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without a word, and by and by he re- as he handed her ashore, “would you turned her a little pressure, and then, believe I was so stupid as not to see steadying himself up, he said: “It ain't that the name o' your wessel was the no use to think on't, Rose, - it's all same as my own ? I read it the Rose over now, and they've met beyond the Rolling, to be sure !” seas o' time, my poor father and But John maintained that she was mother, for they both crossed long not stupid a single bit nor mite, but, on ago, - met, and knowed each other, the contrary, smart altogether beyond I hope, but the one never come to the common. “To come so nigh the himself here, nor recognized the other. truth," says he, “and yet not get hold My mother took straight to her bed; on 't, arter all, is a leetle the slickest and when she wore the white shawl thing yet!” agin, and had it drawed across her And then he told, as they walked bosom, it was for that journey from home together, - he with three bandwhich none on us come back.”
boxes in one arm, and her on the other, “Dear John,” says Rose, very soft - all about his weary years of hardship ly, — all the coquette gone, - only and poverty, and all about the beginthe woman left. And presently he ning of his good fortune, the running was strong enough to go on.
away of the horse and of the little girl “ It was a good many year," he said, who drew him after her, because she “not till I was a'most a man, before I reminded him so much of Rose hercame to understand rightly what it was self as she used to be when he looked that sot my father crazy. The captain down upon her so fondly from the roof had been agin him all along on ac- in Baker's Row, — told her of the child's count of his too much sperit, and that father, and how he set him up in busicapterin' o' the whale finished up the ness, - of his prosperity since, ending business, and pinted his fate. It with her taking passage with him, which wa' n't long arter this till Captain Gris- he said was the best fortune of all. com found occasion to treat him very That was luck," says he, “ that no hardly, which bein' resented only by words can shadder forth !” And then a look, he ordered him down below to he said, “I ought n't to call it luck, my be flogged! This, Rose, was what dear; it was just an intervention of broke the spirit on him; he was nev. Divine Providence !” Then he corer himself arterwards, never knowed rected himself. “An interwention o' nothin' at all clear, exceptin' about the Diwine Providence,” says he, -- " that takin' o' that whale; and that he told 's what it was !” And he hugged the over and over a hundred times, arter very bandboxes till he fairly stove them that fust time, just as I 've told it to in. you, but all before it and all behind it About a month after this blessed was shadders, till the great shadder of luck, the milliner's shop was closed all came over him.
one day at an unusually early hour, “When I come to hear on 't, I said and the white-muslin curtains at the I hoped my father would meet that 'ere parlor windows above might have been captain som'er's on the seas of eter- noticed to flutter and sway, as with nity, and flog him within an inch of his some gay excitement indoors. And life; and I ha'n't repented the sayin' so indeed there was. John had taken on 't yet.”
his Rose for good and all, and the little The tide had come up while John parlor was full of glad hearts and merChidlaw was telling his story, and his lit- ry feet. All the milliner's apprentices tle boat slid off the bar directly, when, and sewing-girls of the neighborhood taking up the oars, he soon brought were there, bright as so many butterflies, her to land.
laughing, and nodding, and whispering “ Bless your dear heart, John!" says one another, and dropping their eyes Rose, pointing back to the boat's name, before the young sailors, and teamsters, and other fine fellows, who were serv- the table, and against the soft slipper ing them with a generosity that was only and silken stocking of Rose, lest at any equalled by their admiration. Coffee, moment she might be caught up into cakes, cheese, chowder, bottled beer, heaven, and so vanish out of his sight; fruits, and hot bannocks, — the lasses and she, in turn, kept fond watch of bad them all at once, and the lads him, pressing the oranges upon him would have been glad to give them with almost importunate solicitude. even more.
Perhaps she remembered that one which And John, grown ten years younger he had parted with for her sake, when that day, kept all the while (being forced he used to look down upon her from to turn his head away now and then to the roof of Baker's Row with such receive congratulations) one foot under hopeless and helpless admiration.
ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?
EACH day when the glow of sunset
E Fades in the western sky,
Go tripping lightly by,
Asleep in his easy-chair,
Their faces fresh and fair.
Alone in the dear old homestead
That once was full of life,
Echoing boyish strife,
And oft, as the shadows come,
“ It is night! are the children home?"
“ Yes, love!” I answer him gently,
“They 're all home long ago";-
A song so soft and low,
With his head upon his hand,
Home in the better land.
Home, where never a sorrow
Shall dim their eyes with tears !
Through all the summer years !
I know !- yet my arms are empty,
That fondly folded seven,
Is almost starved for heaven.
Sometimes, in the dusk of evening,
I only shut my eyes,
A vision from the skies :
Lost the way to my breast,
Passed to the world of the blessed.
With never a cloud upon them,
I see their radiant brows :
The red sword sealed their vows !
Twin brothers, bold and brave, They fell; and the flag they died for,
Thank God ! floats over their grave.
A breath, and the vision is lifted
Away on wings of light,
All alone in the night.
But I smile at idle fears ;
In the dear and peaceful years.
And still as the summer sunset
Fades away in the west,
Go trooping home to rest,
“ Say, love ! have the children come ?" And I answer, with eyes uplifted,
“Yes, dear! they are all at home!”
IN THE GRAY GOTH.
TF the wick of the big oil lamp had diah has been good to you, I'm sure,
I been cut straight, I don't believe it and brought you up religious, — though would ever have happened.
you've cost him a sight, spending Where is the poker, Johnny? Can't three hundred and fifty dollars a year you push back that for’ard log a little ? at Amherst College. Dear, dear! Well, it does n't make But, as I was going to say, when much difference, does it? Something I started to talk about '41,- to tell always seems to ail your Massachu- the truth, Johnny, I 'm always a long setts fires ; your hickory is green, and while coming to it, I believe. I'm your maple is gnarly, and the worms getting to be an old man, - a little eat out your oak like a sponge. I of a coward, maybe, and sometimes, have n't seen anything like what I call a when I sit alone here nights, and think fire, - not since Mary Ann was married, it over, it's just like the toothache, and I came here to stay. “ As long as Johnny. As I was saying, if she had you live, father,” she said ; and in that cut that wick straight, I do believe it very letter she told me I should al- would n't have happened, - though it is ways have an open fire, and how she n't that I mean to lay the blame on her would n't let Jacob put in the air-tight now. in the sitting-room, but had the fire. I'd been out at work all day about place kept on purpose. Mary Ann the place, slicking things up for towas a good girl always, if I remember morrow; there was a gap in the straight, and I'm sure I don't com- barn-yard fence to mend, - I left that plain. Is n't that a pine-knot at the till the last thing, I remember, - I bottom of the basket ? There ! that's remember everything, some way or better.
other, that happened that day, - and Let me see; I began to tell you there was a new roof to put on the something, did n't I ? O yes ; about pig-pen, and the grape-vine needed that winter of '41. I remember now. an extra layer of straw, and the latch I declare, I can't get over it, to think was loose on the south barn door; you never heard about it, and you then I had to go round and take a twenty-four year old come Christmas. last look at the sheep, and toss down You don't know much more, either, an extra forkful for the cows, and go about Maine folks and Maine fashions into the stall to have a talk with Ben, than you do about China, -- though it's and unbutton the coop door to see if small wonder, for the matter of that, the hens looked warm, - just to tuck you were such a little shaver when 'em up, as you might say. I always Uncle Jed took you. There were a felt sort of homesick - though I great many of us, it seems to me, would n't have owned up to it, not that year, I 'most forget how many; - even to Nancy - saying good by to we buried the twins next summer, did the creeturs the night before I went n't we? - then there was Mary Ann, in. There, now! it beats all, to think and little Nancy, and — well, coffee you don't know what I'm talking was dearer than ever I'd seen it, I know, about, and you a lumberman's son. about that time, and butter selling for “Going in” is going up into the nothing; we just threw our milk away, woods, you know, to cut and haul and there was n't any market for eggs; for the winter, — up, sometimes, a hunbesides doctor's bills and Isaac to be dred miles deep, - in in the fall and sent to school; so it seemed to be the out in the spring; whole gangs of us best thing, though your mother took shut up there sometimes for six on pretty badly about it at first. Jede- months, then down with the freshets
on the logs, and all summer to work I've tipped the lamp over, and you the farm, -a merry sort of life when just get a cloth and wipe up the oil." you get used to it, Johnny; but it “Dear me !” said she, lighting a canwas a great while ago, and it seems dle, and she spoke up very soft, too. to me as if it must have been very “ Please, Aaron, don't let the cold in cold. — Is n't there a little draft com- on baby. I'm sorry it was smoking, ing in at the pantry door ?
but I never knew a thing about it; he's So when I'd said good by to the been fretting and taking on so the last creeturs, -I remember just as plain hour, I did n't notice anyway.” how Ben put his great neck on my “That's just what you ought to shoulder and whinnied like a baby, — have done,” says I, madder than ever. that horse knew when the season “You know how I hate the stuff, and came round and I was going in, just you ought to have cared more about as well as I did, -I tinkered up the me than to choke me up with it this barn-yard fence, and locked the doors, way the last night before going in." . and went in to supper.
Nancy was a patient, gentle-spoken I gave my finger a knock with the sort of woman, and would bear a good hammer, which may have had some deal from a fellow; but she used to thing to do with it, for a man does n’t fire up sometimes, and that was more feel very good-natured when he's been than she could stand. “ You don't degreen enough to do a thing like thatserve to be cared about, for speaking and he does n't like to say it aches like that!” says she, with her cheeks either. But if there is anything I as red as peat-coals. can't bear it is lamp-smoke; it al- That was right before the children. ways did put me out, and I expect Mary Ann's eyes were as big as sauit always will. Nancy knew what a cers, and little Nancy was crying at fuss I made about it, and she was al- the top of her lungs, with the baby ways very careful not to hector me tuning in, so we knew it was time to with it. I ought to have remembered stop. But stopping was n't ending; that, but I did n't. She had lighted and folks can look things that they the company lamp on purpose, too, don't say. because it was my last night. I liked We sat down to supper as glum as it better than the tallow candle.
pump-handles; there were some fritSo I came in, stamping off the snow, ters - I never knew anybody beat your and they were all in there about the mother at fritters — smoking hot off fire, — the twins, and Mary Ann, and the stove, and some maple molasses the rest; baby was sick, and Nancy in one of the best chiny teacups; I was walking back and forth with him, knew well enough it was just on purwith little Nancy pulling at her gown. pose for my last night, but I never had You were the baby then, I believe, a word to say, and Nancy crumbed Johnny ; but there always was a baby, up the children's bread with a jerk. and I don't rightly remember. The Her cheeks did n't grow any whiter ; room was so black with smoke, that it seemed as if they would blaze they all looked as if they were swim right up, - I could n't help looking at ming round and round in it. I guess them, for all I pretended not to, for coming in from the cold, and the pain she looked just like a pictur. Some in my finger and all, it made me a bit women always are pretty when they sick. At any rate, I threw open the are put out, – and then again, some window and blew out the light, as mad ain't ; it appears to me there's a great as a hornet.
difference in women, very much as “Nancy," said I, “ this room would there is in hens; now, there was strangle a dog, and you might have your aunt Deborah, - but there, I known it, if you'd had two eyes to see won't get on that track now, only so what you were about. There, now! far as to say that when she was flus