18 Aralık 1861 Tarihli The Weekly Ottumwa Courier Gazetesi Sayfa 1

18 Aralık 1861 tarihli The Weekly Ottumwa Courier Gazetesi Sayfa 1
Metin içeriği (otomatik olarak oluşturulmuştur)

.1 r' a-l IKEW SERIES, VOL. 6 NO. AO. "••J. w. XORRI»,Propriel«r. ${jc ©ttumtoa Conrirr. IS PURT.IgUKD EVERT WEDNESDAY IW |PXJMR.p7Z"S SX.OOX* (TTWRT1 F1.00R) t^TTUifWA, WAPELLO CO.. IOWA, JU By J. W. S. P. MORRIS, a E S flffVA IUAHLY IN ADVANCE -Onecopy. perjrgxi ....... $1,50 s Fourc»ple« ft.ot. Ten «•%*.- 1t,ae. •^Twenty" *s ........... (4,09. ^ertton* wldhlnnto iuh*cr!befnr»Tei«ft I Ft ha none do so hyremlttlnpthe amount they wlpht© %n or tpproprlated. Inao cue will we enternew nle«?they areaccompniiled with moDey. HE. KDHTTERS, ftWgettln rher*work, and neglecting hfrplar*, Vie little jlrl knlttlup these liecemher uyi: And every time rcmml, her work mrannre* •. «e4». If the itoc king's MI long a* a FLOCKING nhould L«. *T» knit for the noldlerj our maiden* romemher. Lay anldeall their worsted V, this month of December, And every time round, each one speaks to the ot^r, go odn ess and coura ?e, of lover or brother. The yonnjr wife i.« knUl'nfr, this Dece mher chill, With a hrave cheerful heart, she feareth no ill, For every time round she can hear tier boy say, "father fights for the right, as I shall some day.'* With her easy R»m-ehnlr drawn u to the lltrht, Grandmother is knl'tlnir, thi* December night, And every time round she sends up a short prayer, F®r her own brave boy, who tlios? stocking- will «rnr Wliile the December wl nds are blowing so madly, By her desolate hearth a w oman sits ^adlfr Tet every time round it still cheers her poor hearty That she for he soldiers can do her small part ^yhlle so loudly down patten this December rain, mother sits knitting, but due* not complain, ffc^ugh every time roun I the sad, Tast falling tear*, glloW ho* heavy her heart, how nriny her fears. An4 some knitters there are this December drear, Who'*e nothing to hope for, and ncthing to fear. For every time round there comes up to their si K** A p«or bleeding form, stricken down in the fight. And so all are knitting,—the grandmother mild, The wife and the mother, the maiden and child, And every time round each is glad in remember, Bhe has warmed some colli feet A raiftoad train, was fast in a snow-bank. There it had stuck, unable to move either backward or forward, since nine o'clock on Wednesday evening it was now Thursday •Morning, th snow was still filling, and still jpemed likely to f^lljnlocking tip moie nnd more the passage of tne unfortunate train.— There were two locomotives, with a huge snow-plow on the forward one, a baggage, and express-car, and tour cars filled with passengers. Two hundred people, all anx felis, most of them grumbling, were detained there prisoners, snow-bound and helpless.— ft wtyi a hard case, for they were more tliRr two miles distant—with throa feet depth of miow between—from the nearest house.— The nearest village was five miles at least. It was Thanksgiving-Day, too, and they tlftd $\mnst all of them "lotted" upon a New England Thanksgiving-dinnef with old ftiendsrhrothers, fathers, mothers, and grand parents. An there they were, without so much as a ration of crackers and cheese. It was noticeable that the women on the train—and there were quite a number, and ttaost of them with children in their arms or by their sides—niride, as a general rule, less disturbance and t'onfuHwn, than the men. The children, howavur, were getting very hungry and noisy by this Thanksgiving Worn ing. In one of the ,vtrs were clustered as fine a family-group as the eya would desire to list upon. It consisted of a somewhat large Ifcld florid, but firmly and compactly built tttan of thirty years or thereabout, a woman, •Tidently his wife and apparently sum1? two pt three years younger, and three beauti children. The man was large in frame, without be. 4^g coarse, with a chest broad and ample as ^gymnast's. $nd with arms whose muscu power was evident at every movement. His hair and beard (which latter he wore JU1, as was just beginning to be the custom,) *ierc dark bro^n in color, and thick and •trong almost to coarsncss in texture his eye was a clear hazel, full, quick, and com manding, sometimes almost fierce while an i|uiline nose, full, round, forehead, and a ^mplexion bronzed by long exposure to all torts of weather, gave him an aspect to be Mted in any throng he might be thrown in to. There was a constant air of pride and determination about the man, which softened however, whenever his glance fell upQn his Wife or children. At such times his face was lighted up with a smile of peculiar beau ty and sweetness. The woman was of middle size, with fair 'tlfcir, inclined towards auburn, blue eyes, and ||clcar red and white complexion. Her ex pression ^cas one of habitual sweetness and good-jiumpr, while a continual half-smile played ubout her rosy mouth. She was plump, good-natured, and cozy,—altogether A most lovable and delicious woman. This pair, with their bright-looking chil dren, occupied two seats near the stove, and ayerc in constant pleasant converse, save jghen an pccasional anxious and impatient lliodow flitted across the face of the husband pnd father. On the rack over their heads reposed a small travelling-bag, which the day before had been filed with luncheon for fthe children. Upon its bottom was painted HN smalt white letters the name, "SIIT^ son «ffewell." It was, indped, fhe long-lost son, return ing on this day to answer, so much as in ||ira lay, the prayers repeated for fifteen •Jjiears by his father and mothei^— returning sec his former home once more, and here, Pe^rly on t'le threshold, stopped by a snow- iRorm almost unprecedented at that season. Jl'here was pccasional bitterness in his im patience at the wearying detention, but he £onto)led it as well fee was able. puring the night the passengers had been **uiet and uncomplaining. Wood t*ken from v-^he tenders of the two locomotives in small f/.7 41 in tills month of De­ cember. or THK KNITTKHB. From the Atlantic Monthly. A Stirj of Tlmnkftcivins-Tlme. [CoNCI.RNED.] "Zfpy'Tf* Almost equally amusing was a his hard lot. "I've left the old woman to home," he whined, Then the par^ongrrs began to grow clam oroas. Even the Funny Mar had his woes, for some rogue entered the saloon where he slept and stole the^ whiskey-flask from his pocket. When he awoke and discovered his loss, he remarked that he knew where there was more of the same sort, and turned over to sleep again. But all were not so philo sophical as he. Some cursed the railroad company, some cursed the fate that had placed them there, some cursed their folly in leaving comfortable quarters in order to fast in the snow on Thanksgiving-Dav. Presently the impatiently-pnlled-out watch es showed ten o'clock, and jtill it snowed.— Then a mmor ran through the train that there were a couple of barrels of chickens, readv-dressed for market, in the express-car, and a general rush in that direction follow ed. One of the first to hear of it, and one of the first to be on the spot, Samson Newell. "Stand back, gentlemen," he cri. to the iremost of the throng that poured eagerly into the car,—"stand back a moment. This poultry is in charge of the express messen ger, and we have, no right to take it without hi license." As he spoke, he placed himself beside the messenger. There was a determination in his eye and manner that held the crowd back for a short time "The chickens are mine," the messenger said "I bought them on speculation they will spoil before I can get anywhere with them, and they are now too late for Thanks giving. You may have them for what I gave." "I will give five dollars towards paying for them and Samson Newell drew out his pocket-book. "ITere's a dollar "I'll give a half!"— "Count me in for two dollarq cried the crowd, favorably struck with the notion of paying for their provender. But one hulking fellow, with a large mock diamond in his shirt-front, and clumsy rings on his coarse and dirty fingers, stepped for ward and said that he was a hungry man, that he had lost m^ney by the com pany already, waiting a day and night in that blamed snow-bank, and that he was going to have a chicken,—or two chickens, if he wanted them,—and he was decidedly of the opinion that there was no express messenger on the train who would see the color of his money in the transaction. not seen again till after relief came to the imprisoned train. There was neither noise nor confusion in the matter of paying for and dividing the poultry. Samson Newell had already made a more serious aspect, Children in nil the forcing payment for the provision that would cars were crying for breakfast, and even the jvery likely, but for him. have been taken by older passenjws uegan to feci cross.. and i force, caused the passengers to defer to him aded. as a lt-ader whose strength and courage fit ted him for the post, and so he presided at the distribution of the chickens without One pleasant fellow, with Ml apparently inexhaustible flask of whisky in his pocket, and good-humor oozing from every pore of dispute. his jolly countenance, passed from car to car, I The fuel in the stoves wis replenished, retailing a hundred joke^ to every fresh (and batch of listeners. Hut presently the pas- leward of the locomotive, where a fire was sengers begjy^to tire of his witticisms, and built from ths neighboring fences, so that one after another 4'-pcohed" wizened, with all the things on her hands, .In' more'n fifty of our folk* eomin' to eat dinner with us to-daj' an' I've got a note of a hundred an' fifty dollars, to pay,—to morrow's the last day of grace,—an' I've been srxty-five mile to get the money to pay it. Xow look here suddenly and sharply to the Funny Man, "what do you think o" Mat 401d Woollen," said the Funny Man, with a tremulous voice and tears in his eyes, "its a hard case!" "So't is That's a fact! Call an we as, when you come round our war And the old gentleman, greatly molifled by the sympathy of his new friend, movetl on to find fresh auditors for his tale of wee. It came to be ni.ie o'clock on the morning of Thanksgiving-Day, and still the snow fell with unabated violence, and still drifts piled higher and higher about the captive train. The conductor and one of the firemen had started off on foot at early dawn in search of food for the 'passengers, and now there arrived, ploughing nearly breasthigh through the snow, a convoy from one of the nearest farm-houses carefully guarding a valuable treasure of bread, cheese, bacon, eggs, and pumkin-pics but so many were the mouths to fill that it scarcely gave a bita apiece to the men, after the women and children had been cared for. Samson Newell was evidently a man of few words in a case of emergency. He paused for only an instant tq assure himself that the man was in earnest, then he slid open one of the side-doors of the express car, and stretched forth a hind whose clutch was like the closing ot a claw of steel. lie seized the bejewelled stranger by the coat collar, shook him for an instant, and drop ped him, dropped him into a soft snow- parent leader of the expedition drift whose top was level with the car-floor, ismall, active, ^purQ old fellow, so encrusted Whether the unfortunate worked a subtvr- with frozen snow, which hung all over him ranear. passage to one of the pa«enger-cars himself prominent among the captive trav-' ellers. He had eaten nothing himself, that be might the better provide, so far as his limited -otision wont, for bis wife and iuantities, and, when the engineers stopped children he had even gone through the cars ho supplies in that quarter, ra .ls torn from i with his scanty luncheon of cakes and apples, .jcigl,bqr,ng fences and broken up for fire-! and economically fcd other people's little Rear, "an' been sence nine this raornin' git V*frood, kept them warm but after the day ones, Resides administering t*« the wants of tin'here. Five times five is twenty five, •itad dawned, when the little treasures ot an invalid lady upon the train, who was but, seein' it's you, I'll call it twelve V 'arf.' J9nchw'? *er«exhausted, and all begin to journeying »Iqoc. lie w*s, therefore, a fa- "Callw/uU 'twelve V 'arf.'Shocp Shanks? |pe! the real pangs of hunger, things aseumcd vcrite with all on board. u* 7 -m- mim »vg^ -*pv "\^T vrr: ./ quite a htrgc space was cleared to the sure, it and "pashawed' |'n hour's time from the finding of the at fifteen who says fifteen 'n' 'arf?" at him as he approached. Then with infirite poultry the entire body of passengers were "I do from a pursy passenger with good-nature and philosophy he retired to busy picking the bones of roasted and broiled double chin and a heavy foVchain. one of the saloon.^ and peacefully fell asleep, fowls. It was not so bad a 6 To be He glanced round a little savagely, having was rather chilly, now and then, made his |ent, and thin old man, draped from head to when the opening of a car-door, to let in a should like to see the man who will raise it!' foot in coarse butternut-colored homespun, -h»'tf-frozen gentleman with a half-cooked *nd called "Old Woolen" by the funny fel- chicken in his hand, admitted with him a While Bear, growing mueh oifitad^ "mi low, who walked fcem caj.to car bewailing i snow-laden blast from without and then who says sixteen the viands were not served a la Soyer, but there was an appetite for sauce and a certain gypsy like fueling of being at a picnic thai, served as a relish. And so, in the year or our Lord 18—, two hundred strangers sat down together at a most extraordinar}' Thanksgiving-dinner, of which no account has hitherto been published, if I except a vote of thanks "together with an exceeding. help and rescued them from their perplexing p^rdicamenf. But dinners end. Twelve o^clpck came, and still the snow was falling thick and fast, and still the white plain about them mount ed slowly and surely towardv the skies.— Then the passengers became yet more weary and unhappy. Old Woolen, the unfortu nate, dctaHed his woes to"more and more appreciative audiences. Even the Funny Man—with a fress flask of whiskey—sighed almost dismally between frequent uneasv "cat-naps." And Samson Newell, fi^st see ing his wife comfortably settled, and his lit tie ones safely disposed about her, strode up and down, from car to car, with a gloom of disappointment on bis face that wa^s almost ferocious. "Too bad W mattered, "too bad too bad One o'clock came, antj the snow held up At first the passengers noticed that the flake? fell less thickly. Then, gradually and ever slowly decreasing clouds drifted from before the face of the heavens, and the sun came out. It shone over a broad surface of glistening snow, with here and there a fence post obtruding into notice, but otherwhere a cold, bleak expanse of whiteness. One or two remote farm-houses, with blue smoke rising in thin, straight columns from their chimneys, a wide stretch of woodland to the right, distant hills bounding all the prospect, —nnd everywhere snow. No fences, no roads, no paths,—but only snow 1 The passengers gazed out of the window or stood upon the platforms,—dr»wn thith er by the warmth of the sun,—with feelings almost akin to despair. Presently it was proposed to make for the farm-houses, and fifteen of the more advanfurous started. A few struggled through and arrived in some thing over an hour at the nearest house, wet to the skin with melted snow, and too much fatigued to think of returning,—but most of them gave out $t the end of the Qrst half mile, and came back to the train. So the prisoners qat down and wliiled away the time as beat they.might, in the re lation of anecdotes, telling stories, and a few slept, ant! a large number tried to do so, without success. The slow hand of Time, moving more slow ly for them than they remembered it to have ever moved before, crept on to three o'clock, and still there was no prospect of relief and no incident of note save the arrival through the snow of a dozen men sent by the con ductor. They brought word that help was approaching from the nearest station where a sufficiently powerftil locomotive could be obtained, and that they would probably be started on their way during the next fore noon. These messengprs" also brought a small supply of provisions and a number of packs of cards, with the latter of which ma ny of the passengers were socn busy. They now resigned {hetftselves to another night in the drift. But at half after three occurred an inci dent that restored hope of a more speedy deliverance to a few of the captives. !y chnste and richly chased silver goblet,'' "Sheep-Shanks," "and go fifty cents better!" (so the newspaper description read,) which "T you," replied the auctioneer, 'an' were presented to the conductor by "the don't take your bid Who says sixteen'n' surviving passengers," after he had procured 'tirf Through the low pine-lands to the right ran a road which w$s very thoroughly pro tected from drifting snow by the overhanging trees, and along this road there now appear ed two pair of oxen. In front of the oxen were five pjen armed with wooden snow shovels, with which they beat down and scattered the snow. Behind all was a small, square box on runners. It was very small and contained only one board seat.— Three persons could sit and three stand in it no more. Upon the appearance of this squad ofroad brcakcrs with their team, three hearty cheers went up from the train. They were mme dia'ely answered by the approach of the ap- n and there buried himself in the privacy of a'active, but rather diminutive white bear saloon is not known he was certainly than anything else known to Natural Histo- Spoke, Ilis action, en- 'from the train. Y*5** lgj»v Ile was a tiny white pellets, as to resemble more an ry. He scrambled and puffed through the snow till he found a mounting-place upon an unseen fence, when he arose two or throe feet above the surrounding surf&ce, and There's fire on us, an't*# yoke." A pause. "Two j-oke yonder, a»! five on us." •44|Well supposing thero is frojn .the train. Five mile to torn,"' continued the White •, -V OTTUMWA, IOWA, WEDNESDAY, PECEMBER 18,1861. 44That dollars an' fifty cents right straight to the tahv^n^l Who bids "I'll give you fifteen dollars, my friend, to take myself, my wife, and three children to the village." It was Samson Newell who spoke. 'M offered fifteen," cried "he White Bear, pricking up his ears "goin' to the tahvern bid, Samson Newell no^ilcd, "Sixteen dollars sixteen sixteen W« can't tarry, gentlemen 1" The White Bear proved the truth of this latter assertion by suddenly disappearing beneath the snow. He reappeared in an in stant and resumed his outcry. "I see the gentleman's sixteen," qnoth the man who had called the White Bear I do!" qooih th# DeuM&Chin and he glowed upon bis fellow-passengers wrath fully. At this instant appeared Old WooTen on the scene. In one hand he bore his pocket book in the other, a paper.covered with cal culations. The latter h« studied intently for a moment, then, "I'll give.you sixteen dollars an' sixty two 'n' a half cents an' if you ever come round our way"— The j'\bUant auctioneer, fkirly dancing upon the fence in the energy of his delight, broke in here,— "Can't take no bit}*, gentlemen, short of a half-dollar rise, each time Old Woolen retired, discomfited?and was seen no more. From this point the bidding rinj'up rap idly till it reached twenty-five dollars, where it stopped, Samson Newell b:nT\g tbi suc cessful bidder. It was a s'udy to watch the man, now teat his chance fpr reaching home that day brightened. Instead of being elate, his spir its seemed to fall ae he made his arrival .at the village certain.

44Ah 1" he thought, "are my fklher and mother yet living IIow will njjfbrothers and srstcrs welcome me home IIow, indeed In the vdlage where dwelt Jacob Newell and his wife, an old man, lame and blind, had been for over thirty years employed bv the town to ring the mcetinghouse-bcll at noon, and at nine o'clock in the evening.— For this service, the salary fixed generations before was five dollars, and summer and winter, rain or shine, he was always at his post at the instant. When the old man rang the evening-hell on the Thanksgiving-Day whereof write, he aroused Jacob and his wife from deep reverie. "Oh, Jacob said the latter, "such a wa king dream as I have had 1 I thought tbey all stood before me,—all,—every one,—none missing And they were little children again, and had come to say their prayers before going to bed They were all there, and I could not drive it from my heart that I loved Samson best His name had hardly been mentioned be tween them for fifteen years. Jacob Newell, with a strange look, as though he were gazing at some dimly de fined object afar off, slowly spoke,— "I have thought sometimes that I should like to know where he lies, if he is dead,— or Low he lives, if be living. Shall we meet him Shall we meet* him Five goodly await us in heaven will he be there, also Oh, no he was a bad, bad, bad son and lie broke his father's heart!" "He was a bad sgn, Jacob, giddy and light-headed, but not wholly bad. Oh, he was so strong, so handsome, so bright and brave! Ifhe is living,lI pray God that he may come back to see us for a little, before we folio,v our other lost one "Ifhe should come back," said Jacob, turning very white, but speaking clearly and distinctly, "I would drive him from my door and tell him ta be gone forever! A wine bibber, passionate, headstrong, having no reverence for God or man, no love for his mother, no sense of duty towards his father. I have disowned him, once and forever, and utterly cast him out! Let him beware and not come back to tempt me to cur*e bin*!" Still from the distance, overpowering and drowning the headlong rush of passion, came the soft booming of the evening bell. "I h#ar the church bell, Jacob: we have not long to hear it Let us not die cursing our son in our hearts. God gave him to us and if Satan lead him astray, we know not how strong tho temptation may have been, nor how he may have fought against it." heart, and from that egotism that many good men have whose religious education has taught them to nuke their personal godli ness a matter to vnunt over, he spoke, fool ishly and little to the point,— "Ruth, did Satan ever lead mc astsajpr* "God knows!" she replied. There came a rap at the door. The melody of tho cluirch bell irt& 'fault dying away. The last cadences of sound, the last quiver in the air, when the ringing had ceased to ring and the hammer struck the bell no more, lingered still, as a timid and uncertain tapping fell upon the "Come in!" said Jacob Newell. s (|,e as who should say, "And I 44'N''arf!'n' 'arf!'n' 'aif!" cried the ffr^^'tMViilirttjTiTifc,ynfirf1^^^ -finrifii: rr 4*4nmUIW«M» "We were on the train, my wife and T. with our three little ones,—on the train now snowed in five miles back,—and we ask, if you will give if, a night's lodging, it beinq: i an unsteady step to a chair placed for him near the fire. After he had seated himself he shook like one in an ague-fit. "I fear you are cold," said Rath. "Oh, no!" he said. His voice struggled to his Hps with diffi culty and can^e forth painfully. The old lady went to a corner cupboard, and, after a moment's search, brought forth a black bottle, from which she poured some thing into a glass. It smelt like Jamaica rum. With this she advanced towards the stn.nger, but she was bluntly stopped by Jacob— "I am afraid the gentleman has had too much of that already." For an instant, like a red flash of light ning, a flush of anger passed across his fea tures before the stranger meekly made an swer that he bad not tasted liquor that day, Ruth handed him the glass and he drained it at a gulp. In a moment more he sat qui etly upright and proceeded gravely to divest himself of his heavy shawl and ovcrcoat, after which he assisted in warming and comforting the children, who were growing sleepy and cross. Ruth bustled about with her preparations for giving the strangers a comfortable sup per, and Jacob and his unexpected guest entered into conversation. "I used to be acquainted hereabout," the stranger began, "and I feel almost like get ting among friends, whenever I visit tlie place. I rode over with old Gus Parker to day, from where the train lies bedded near the five mile cut, but I was too busy keep ing the children wartn to ask him questions. I came here because your son Mark Newell and I were old cronies at school together. I don't see him here to-night,"—the stran ger's voico trembled now—"where is he "Where we must all follow him, sooner or later—in the grave! "But he had brothers—I've heaad him say," the stranger continued, with an anx iety in bis tone that he could by no means conccal "I believe he had—let me see—two sisters and three brothers. Where are they?' "All gone!" cried Jacob Newell, r'sing and pacing the room. Then suddenly facing bis singular guest, hq continued, speaking rapidly and bitterly, "You have three chil dren—I had six! Yours are alive and hear ty but so were mine and when I was a young man, like you, I foolishly thought that I should pisq them all, have them clus tering around me in my old age, die before any of them, and so know no bereavement. 441 man don't ride, nohow T've mark- ruddy face, nnd a full, brown beard, lie home after an abscnce of year*, daring al?1 cabinet, fn-wngfrt «mt fhr fragment* of flto ed him! I don't cal'late to take no sarse atood. grasping the door with all his might, of whrch fim# I have held no crmmon!ca- firofcCTi statf/ettf*, whk?t lnd bee u sent lwme thit trip Take any si* orei^ht for,twelve and leaning against it as for support. In tion with my family. I have sfjorn-»ed in only the daj btforr his father, orer whose j^ti— --1** mesntime bis gaze wandered about the foreign lands, and now I come to make my necessary that we should reach home with- ^en out payini for our keeping at the hotel. My nearly frozen, I assure you." Then Ruth's wj»rm heart showed it«clf. ,4porr.e in," she said. room with 4 stran.e anxiety, ap though it father and ijiy mother happy, if it be not greK sought in vain for what should assuredly too late for that! I roroe half hoping and have been found there. half fearing tell me what I am to ex pec*?' "Good evening, sir," said Jacob Newell. P'rue yourself, ill, my father's position and that, s mv wife, sir will get you and your pjNG pitcher with a heavy crash as she family some supper." retreated, and crossing her hands upon her Then the man came in and walked with ^)OSOm To-day I stand here a solitary old man, sinking rapidly into the grave, and without a relation of any kind, that I know of, on the face of the earth Think that such a fate may yet be yours! But the bitterness of life you will not fully know, unless one of your boys—as one of mine did—turns out profligate and drunken, leaves your fire side to associate with the dissolute, and finally deserts his home and all, forever!" "If that son vf yours be yet alive, and {speech, were ever to return—suddenly and without Bi}t if he came back penitent indeed for The stranger ide no reply, but stood read me my fate." clinging to the door, with a strange and hor While he spoke, his wife, sitting silent by rible expreasio^of mingled wender arjd awc the fire, bent low over the child she held, in forgetfufness.' in his face. and a few tears fell upo^ the Htik The poor boy's tones were hnsKr atari 'T is a lanatic IM whispered Roth to her one's frock. tremulous. A little while Mr. Cordon sat, husband. Roth Newell, moving back *nd) for$, in controlling himself, ami collecting hi* d&K "Sir," said Jaeob, **what do you want the preparation of the stranger's supper, fnrbed th^g^s. he said cheeiAfc here to-night?" wore an unqu'et and troubled aspect, while The stranger found voice at length, but, ^'e old farmer himself was agitated in a •Wha? i* done, Richard, can't be hefptd^ it was weak and timorous as that of a child m»nner frightened. onds before he broke the silence. When he had troublo enough, I can see—and c^®^ron 44Kcep were yo\^?—of course we can. Come in and warm your selves." A sweet woman, with one ohild in her arms, and two shivering beside her, glided by the man into the room. They were im mediately the recipients of the good old la dy's hospitality she drr^gged them at once, one and all, to the warmest spot beside the hearth. Still the man stood, aimless and uncer tain, clutching the door and swaying to and fro. "Why do you stand there at the door?— Why not come in?" said Jacob Newell.— "Yo i must be cold and hungry. Ruth— my S1(vec* wjth 4If warning, as I have broken in upon you to- spoke n^w, for the first time. night—if he should coH4(, to you and say, tone she added •Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and Jacob Newell had nought to say in an called thy ami!' what should you say to' harm.' swer to that, but, from the passion in his him?" Again the bell rang, and a^in the boy 1 ly painful to It was some sect Piit away the broken pieces. Ton I:*re spoke his voice was thick and husky. I proof enough /br your thooghtlessnjessi- "If bad a son like- you—if those little i grandchildren, if the p*{f) my grandchildren,—if the pj|{ 18 1 fo i my son were indeed here! If SaipgOQ. were indeed here!" The stranger half arose, as though to leap forward, then sank back into his seat once more. But the little child sitting in her mother's lap by the fire clapped her hands and laugh ed a childish, happy laugh. "What ^'easc^my 4tk girl?" asked the mother. "Why, the child said— "that's what jou call papa!" Then Ruth,' who stood by the table with a pitcher of water in her hand, staggered backward like one stricken a violent and sudden blow!—staggored backwards, drop- quick, short catehings of the breath Then crying, "My my son R0 sIian not a wor] 0» 'a^y there was mv son s wife ah, I '0, father and the boy threw his anna, Pnt Anient, rnging regrets wife and children are outside the door, and into my heart, that but for yon would now Five minutes later, and Richard enteral be beat».g calmly as it did yesterday, and the sitting room, with his father. Aim* e a y e o e a n a s o y e a s she threw herself, with one long, long sob, too hard, for a boy's patient to endure. t|iat accountt 0 tG0 ca,iIy infllicnpc,i J0Uth, think that happiness for one's self and oth eis is usually secured by dissolute habits in early life, or by running away from home. Half the occupants of our jails and houses can tell you to the contrary. Into wish father would come home.' The voice that said this had a troubled tone, and the face that looked up was sad. 4Your 4It upon the stranger s neck Into the .-unshine as quicklv as possibllel The story is told. What lay in his power O! is not tLnt better philosophy for, o«r. was done by the returned prodigal, who did homes Is it not true Christian philo*t not come back empty handed to the pater- phy It is selfishness Qufr grows angtf nal roof. His wife and children fostered rebels, because a fault has been committed and petted the old people, till, after the Let rs get the ofllnler into sunshine passage of two or thre* more Thanksgiving quickly as possible, so that truu tliOtighUl Days, they became as cheerful as of old,! an feelings may ^row vi^rous in it* and they are now considered one of the hap-1 warmth. We retain anger, not that anger i e s o u e s i n e o u n y o n o o n a y a a s a w o e s o e i s n u e tlic Su::siltu*. father will be very angry,' said an aunt, who was sitting in the room, reading a book. The boy passed himself from the sofa, where he had been lying in tears for half an hour, and with a touch of indignation in his voice, said: 'He'll be sorry sot angrtr. Father gfver gets angry.* For a few moment^ the a\int looked at the boy half curiously, andjlet her eyes fall ngain upon the book that was in her hand. The boy laid himself down upon the sofa again, and hid his face from sight. 'That's father now!' He started up, after the lapse of nearly trn minutes, as the sound of a bell reached his ears, and went to the room door. He stood there for a little while and then cntne slowly bade, saying with a disappointed air. isn't father. wonder what koeps him so late O I do wish that he would come!' You seem very anxious to get deeper in to trouble, remarked the aunt, who hiad on ly beep in the house for a week, and who was neither very amiable nor very sympa thizing toward children. The boy's fau'thad provoked her, and she considered him a fit subject ibr punishment. *1 believe, aunt Phebe, that yo* weald like to see ine whipped,' said the boy but you won't.' 4I must confess,' replied aunt Phebe, that a little wholesome discipline of the kind you speak of would not be out of the jtace. If you was ay ohild, yoo would a«t es cape.' 4 am not your child aqd I ^o not wish to be. Father's good, and loves me.' your father is so good, and loves yon so well, you must be a very ungrateful or a very inconsiderate boy. m't seem to have helped you mm h. 'Hush will you!' ejaculated the boy, excited to anger bf (ftia unkindness 4Phebe 4¥ou before thee, and am no more worthy to be quite enough, and you are doing him should say, 'For fifteen years you the aofe, ami went to the sitting room have deserted me without giving mark or token that you were in the body now you father.' And be went gliding down have come to see me tlie, and you may stay stairs. to bury me!' I should say that. I think, 'Ah, Richard'* His goodness u of It was the boy's mother who In an under- ate wrong. Richard is suffering fyas though I swore to Ruth but now that I'd Mr. Gordon took the hand of "his boy.— curse him, if ever he returned— curse him 'But what's the matter you don't look hap and drive him from my door!1 {be kindly greeting, PT 'Won't you eoine in hereap^ Richard past follies and offences, and only anxious drew his father into the library. Mr. i.. i i i »i u ,, *.i v\. ,, times I do not consider it useless, cx to do well in the f-iture-.f your son should Gordon sat tdown The door was slowly opened. V the stranger continued, with emotion, "be- he looked into his fatl^s free. He tried to I meat is packed loose, it Will take iuqt^ Then there sfood within it a tall, mu*cu- cause I find myself in the position we sup- answer, but his lips quivered. Then he krLnp to cover it, consequently inorq lar man, a stranger in tliflgr parte, yith a »s- your sou to be place.1 in. I am ^ou»g turned away, a'id owning the door of the (Continue 1 on Fourth^ jje at.ll holding Richard'j come in that way, conv.nc.ng you with tears} hand. jmlpnent as to the time to take them of his sincerity, yon surely would be more You are in tfoubl^, rpv |j^. ^hat J»*s ,Qlll gentle to h:m than that! \ou would pur happened. [small, they will cure in three weeks, away wrath, "would you not? I ask you," The eyes of Richard ftlj. vifh tears as if large, say five weeks agjnn, if the iyfWhtiiii^|*MI»UMirfitfi TT^jj& w (OLD SERIES, VOL. IS. NO.4^ rr.K*#~|l,i#.ii AlTiarr. roantenaaec qnw instaBfljr a s2I^4p*T flfiK 4 Who did this my sea5" w^j asked ia CYtzirrnrc. •I did it.'. 'How •T thrcxr my ball in there, once—only ooe^ j,,™* jJU do you about his father's neck •yerti ate so khgl— s0 good.' Ah !. if: phebe looked up for two shadowed face?J4»» p'fe but s!»e did not see them. She was zled. •Tuat was very unfortunate,' she sau.^^. while after Mr. Gordon came in. 4 4It was jM£ exquisite woalsof of art and it ia booelesAr. rained,' Richard was leaning against Iti-r father, when his aunt saidjthis. Mr. Gordon smiled *ixl drew bis arm closely around boy. MM Gordon threw upon her sister a look of warts inj but, it was unheeded. 'I think Richard w^r'« naogjft|£ a v e s e e a a e e w a s th*, mild but firm answer of Mr. Gordon and it is one of our rules in this house, to get into the sunshine as quick as possible.' fc Phebe was rebuked, while Richan^ IookM| grateful, and, it may l»e, a litt,te triumphatltj for liis aunt had borne diwn upon him rathur' V cause we are unwilling to forgive. Ah, if. we wo^e always right with ourselves, wa would oftener be ^ight vyith our children. T. Tnr Tnox Rrr.E.—Never borrow P® per, book, umbrella, horse, cart, plow, shovel spade, pickax, chain, wagon, or anything elsa1 whatever, if you possibly do without it, nor then eitl'ier unless with consent of thft owner. II. THE SILVER RCLK.—Not only p$e article borrowed as carefuly as if it wrre yatig own, but more so, for it is not our own,— nor retain it beyond the time agreed without the owner's verbal consent. ."* III. THE GOLDEX RCLE.—As soon asyjpt have done using the thing borrowed, return it with thanks, and be ready to reUi rr^ favor. TKLL THAT TO TYTS M^IUXES —Such were the words of the bold Fairfax, when the reb el envoys, Mason and Slitlell, declined to ac cept his invitation to proceed oa board •Vl/l ,facuito. We hope that after this war is oyer "C.^S. A." will siill be the motto of thtf South*— "Can'tSecede Again." From the Ohio Farmer. new to Cure Ham and The-iv arc ninny ways to cure lmms, but some of them are not desirablej unless we are satisfied to eat poor liam in preference to good. A ham well cured, well smoked and well e«xkcl, is a favorite dish with most people, Vpf there are very few indeed who can relish ham which lias been hardened and spoiled by salt, or tainted for the want of salt in curing and may bo worse spoiled in cooking Iv^t if h^u is spoiled t»y too much salt or too little, or becomes tainted before the salt lias thoroughly penetrated through it, I defy any cook to make a good dish out of it. I haye triccj in^ny ways curing hams, and have lost themsopiq times by having them become ranctl and tainted in warm weather, and al so by having them so salt and b»r| that they were unpalatable. I have for some twenty years prrtfs ticed the following simplo recipe iu curing pork hams and shoulders, ap| find preferable to any recipe I ercr tried, and when I have had any to scll, they have taken the preference of sugar-cured liamsj with those acquaint ed with them. I tr'jn) the hauis and shoulders in tlie usual way, except I cut the leg off close up to the ham and shoulder, to I have them pack close, and as being worthless smoked tht, n sprinkle a littlo fine salt on the bottom of a sweet cask, and pack down the hams and shoul dets promiscuously, as they will l»esf. i pack in. and sprinkle a LITTI.K fine sAlt on each laying just enough to inake it show white then heat a kettlo of water and put in salt, and stir well un til it will bear up a g«odsized |Ktato, between the size of :i quarter ami a half dollar, boil and skim the brine, and pour it on the hams boiling liot, and cover them nl) over one or two in ches deep with the brine, having put a stone on the meat to keep it down. I sometimes uso *ajtpetre, and sopie- tl) co,or ho moat- nmv ot- ti,e „se bripc. If tho hams are

Bu sayıdan diğer sayfalar: