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A hha poe
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BY GOULD, > ELWELL, PICKARD & 60.
he Offic’ Fox Block Number 82 2 Exchange 5 st.
» PORTLAND, SATURDAY,
\ AN INDEPENDENT: FAMILY JOURNAL OF LIGSRATURG, NEWS, MC. Wn Eee yume
NOV~10, 1855.0
no al Se vINO. 81."
Bote.
|. THE HEDGE FEAST.
Whore tie bees and butterflies "
mages Than a plce of tombe,
Ragged tele Johny, on
“Merry Uittle Jim, 8" ©
'y Crooked little 1e Barney—
. How awest the fietds to him!
~ Matty with her white head,
Bonnet allawry;, "5
. . Katie with sweet fancies’
Glittering in ber eye.
They have roamed the meadow,
They have roamed the wood,
Beoking nuts and blackberries,
y.'s. © For their pleasant food.
“). °. With their nats and blackberries,
* And lumps of bread and cheese,"
tre _ ‘a mossy hedge-bank, |
> ow they sit at ease.
inking from the Brooklet,”
thorn shook fresh odors, ;
ke a blessing down
* From the pure white blossoms
Oita teaty crown! © .
|), » Blamp white lambs were gathered”
Neath its cloven tiem, :
_ And the happy eh childe:
. Nestledyel
‘and the near tang lowdiy.
~ On the hawthorn spray,
And the brooklet ever
Made music on the way.
Twatched unseen, oft sighing, ,
‘To think what simple joy
oe ‘Was here that earthly riches
Wealth and grandeur are not .
Found in Paradise.)
Select Tale,”
«From Graham's Bingazine, for November.
_ THE COUNTRY: COUSIN,
eo BY ALICE ¢ ce CAREY.
5,
a
° wo, mother, mother! father bas sold old
* Brindle and her calf, don’t you think—sold
“her for twenty-five dollars—a good deal of
money, aint it? . There she goes, now ; just
look up the lane and see her—how she shakes
, hee head and bawls.» Shé don’t want: to go,
but her calf rans away like, everything—it
don’t care—look quick, Iannah ; look Nan-
.¢Y or you won’t seo her, she is just going out
of sight now ;” and ‘little: Willie Davidson
» Tan out of the house as he finished. telling
"the news, ad climbed. to the top of the gate
“post for a last glimpse of old . Brindle—
“ Nancy ran to the gate too, asking Willie if
he was quite sure of what he said, and strain-
* ing her eyos to catch one more look of the
cow she had milked so often and that scem-
€dtoher almost like a friend.» She did not
Teturn to the house at once, bat fell to “dig-
Sing about some. pink rooter pepe to di-
vert her thoughts. . *
“Mrs. Davidson stitched faster on the work
. “the Was sewing, and tho’ moisture gathered
ia hor soft blue eyes asshe did’so, for she
“Was a kind-hearted woman, and could not
“have even a ‘dumb creature about her thet
she did not love. .
‘ “Ob, mother!” shouted Willie, “alt ‘the
”. Cows have scen that Brindle is going, and they
, "scampering across the field toward her,
35 faat as they can—Spot. is tearing up the
ground with all her might. “Do you suppose
« ©9¥8 can feel bad, mother? If they can’ "t
‘What makes them act 601”, "+ '
ie “Oh, I don’t know, my child, never mina ; ”
we rplied the mother, her voice choked and her
i
i
}
é
i
i
I
ore Tens over by this time. Hannah
Aled Willie i in presently, and asked him if'
/ to a
‘|he was sure Brindle was sold, and really
knew what money she had brought; and
when he said thathe saw the man count
twenty-five . dollars into: father’s hand she
smiled and burst into a merry song, as she
skipt about the work, for the sun was going
down, and it was time for the evening chores,
Nancy remained digging about the pink
roots, and thinking of Brindle a long time,
and of the pretty little calf, whose silken ears
she had held go softly in her hands, only that
morning. The last sunshine faded from the
brown gable of the old homestead—the chick-
eus began to gather in quiet groups, and talk
soberly of bedtime; the turkeys to gobble
their last news; and the geese to waddle slow-
«tly homeward, when she looked down the lane
the way Brindle had gone—knowing she
would not see her, but feeling impelled to
look, she knew not why. The dust ‘was all
settled on the path she had gone, and quict
stretched the long road as far as she ‘could
see—quiet, but not all deserted—slowly and
wearily as it seemed, she saw coming ‘in the
distance a foot traveler—his coat swang over
one arm, and a bandle on his shoulder. How
often we look at our future fate and suspect
it not. Certainly. Nancy dreamed not that
poor traveler was anything to her. .
“Tired, very tired, from his work in the
field, and ‘slow, behind the plow which ‘he
held sideways, for he did not care to turna
furrow now, came Mr. Davidson—the chains
of the harness dragged heavily and rattled
noisily as he came ; and the old work-horses
walked soberly eneich, for they, were, tired
too... Perhaps tue #1 boke-gotug’ ‘ap from the
homestead chimney looked pleasant ‘to the
young man, and doubtless the smile and sal-
utation of the farmer were kindly as he over"
took him and slackened his pace, to make
some inquiry about the nearest inn, and the
prospects of obtaining: employment therea-
bouts.
- “What work can you do? ” asked. Mr.
Davidson, letting tho plow fall to the Bround
as he spoke. | *
The young man raised it up, and hola it
steadily aslant ashe replied that he had beon
used to farm-work, and could -do anything a
farmer would be likely to require.
. “Come in,” said Mr. Davidson, “and we
will talk farther about the mattex.” .
. Nancy had seen him holding the plow for
her father as they came along, ‘and she wait-
ed and gave him a sweet smile as he entered
the gate~a smile that brought a deeper color to
his cheek than had ever been there before, for
the youth was a poor hard-working youth,and
not much used to woman’s smiles, . Hannah
gave him a careless nod, but did not break
off her song for his coming.’ She did not
see the heightened color of his check, nor
the tenderness in his blue eyes—she did not
look at either.’ , When it was milkiag time,
Timothy Linley, for that was the young
man’s name, offered to do the milking, e's
“T will assist him,” said Nancy, fer she
and Hannah were ustd to doing all; but
Hannah made no such offer, on the contrary,
she remained in the house teasing her ‘mother
for a new gown and bonnet. -
When Mr, and Mrs. Davidson’ eat o on. nthe
cool stones at the door, in the deep shadow
of the twilight, she told him how good the
girls had ‘been—how they had staid at home
allsummer, and spun and milked and charn-
ed, and now it was coming fall, and they
deserved -a little leisuro, and reward—in
short she wanted them to have some money,
what he could spare, and spend a week in
town with their ,Aunt Martha, Just as a
good husband and father would have done, |.
Mr. Davidson counted into his wife’s hand
half the price of the cow, aries. “a
*-“ Will that do?”
“We must not both’ leave smother for a
a week,” said Naucy; “you may go. Han-
nah, in my place, I shall be quite well satis-
fied with what you buy for me; and as for
visiting Aut Martha, I will do that some
other tim
Never once said Tianaab, “we will both ©
& ‘
and stay three days—that will make a nice
little visit, and you must choose your new
dress yourself.”
Timothy said Nancy must go—he wrontd
help her mother all he could—he would churn
and draw all the water, and make the fires,
| and do many other chores, but Nancy made
excuses, for she felt how illy she could be
spared, and Hannah went alone.
When the market’ day came round, . and
Mr. Davidson went to town with the expec-
tation of bringing home Hannah, with all
the new things, mother and daughter were
very busy—baking in the big brick oven was
done,and the house all set in order for astran-
ger guest ; it was quite an event for Hannah
to come from town with so much to tell and
so many new things. Toward nightfall,
when ail eyes were straining down the road
to catch the first glimpse, the white faces of
the horses were seen.
“There they come !” shouted Willie, from
the gate-post.. Nancy raised herself on tip-
toe, while the good mother hastened to lay
the cloth—bnt no, only the father was there,
Great anxiety prevailed,’ and ~ the wagon
seemed to be an hour coming through the
hollow and over the hill. “Nancy ran to the
gate to learn what was the matter. ‘
“Nothing, Nancy, nothing,” said the old
man smiling; but it was a very sad smile,
and he added, “Hannah has found better
friends than any of us, that is all.’”
Seeing how sad Nancy looked, Timothy
managed to mi ilk all the cows except one—it
liked to ‘milk ; and when the last chores were
done, it was not yet dark, and one of the
mildest and sweetest of the October days—
so mild and so sweet, that Timothy ventur-
ed to say, blushing bashfully, and looking
down, that a walk in the orghard would be
pleasant. So taking a basket as an excuse,
likely, Timothy and Nancy went to the orch-
ard together. The knolls, cushioned softly
with grass, beneath the trees, invited to re-
se, and the heavy and curtaining silence to
confidence. Every heart knows its own sor-
rows, and every heart desires that some oth-
er heart shall know them, and as’ naturally
‘as the leaves fellin their lap, fell their words
of gentle complaint and appeal for ‘sympathy
—not in vain. My
‘A few days after this, Tlannah came home,
riding in a fine carriage, and with a fine gen-
tleman beside her. She was a girl of fresh
impulsive feelings, of ashowy style, and eas-
ily charmed by flattery. “And ske had given
and received admiration, if not affection.
In her new bonnet with its_gay ribbons,
and new dress, ruffled and flounced, the’plain-
et mother add sister hardly knew Hannah.
Tam sorry to say, that the disposition she
had made of the money was not alittle selfish,
Nancy’s dress and bonnet was not only less
gay, but evidently a good deal less expensive
than her own.
When the apples hang their red cheeks
down another year, and the mists were like
dim shadows along the yellow leaves’ of the
woods, the old homestead had a quieter and
soberer look—Nancy and Iannah were mar-
ried. ‘Timothy, a slender and delicate youth,
was the husband of one, and a healthy, hale
man, who counted his money by thousands—
thé same who brought Hannah home in the
fine carriage—was her husband now. She
was gone to live in a great cit$, to be sur
rounded by fashion and friends, ‘and wear
fine morning dresses and evening * dresses,
and forget her playmate and workmate, * poor
Nancy.
November . midnight lay black over, the
town, and black over the country ; spires
gleamed faintly through the rain; roofs
stretched wide and wet over the sleeping and
waking multitude, and the street lamps, burn-
ing dimly, lighted only now and then some
home-going coach or solitary wanderer, The
lamps in the halls and at the doors of the
great houses had been put out, and only here
and there, through windows closed against
the rain, shone a little light. ; Some excep-
was ‘not bard work bt ws, ho ¥aig, he, always |
tions there were, it is t mirth will not al-
ways let the November rajn put out its fires,
and ‘melancholy ‘ will have its lights and
watchers, too—life will come to lifein its
time, and death will claim his‘own at mid-
night, as wellas 2t noon., So here and there
in the rainy darkness, ‘stood a honse lighted
from basement to chamber, but only with one
of them have we todo.” The lamps at the
door blaze over the broad steps, and the glit-
tering chandelier in the hall shines up the
broad and elegantly farnished staircase.—
Coaches wait ,at. the door, and the silver
mounting of thé. harness is gemmed with
rain—there is no noise of music or dancing
within ; and yet from the quick-moving steps
and variously flashing lights, the occasion
seems to be mirtliful.’ Let us go in and see.
In the drawing-room the lights are not, bril-
liant, but the tablein the refectory is spread
as for aholyday, and’ we hear yoices sup-
pressed but joyful. Ah, here in the softened
light’of these rich and carefully drawn cur-
. The brightness of the sun’s light strayed *
behind the clouds, and the rain‘ fell and fell ,
—most.dismally over the two men who had,
left all more cheerful work for the digging of +
&@ grave—the red brierleaves shifted with
the rain, and clung about the mound, by the,
side of which they wers digging—it had not ~
been there long, for ‘no grass was grown on it
as yet, and not a bit of moss dims the Ietter-
ing of the head-stone—“Timothy Lindley, ,
aged twenty-five years,” is all that is graven
there—what need of more—all his goodness
was known to the soul that has gone to meet
him; for it is the grave of poor Nancy the -_
two men are making. No spot could be more
gloomy than that wher she was laid,
and scldom-traveleq pa on one side,
thick wood standin ng. sererlasting sh
on the other: Lt fe aw
‘When the baby was a week old, a man, end.
woman, a plain-looking and tearful pair,
journeyed that way, and took her with them,
Many times they kisseg her, naming her Or-
tains we learn the secret—a child is born to
wealth and honor to-night, and friends are
gome through tho November rain to rejoice
with the mother, and to kiss the bright-eyed
little one who as yet knows nothing of the
quality of the new world into which it has
come. *
We will leave them now, for their tives
have been “a cake untouched,” and have
hardened in the perpetual sunshine of Pros:
ity.
ae The rainy ele} derof that midnight stretch-
ed far thyond d= t1Lts of thé city, over eal
tivated fields and dreary reaches of woods ;
over warm sheltered homesteads ; great farms
where the housed cattle listened to the rain
on thé roof; along the grass-grown and ob-
scure road, where the mower had drawn up
bis wagon beneath the sheltering beach tree,
and wakeful, watched his log fire struggling
with the storm, and over: the settler’s cabin
and clearing—and this last chiefly interests
us now. Scarcely at all shines the light from
the small window against the great back
ground of wet black woods; and the rain
soaks noiselessly in the mellow ground of
the, small patch of clearing where the house
stands—if bouse, so small and rude a habi-
tation may be called. , But its heavy beating
is heard distinctly by the anxious watchers
by the bedside—for between them and the
clap-boards ot the roof, there is no floor nor
ceiling. Inthe rough stone fireplace some
oak wood is burning, and two tallow can-
dies on the mantle-shelf make the light,
which is shaded from the bed by a temporary
screen. No splendid * draperies soften’ the
light to the eyes, that for thé first time have
opened upon the pain and sorrow of the
world. , The country doctor sits dreamily by
the fire, hearing imperfectly the neighing of
his rain-beaten horse, at the door; the mur-
mured voices of the women, and the moans
of the mother, who has come to’a deeper
than midnight darkness, and must eater it
alone.”
The crying of the little “daughter beside
her makes to her understanding no woful
seeming of orphan struggles and. sorrows—
she hears it not—let us hope she hears the
welcoming songs of the angels."
“Gloomily and wet came the day, and the
stranger but kind-hearted women trod softly
about the bed—not that there was any fear
of waking the sleeper—if the erying of her
baby disturbed her not, how shonld the tread-
ing of their footsteps? Yet her smile was
so like life, they could not but tread softly as
they came near her—the hair was so bright
and sunny, you could not believe the cheek
beneath it was so hard and cold—the feet
had been so quick to do good, it was hard to
believe they were straightened for the last
time; the eyes had but yestentay shone with
such tenderness and love for every living
thing—how, oh, how could they be darkened
forever? So the women trod softly, and
folded the sheet softly down about the bosom
that, beyond all other chilling, Death had
‘ ce 5 _ee
chilled.
pha, and in the old house where her mother
had lived she giew to” womanhood, a great .
all the comfort they had, in fact, for Willie,
had gone out into the world, and -quite—no,
not quite—bat nearly forgotten he was ever
aboy, and sat on the gate-post, and. with
tears in his eyes, looking after old Brindle.
He was a man, with alla man’s aims and
ambitions, and though hestill loved and rev.
erenced his parents—the love was no longer
primary, and sometimes for months: and
mopths no Ictter came to inquire of their
welfare, or say what were his own hopes and
fears. And Hannah was living, and prosper-
ous and happy, and yet so differont was her
life from theirs, and so far had she grown
away from them, that they thought almost as ~
sadly of her as of Nancy.
Her fine house was only a day’s joumey'
from the old homestead, and yet for seven
years she had not made it a visit, so absorb~
ed with travels ‘otherwhere, and with the
thick-crowding gaieties of her life, had ‘she’
been... A sense, if not the feeling of filial
affection, was not quite lost to her, however,
wrote 4 letter to the old folks, and with a
tact which, in their simplicity, they interpre-
ted as the spontancons opening of her heart,
spoke of the old life at the homestead, ia
terms of tender endearment, almost of re-
gret—she began with “my mach loved pa~
rents,” and closed with “your ever dutiful
and affectionate child.” She was careful to
make no account of her present mode of liv-
ing, farther than to say they had been bless-
ed and prospered abundantly, and lived very
comfortably, thank Providence. -She did
not say so in so many words, but the gensr-
al tone of her letter implied that we were al}
poor.suffering sinners together, traveling to
the same goal, but not precisely by the same
road.« Her oldest daughter Anna, who it
was pretended was named for herself, wag
shortly to be married, she intimated, very ad-
vantageously, into one of the oldest and most
respectable families in the country, She
really wished she could sce the dear faces of
her good old father and mother again, but
really her motherly duties were so stringent
that she found herself still obliged to hold
the pleasure in reserve.” Upon what little
was sealed and superscribed, Hannah threw
itdown with a yawn, mingled with a sigh of
satisfaction, saying to herself, “Thank my
stars the dreaded task’ is done for another
ear .
Could that good old father. and ‘mother
have heard that exclamation, their cheeks
wonld not have flashed with the happy glow
of much younger men and women, as they
aid when the aweet-voiced Orphs stood up _
before the candle, between the, blessing and
the meat of the supper-table, and read that
letter aloud. Orpha had been sent to school
@ good deal more hen shey, | and could read *
writing as well as print . “
“Ob, isn’t it mange,” she exclaimed,
oy
comfort to them—her grand-parents—almost. °
chances fate seems to turn—when that letter |
and prompted, mostly by duty, she one day ~
_*
