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“turns.
Nn > =
ony
‘January 1, 1887,
mistaken. Of course you are. It’s some
child that’s related to Mr. Lane. Yes,
don’t you see that the man’s picture has
“a strong resemblance to Mr. Lane?”
“ as, sure!’ replied Clifford.
*““His brother, no doubt,” said. Mrs.
Thornhill. :
“T guess it is,’’ admitted Clifford. “But
_ the child is exactly like Mandy, or Far
Shy, as she calls herself, only it’s smaller.
Lets open the parcel and see what else is
in it.”
* Oh, no,’”? objected Mrs. Thornhill,
“that would not be right. Mr. Lane
sealed it, and nobody else has a right to
open it.” .
That was enough. Clifford knew full
“well that no argument or persuasion
~ would induce his mother to go contrary
to her convictions of right; but still he
held the package in his hand and Jooked
© curiously at it.
Probably he thought it contained a key
to the great mystery which had so long
oceupied his mind. |
“Well, what are you going to do with
it, mother?” he asked, after a short in-
terval of time. |
“shall keep it for Mr. Lane till he re-
We can’t send it to the bank, for
the bank is no longer in existence. Per-
haps we had’ better leave it in the box
and bury it with our valuables.”
The parcel was smaller -than its former
. size, for the daguerreotype case had been
the thickest article in it. What remained
was soft and flexible, like paper. .
*Shall I try toslip the likeness back
» into the package ?”’ asked Clifford
“No,” replied Mrs. Thornhill, “Jeaye
it out. You might tear the wrapper still
more.’ oO . vo
“<T wish I could see what’s in it,” sigh-
ed Clifford. . .
“Mrs. Thornhill raised her hands in de-
- precation.
“JT am astonished and ashamed that
you should be so inquisitive,” she said.
- * Tt doesn’t concern you a
t all.
“I think it does,” said Clifford; ‘but
T'll be governed by your wishes. I’m al-
most certain that is Far Shy’s likeness,
and that’s the reason I want to look into
the package and see if I can’t find out
something about her.” wa
“Jt doesn’t matter. now,’’ said. Mrs.
Thornhill; ‘the child is dead.” , »
“Pm got my. s’picions ’bout’n that,
remarked Bunk, as if in soliloquy.
“Why?” asked Mrs. Thornhill, sur-
~ prised.
Bunk made no reply. . He was prudent
as well as shrewd, and “he thought it the
art of wisdom to keep his own counsel
“Until he had followed to the end the clew
he had got
‘ot.
“He thinks the Smoot women set fire
to the house and stole the child away,
xplained Clifford. . : ,
. att is to be hoped such was the case,”
said Mrs. ‘Thornhill, ‘but I hardly think
it probable.” .
The valuables were carefully packed in
it nearly to the brim
The parcel and the picture were laid on
top, ana the lid was lowered, but it would
t close. .
nee box was too full. The picture was
then taken out, and still it was rather too
ull. .
ifford raised the lid again, and Jooked
in tosee if, by a readjustment of the con-
tents, the box might be made to shut.
The pressure of the lid on the parcel
had caused the rent in the wrapper to
spread open, and there were exposed to
view the two initials, “Q. K.”, written as
a signature at the bottom of a page of
manuscript. .
Startled, as if by an unearthly appari-
tion, Clifford raised his eyes only to en-
counter a look of sorrowful reproach from
ther. : .
"Fhe good lady thought her, son was
about to be overcome by his curiosity.
Without a word, Clifford closed the box
and locked it. oe
{To BE CONTINUED.]
ee
A PREACHER TREED BY A BEAR.
ri How-
Recently, as the Reverend Francis »
ard, of North Washington, Maine, was
searching for his cattle, he suddenly came
ood-sized bear. As itis something
nusual to see such an animal in this part
ot the State, itis not astonishing that a
: Bs, neatine Med. ile sue
hat frightened. -
Seoded in Sfmbing & tree, where he remain-
bruin, after taking & good Kk at
leaving the rever
. Howard remaine:
time, shouting for help; but as none ap.
eared, he determine to risk a run for
ome, which it is said he accomplishe
with all the alacrity of a boy.
BY PATIENCE STAPLETON.
Almost every child has a grandmother,
but not many have a great-grandmother—
a grandmother’s mother. I have, and she
is the dearest old lady in the world.
She wears a black gown, a little white
wuslin handkerchief over her shoulders,
and a white lace cap over her brown false
front, that all old ladies used to wear.
She has fine gray eyes, and nice teeth—
all her own, too—and is ninety years old.
She reads the papers, and knows all that
is going on; and worries over the acci-
dents just as much as if her own folks
were in them.
She is fond of’ politics, for she and
grandfather—dead this thirty year—used
to keep a roadside tavern, where all the
famous lawyers stopped on their way to
V. , Where the county court was
held. Daniel Webster had stopped at the
tavern, and many other distinguished
en.
Grandma loves to tell of those days
while she knits in the firelight. She
moves her needles as swift as a machine,
and ean knit in the dark. She taught me
to knit, too; but I think she found a stu-
pid pupil, though she never said so. She
does all kinds of knitting; scarfs, mit-
tens, wristers and stockings, and when
she was young, she used to weave and
spin, and made her own linen for sheets
and bedding when she was married.
nee grandma visited Loston; only
fourteen she was, yet remembers every
detail of her visit. ITer uncle, an ex-gov-
ernor, gave grand balls and parties, and
the shy little country girl had a glimpse
of the fine manners and gay life of Bos-
ton’s old aristocracy.
But she loved the country best, and
married a neighbor’s son, and went with
him to an unbroken forest way up in the
north of Maine, and lived a pioneer lite
_in all its hardships of want and cold.
She had eight children, and made every
stitch of their clothing as well as her hus-
band’s, and taught them, too. There was
no school-house near, and her only book
the Bible, and out of this they learned to
read and spell. She had all the work a
farmer’s wife must do, and I fancy knew
little rest. There are few such workers
nowadays.
Grandma’s best stories are about Indi-
ans. There were roving bands of them in
Maine fifty and sixty years ago, and some-
times they were not peaceably disposed,
especially when farms were isulated and
far from neighbors’ help. How many
humes they plundered and burned, and
how many families they murdered an
scalped, will never be Known ; for who
could tell, in the depths of a forest, what
a blackened clearing meant? It might be
only a place burned by those mysterious
forest fires ; Who was to know it was the
ashes of a once happy home?
A few years ago grandma was down to
our house on her regular winter’s visit,
and she found us girls much excited about
New Year's calls. In a small country
town, few people receive calls on New
Year’s Day, and mother had not dene so
since we were too little to remember,
The last day of the oldyear we were talk-
ing with grandma in the hour before tea,
when it was too dark to read or sew, and
too light for lamps. Of course grandma
was knitting, this time a big pair of iit-
tens for an old man that used to saw wood
for us.. Grandma had noticed his mittens
were ragged, and finding he had no one
to care for him, took it upon herself, and
gave him three pairs of good yarn stock-
ings before she went away, and he said:
“Now marm, you be one of the good
old-fashioned sort, the Lord reward ye.”
“You never heard about oy New
Year’s caller, did you, girls?” sai grand-
ma. |
* No,” we cried, eagerly. —
“Was it in Boston, at the governor’s ?
sk en. .
att must have been grand there,” said
Mamie, half-enviously.
“No,” replied grandma, smiling on
pretty Mamie. “Tt was in the first days
of my married life. I was married, you
know, when I was only seventeen.
stayed at home with mother that year;
then Joseph and I, and your gred uncle
Rufus, atwo-months-old baby, moved up
to the north.of where we d been living
and pretty nigh on the borders of Can-
I
ane We were twenty miles from neighbors,
and found ouf way to them by spotted
rees—trees we'd marked, you know, for
the woods are confusing.
“Tt was lonely like for me; but Joseph
seldom left the farm, and then only to go
to the mill, thirty miles away, to get our
corn and wheat ground.
“J used to be afraid sometimes, for the
circuit-riders — preachers that traveled
round and did much good—would stop
over night and tell us stories about the
Indians, and sometimes I'd see the red
creatures hiding in the woods, trying to
steal a cow or calf. Joseph always went
armed, to be ready for’em.
“The winters were terribly cold_ there,
and I used to pity the squaws and child-
ren that would come our way, and they
were always welcome to a shelter in my
house, and the men, too, if they were
peaceable, for husband didn’t believe in
aggravating ’em.
“Well, the New Year’s Day of the first
twelve months we'd lived there, Joseph
went to the mill witha load. He‘couldn’t
get back that night, for the wolves were
thick in winter and fierce with hunger,
and I’d much rather he’d stop over. Be-
sides, traveling was hard and the wagon
leavy.
“T watched him drive off, feeling down-
hearted enough. After he’d looked back
and waved his hat, I went in with baby
and had a good ery. Then I reasoned
myself out of my fears, and did up my
work a-singing tu the baby.
“T got the cows milked and fed, and
locked the barn; then, before I shut the
door for the night, I took a good look
around at the trees. It was getting dark,
and there were queer shadows in the
woods, and I felt more scared than ever.
“After the baby was asleep, it was lone-
some enough sitting there before the fire,
and the tallow candle seeming to burn
dimmer than usual. I kept thinking I
heard steps outside, and the icy snow
a-crackling, and sometimes I shook with
dread and fear.
“At last I got up, thinking it was moon-
light and I'd feel better if I looked out
the window. raised the curtain, and,
dear, oh, me! there was an Indian’s face
pressed close against the pane.
“All painted hideous he was, with red
and blue, and a terribly ugly being to
look at. He had eagle feathers on his
head, and a long gun, and was rigged out
for fighting.
“LT thought 1 should die; but I didn’t
scream, though I knew the door had no
other fastening than a bar of wood that
he could break. -
“Tn a minute he came totie door, push-
ing hard against it, and the bar snapped
like a twig.
“In he came. Over six feet high he
was, and seemed to me the biggest man 1
ever saw. Ile was wrapped in a blanket,
and had clothes made of skins on. Ie
had the long gun anda big knife with
im.
“T caught up the baby, and run behind
the bed. He took scarcely any notice of
me, however, but shut the ‘door, and
went and warmed himself. Then he haul-
ed the quilt off the bed, and fixed i
over the window,
“T held my breath, wondering what he
meant todo. -
“The baby, waking up, gave a little ery,
and he turned and drew his knife across
his throat, meaning, I thought, by the act
to kill the child.
“J hushed the little one to sleep again,
and he, dragging his blanket before the
fire, sat down all in a heap, grunting, like
a pig, from comfort. I crouched behind
the bed, and watched him.
“Then he pointed to his mouth, to tell
me he was hungry. The victuals were
down in the cellar, and I daren’t go and
leave him with the baby. But he kept a-
pointing, and getting mad; so, at last,
mustered courage, and teok the candle,
and brought up a great milk-pan full of
doughnuts, a piece of pork, anda jug of
vinegar—that was all we had.
“Bless me, how the creature did eat!
Every doughnut went into him, then the
pork raw, and washing it down with the
vinegar, as if it had been sweeter than
new cider. .
“When he was through, he went to the
door, and listened awhile; then he went
back to the fire, and went to sleep.
“T set behind the bed, trembling and
watching him, Just think, girls, how
you would have felt there alone with that
heathen, that couldn't talk your language,
and that you couldn’t say a word to; and
alone in the woods where he could kill
you, and no one help you.
“T prayed to myself, and, by-and-by,
crept over and got my Dible, and read it.
After a spell, [looked up, and there he
was, sitting and watching me with a kind
of wondering awe on his face.
“Then he got up and listened at the
door again. Quick as a flash, he blew
out the candle, and flattened the fire with
a log.
“T wondered what he meant todo in
the dark, and I hugged the baby closer,
and it cried a little, and ha turned and
laid his big hand over its mouth, Ie
weant me to keep it still.
stood there listening, listening.
Then he bent his ear to the floor, and
beckoned me. I dared not draw back ;
besides, if he’d wanted to murder me,
he’d chances enough before. ~
“So I went to the door and listened, too, © _
and floating to me through the
worse t the howls of the
wolves— the faint echo of
Indian yell of war, more horri
any animal's that ever was.
“It seemed to come nearer and nearer,
and 1 could hear him breathe hard in the
dark. It was so quiet in the woods
sounds echoed for miles.
“After what seemed an hour to me, but
couldn't have been more than ten min-
utes, the yells grew fainter and further
ores
ungriest
ell. An
te than -
off.
“Tle turned from the door then, and pil-
ing more logs on the fire, laid down and >
went to sleep.
“1 set there and watched him through
that terrible night of the New Year, till
daylight. , I'll never forget it, and see
yself now a-setting in’ the firelight,
looking at him sleeping on the floor, and
rocking the baby to keep it from waking
vim. .
t daylight he waked up, stretched
himself; then he looked at me, holding
something in his hand.
glanced at it, and there was two
baby-socks Vd knit for Rufes. Two
months before, a squaw with a sick boy
aby asked me for shelter one night.
gave hera bed before the fire, and doc-
tored the baby, and made her stay till he
was well; and when she went away,
dressed the baby in Rufus’ clothes—socks
and all~for she had a dreadful careless
way of clothing it.
he was mightily pleased, and smiled
with her white teeth, and her black eyes
—like a bird’s—-dancing with the pride
all mothers have. .
“<Ump, pappoose,’ he says, and picks
up his gun and blanket, and went out.
op knew. He was a friendly In-
dian, and most likely that baby’s fa-
t
*JIn the afternoon I saw Joseph coming
on horseb: ata gallop, with his face as
white as chalk. He thought he'd find the
house burned, and me and baby killed.>
“You don’t know how overjoyed he
was when he saw us iu the door,
“The Indians had burnt seven or eight
lonely farmhouses like ours, and killed
he people, and, driving the eattle they
stole, escaped into Canada,
“}T told Joseph about the Indian, and
we both agreed he’d come out of grati-
tude, to save me, and while I was dread-’
ing and fearing him, he was staying to
protect me from the rest.
“That, girls,” said grandina, folding
up her knitting asthe bell rang for tea,
and smiling on us all—“that was my first
and last New Year’s caller.” -
—— ae
A MOUSE THAT STOPPED A TRAIN,
Did any one ever imagine that a mouse
could stop a railway train? 1t seems tobe> -
impossible: nevertheless, it was done re-
cently at the town of Carpi, near diodena,
in Italy,
On the Italian railroads an electrical ap-
paratus, upon the departure of a train from
any station, rings six strokes upon a gong
in the next station, The station-anaster at
Carpi, hearing the gong ring three strokes
where there should be six, immediately
came to the conclusion that something was.
wrong on the line, and ordered up the elec-
signal o:
e train, Ww h by this time was under
full headway, dead stop. T
began a tran
eo pas
ae
E
quiry es’
was right on the line, and
dered torward after considerable del
fhe station-master abou his time
thought it might be well to look into his
gong, and there he found, stuck fast be-
tween the cogs of the electrical apparatus,
a poor little mouse. The unhappy little
animal had happened to be in the interior.
of the clock when it “struck one,” anc
down he attempted to run, but was caught
between the murderous wheels. is litle
y was big enough tostop the whole ap-
partus, and, consequently, the train as
woll, ‘
\
: