couldn’t say a word,
but she put her little atms around my neck and
held me there tight, and I had to unwind them at
last, myself—poor little Maggie !” Ile paused again,
overcome.
v
“Yes; and it almost broke her heart when the].
FANNY'S NEW BOOTS.
“And is the resemblance betwixt the two very
striking, my friend ?” inquired Mr. Irving, in a voice
full of interest. ° No wt
“Very; the same sort o’ face, with the lips red as
swamp berries, and eyes never still, and that al’ays
seem to be hidin’ away a laugh; and her hair—if
the two heads was together I couldn't tell which
was which.” » :
The soldier paused a moment, and then fumbled
under his pillow, and brought out a small, faded
pink box., He opened this, and drew out of a bit
of soiled white paper a golden curl. .
“It's my Maggie's,” he said, looking at the lock
with unutterable pride and tenderness, and then he
held it against Eva’s hair, and sure enough, it was
precisely the same shade—really, you would have
supposed that it must have been shorn from the
same head. ‘
Mr. Irving was nearly as much surprised and
pleased as the soldier himself, and Eva was full of
questions about the little girl in her home in the
far-off West; and the soldier still kept‘ his eyes
fastened on her young face while he talked, as
though it was the sweetest sight in all the world to
hin. . .
‘When, at last, the time came for Eva to leave,
he held her hand once more.
“It seems as though I had been with Maggie,”
he said. . .
“I will bring her again before long, my
said the kindly voice of Mr. Irving.
And as he led Eva away, the gentleman said—
“J believe you have done more good than I, in
your visit this morning, my child.” .
“O, Mr. Irving!” said Eva, pleased, yet depre-
catingly. | ‘
So he led out the little girl into the warm, bright
sunshine once more, where the patient mules stood
waiting before the tent of canvas cloth, and as Eva
bestowed herself once more in a corner of the ve-
hicle, she said to Mr. Irving, lifting her bright,
eager face to his— _
“Don’t you think my ride this morning would
make just such a story as a great many boys and
gitls would like to read P” soe
“I think it would, my dear.” |” :
“And what would be a pretty title for it, Mr.
Irving?” ° . . :
“I can think of none better or more
my child, than ‘Iv AN AMBULANCE.’ ”
Arthur's Home Magazine. .
9
friend,”
.
appropriate,
m8
_ INDIAN ARROWS, .
The California Indians poison their arrows by ir-
ritating a rattlesnake, and then thrusting forward a
fresh deer’s liver, which it will bite. After it has
bitten repeatedly, the latter is buried and allowed
to putrefy, It is then dug up, the arrow head is| |
(nse te,
yall Egg Se
VOL, XXXVIL.
22 SCHOOL STREET, BOSTON.
dipped in it, and allowed to dry. An arrow thus
poisoned will killa man, a horse, or an ox, in
twenty-four hours, or less time.
——++_-_——
“ONLY THIS ONCE,”
“Tl be in again very soon, mother; I am only
going around the corner to see White’s new billiard
rooms ;” and, cap in hand, Harry was closing the
parlor door when his mother called him back.
“I cannot consent to your going there, my dear,”
she said; “you must know that both your father
and myself disapprove of all such places.”
; “But I don’t intend to play, mother, only to look
on; the boys say the tables are splendid, and be-
side, what could I tell Jim Ward after promising to
go with him? He is waiting outside for me.
Please say yes only this once.” . .
“Tell Jim that we would prefer you should not ©
go, and ask him to walk in and spend the evening,”
said Harry's father, as he looked up from the pa-
pers : :
“O, I know he won’t do that!” and Harry stood
turning the door handle, till, finding that his parents
did not intend to say anything. more, he walked
slowly to the frdht stoop. ST
» “Why don’t you hurry along?” called Jim, “and
not keep a fellow standing all night in the cold.”
“I am not going. Won't you come in?” said
Harry. - : :
“Not going! Your mother surely doesn’t object
to your looking at a billiard table.”
“She would prefer I should not go,” said Harry,
and Jim’s only reply was a very significant whistle, '
ashe walked off. 4 2 f
* “Te'll be sure to tell all the boys!” said Harry,
half aloud, as he shut the front door, with rather
more force than was necessary. “I don’t see what
does make both father and mother so particular.”
Then, entering the parlor, he took the first book
that came to hand from the table, and taking a
segt very far from the light, looked exceedingly {
unamiable, oo
His father laid aside the paper, and, without seem-
ing to notice Harry’s mood, said, pleasantly: «I
wonder if my son thinks himself too old fora story,
if not, I have one to tell him about ‘only this
once.’ ” oy
The book Harry had taken up, and which chanced
to be one of his father’s, upon civil engineering,
was returned to the table, but he still kept think-
ing of what the boys would say when Jim told an
exaggerated ‘story, and his countenance remained
unchanged. i
“When I was about your age, Harry, we lived
next door to Mr. Allen, a very wealthy gentleman,
who had one son. As Frank was a good-natured,
merry boy, and had his two beautiful ponies, seve-
ral dogs, and ‘a large play-ground, he soon made
friends. Many an afternoon did we spend together,
riding the ponies, or playing ball on the play-
ground, and one summer afternoon in particular, I
never expect to forget, for it seems to me now,
looking back upon it, as the turning point of Frank’s
life; but we little thought of such a thing at the
time. Jt only seemed to us a very warm afternoon,
and, becoming tired of playing ball, we had stopped
to rest on the piazza, when Frank proposed that we
should take the ponies to a plank road, a few miles
from the house, and race them. I was certain that
his father would disapprove of this; and besides, it
would have been most cruel work on such a warm
afternoon; so-I tried to make Frank think. of
vsomething else he would like to do instead; but all
in vain. toe
“YT think you might go, Charlie” he said.
‘What’s the harm of doing it, only this once? I
just want to see if either of my ponies is likely to
be at fast trotter.’” . :
“For one moment I hesitated, but in the next
came the thought of my father’s displeasure, and I
shook my head. . -¢ .
“Very well, just as you please, Mr, Good Boy !
I know plenty who will be glad of the chance to
ride Jet,’ and so saying, he walked off. .
' “Frank did find a boy who was delighted to go
with him, and enjoyed the race so much that, not-
withstanding his father's reprimand, he managed
to pursue the same sport more times than ‘only
that once.’ m4 ©
“As soon as the summer was ended, Mr. Allen
