Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page. It is also available as plain text as well as XML.

% _ ___^ " -x?l as = -as ? ^? ^ ^"' i sssbsi lewi8^.gsist,^proprietor.} An Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South. jiapeeaottoihadvasce. VOL, 5. ' YOEKYILLE, 8. C., THURSDAY, AUGUST 4,1859. - 3STQ. 31. "fflKUie JigJjfjjeart's' WRITTEN FOR THE I "WHO IS 1 c THE DARK MYSTERY OF BY WILLIE " AUTHOR OF "LULA WOODSWORTH," "WIN* SUN," "OLD HEADS AND CHAPTER I. "Are all your matches sold, Jim ? Are all your matches done ? < Then let us to the flowery fields. To warm us in the sun? To warm us in the sweet, sweet sun? To feel hishearenly glow; For his kind looks are the only looks Of kindness that we know," "Want to buy any matches, sir?" asked a barefooted boy of a handsomely attired young man. "No!?be off!" was the stern reply. "Guess I won't do anything of the kind," replied the boy, the indignant blood rushing to his cheeks. "How dare you 03e snch language to me," asked the young man, raising his cane. "And how dare you raise your cane tome, sir?" replied the boy, stamping bis foot. "You unhung vagabond!?open your lips to me again and I'll oane you within an inch of your life, said the young man. "You mean what you say ?" asked the boy, deliberately setting down his box. "If you do, the sooner you get at it the better." Down came the cane upon the bare shoulders of the boy, leaving long, blue and purple marks upon his white and delicate skinWhack?whack?whack, went the cane; while the boy stood motionless beneath every blow. "Take that fpr your impudence!' said the young man, as he ceased his operations. "Are you done, sir ?" asked the suffering boy, stooping to take up his box, as if nothing had occurred. "Yes?be off!" was the reply. "'I see no reason why I should be off, sir. The street is quite public, and if I choose to remain here a short while, I do not see how you can prevent me." "Whht is your name ?' asked the young man. snrorised at the remarkable conduct of / r the hoy, and half ashamed of the unnecessarily cruel manner in which he had treated him. "Jim, sir!" replied the boy. "What else ?" "Never had any other, sir;" said Jim. "What is your father's name?" "Ain't got a father as I knows of." "He is dead then?is not that it?" "Don'tknow, sir;" replied Jim. "You are a very strange lad. Is your mother living ?" "Don't know as I ever had a mother, sir," said Jim. "Do not know if you ever had a mother! ?why, what in the name of common sense do you know ?" "I know," replied Jim, brushing a tear from his eyes, "that I am a very poor boy, and that I have been very cruelly treated by you, sir. If it does you any good to look upon my bleeding shoulders, I hope you will remember, that you have drawn my blood, simply because I tried to make a penny by selling you matches." "I struck you for your insolence, not for endeavoring to dispose of your matches. I am sorry that I so did," said the young man. "You called me anunhuug vagabond, and spoke to me as if I were your dog," said Jim with quivering lips. "Well, well; I acknowledge, that I have done wrong, my lad;?let us make friends." "What!" exclaimed Jim, indignantly refusing the proffered hand of the young man. "You don't suppose, that you can abuse me, and draw my blood in one moment, and make it up in the next!?never!" "Do not be foolish, my little lad;" said the young man. "When you met me, I was just returning from the Bank, the officers of which have decamped with almost the entire funds. I have one thousand pounds invested in that very Bank, and pun ill Wifrh ?h(j piujptlt of such a heavy loss before me, you can very readily see why I was out of humor, and why I treated you so cruelly." "Xo sir; I don't see," said Jim. "Come along with me, and I will take you to see my wife; and, perhaps, will be able to get a good situation for you in a friend's store," said the young man. "I will not accept your offer, sir," said Jim, firmly. "Pshaw! I have a little daughter, who will be glad to make you her companion and?" "I have no desire to become such," said Jim, turning away. "If you will accept this," said the young man, handing Jim a crown, "you will do me a favor." "That's to pay for these scars upon my shoulder, I suppose," said the boy. "I put a higher price npon my blood, sir. Please put up your money?you may need it before I will." "foolish child! will you not even condescend to inform me where you live ?" "I must attend to my business?I wish you joy, sir, of your manly conduct!" So saying, the boy hastily turned a corner, I and was gone before the youug man could reply. George Yandry?such being the name of the young man?was so struck with surprise at the conduct of the boy, and so completely overpowered with a sense of shame and wounded pride, by Jim's last remark, that he stood motionless for several minutes, where the boy left him. i ' Original fWelette. rORKVIIXE ENQUIRER. 1e heir r )R, THE 0ESEBTES HOUSE. LIGHTHEART, <IE AND WILLIE," "THE CHILDREN OF THE YOUNG HEARTS," XC., IC. "Confound the little rascal!" he at length exclaimed. "And yet," he continued, "I like his spirit?his independence?his heroism. Pon my word! I must find out something about him?I am heartily ashamed of myself!" ... . - , George Vandry then proceeded homewards with the full determination of making every effort to find out the abode of his new acquaintance, and do all he could to repair the injury which he had done. Poor little Jim made his way through the u.. i J ? uusy, UUDUIU^ uiuvru u 1 pcuc?vcia.uo nnu a wildly pulsating heart; forgetting to offer his matches for sale to the maDy passers by. He heard not the rustlings of silks and satins, the talk of crops and trade, or saw the pressing crowd around him. No, do; the cruel treatment, which he had but just received, had driven him altogether within himself; and he hurried on to the riverside, looging to throw himself upon the cool turf beneath the old oaks, where far from the noisy din of bustling life, he might weep out the young sorrow from his throbbing heart. The warm, bright sunshine lingered uponthe calm bosom of the beautiful river; the sweet summer flowers were blooming upon the grassy banks, enriching the pure air with their fragrant breath; the old mossy oaks shaded the blue-eyed violet, which ev jr an anon peeped from beneath its leafy roof; the songsters of the woods warbled their sweetest notes; the boatmen upon the river lifted up their hoarse, but not unpleasant songs, as they "plied the glistening oar," and the silvery laugh of happy children quivered^pon the air, with all its touching and exquisite harmony. Jim heard and saw nothing of this, as he threw himself beneath the out-stretched branches of a shady oak, and watered God's flowers with his scalding tears; but those bitter tears went up, with the perfrimpnf flnwors tn TTim TrVin -r?infpf-Vi fhp lilr. and hearetb the young ravens when they cry. "What makes you cry so, little boy?" asked a low voice beside him. Jim raised his tearful face, and his eyes fell upon one of the most beautiful beings of earth, standing beside him, in the form of a little girl. "Are you sick ?" asked the fair child. "No, I am not sick?but why do you speak to me?" replied Jim. "I am only a poor match boy, whom nobody cares for; while you are beautiful?Oh ! 'so beautiful! ?that everybody must love you." "And is it true that nobody cares for you? Poor little boy !" said the child, brushing a tear from her soft blue eyes, and looking tenderly upon the boy. "Do not weep for me," said Jim ; "I am not worth your notice; but let me look upon you a little while?it makes me feel so happy 1" "Look upon me as much as you please, little boy," said the child, seating herself beside him; "and I will sit down by you, and get you to help me tie up a bunch of these flowers for your little sister." "I have no little sister," said the boy with a deep sigh. "Then you shall have some of these flowers for your brother?see what a beautiful rose this is." "I have no brother, no mother, no father, no? "Are you telling the truth ?" asked the child. "Could I speak an untruth to such an angel as you are ?" replied the boy. "Ilush !" said the child, placing her little hand over the mouth of the boy; "it is very wicked to call me an angel, when you know that I am only a little girl. Mamma would be very angry to hear you talk so to me; for she says that my heart is very sinful, wud that' I muiiii gel a liuiv uuu belbic^"Ctm ever become au angel." "Toi/r heart sinful!" exclaimed the boy in astonishment; "then mine must be very wicked." "Tell me your name, little boy, and do not talk so," said the child. "Jim is what the people call me," said the boy, carelessly. "And Rosa is my name," said the child. "Are you not very rich, Rosa? and are mil nilf- rlmnor vruirsplf nn ininrTr Kir folVinrr ?O J ' "J ^** D with such a poor boy as me ?" asked Jim. "For shame, Jim !" said Rosa. "My papa is very rich it is true; but mamma has often told me, that it is very sinful for the rich to despise the poor." "But, Rosa, it is very wrong for fine people, like you, to be seen with such ignorant and poor boys as I am. If you should make the acquaintance of every ragged boy you meet with, I am sure that your mamma would be very angry with you." "That is very true, Jim," said Rosa, looking uneasily around; but you seemed to be so unhappy, and wept so bitterly, that I could not help asking what was the matter. But, you do not look like a common match boy, Jim; and I am sure that you are not a bad boy. "I try to be good, Rosa," said Jim ; "but Oh ! it is hard !?very hard !" and the poor boy burst into tears. "But it will not be hard, if you ask God to help you, Jim," said Rosa, placing her hand npon his Bhoulder. "Ah! Rosa!" sighed Jim; "I never had a mother to teach me how to pray." "Did your mother die ?" asked Rosa. "I cannot tell you whether I ever had a mother," said Jim. "I have been told by the people, with whom I live, that I was found, when an infant, lying on the street." "How strange !" exclaimed Rosa, starting. _ . "How is it strange, Rosa?" asked Jim. "Did you ever hear of a little boy, about your age, named Julius D'Vilton?" asked Rosa. "Not that I remember," replied Jim; "but why do you ask ?" "Because be, too. was found in the street many years ago," said Rosa. "Poor fellow! I'm sorry for him then," said Jim. "Sorry for Julius! why, everybody says that he will be a rich man when he grows up. The gentleman that found him says, flint ttiero n<ia n nnto in thp snmA hflfl ket, and a large sura of money. The note begged to have the baby named Julius D' Vilton, and well educated?l' "Better shut up your mouth, my little girl," said a hoarse voice "What's that?" asked Jim, starting to his feet, and looking hurriedly around, while Rosa ran to her mother, who wa3 walking in another part of the grounds. "Pshaw!" exclaimed Jim; "whoever it was, has frightened away Rosa." "For your own good, my lad !" replied the hoarse voice. "Who,and where are you?" said Jim, looking eagerly around. "Silence boy! and tell me how you sell your brimstone matches ;" and so saying, a. tall, dark-complexioned woman came from behind a large oak, and stood before the boy. There was something so wild and peculiar about the appearance of this strange personage, that Jim could scarcely endure the keen scrutiny of her large, darkly-flashing eyes. "Come boy !" said the woman, as she advanced towards him, "whatwill you take for your matches ?" Jim involuntarily drew back, as he replied. "You may have a box for nothing, good woman." "How much do you ask for the whole lot?" asked the woman. "You may have them all for half a crown, my good woman." "Foolish boy!" said the woman, taking a purse from her bosom, "here is a crown for your matches; and now promise me, that you will never be seen upon ;',he public streets as a poor match-vender again." "I cannot promise it," replied Jim. "Cannot!?why not, Jim ?" asked the singular woman. "Because I get my support from the sale of matches," replied Jim. The strange woman fixed her large black eyes upon the boy, as if in deep thought; then suddenly seizing his hand, and looking cautiously around, she said : "If I thought that I could depend upon you, I could tell you much of yourself?but not now!?you are too young." "What do you know about mo ?" asked Jim. "More than you know of yourself, and more than I dare tell just now; but Jim, there is much sorrow in the future for you, and much of happiness; and?mark my words !?old Loo has it in herpower to make or unmake you." "Old Loo, the fortune-teller ?" said Jim, stepping back, under the double impulse o:: alarm and surprise. "If you are that strange being, good woman, what business can you have with me, or how do you know aught about me?" "Silence, thou silly boy! You know naught of the very father which begot you, or the mother, whose milk you drew; you imagine that you were found in St. Mary's lane, as a poor, half-starved infant?" "And are not these things so, good wo man !" asKea .Jim, eagerly. "Partly true?partly false," replied the woman ; "but Jim, I would have you know one thing?never forget it! never allow yourself to be deceived about it!" "And what may fbat thing be ?" asked Jim. "You are no bastard !?he lies whoever would make you believe it!" "But, dear old Loo," said Jim, "as you have told me such good news, and seem to be so deeply interested in me, will you not tell me who is_Julius D' Vilton ' Ha!" exclaimed old Louisa with much emphasis, "why do you ask that strange question ??speak boy !" "Only because I have heard, that he, too, was found, when an infant, lying in the street," said Jim. " 'Tis false as but who told you this ?" "The little girl, that was with me awhile ago," said Jim ; "and surely she would not tell me an untruth." "Well, well; we shall see what comes of that tale," said old Louisa; "but Jim, never breathe a word of this to any living being, until you hear more from me. "In the meantime, you must stop selling matches-wnust no longer remain at the house where you have been living?must attend at once to the education of your mind and morals; for your condition in life will one day be a far different one from that which you are now in. Be careful how you form friendships, and make acquaintances? you are in danger !" And so saying the old woman took up the lot of matches, which she had purchased, and hastily left the spot. ? - * i Irt 1 it iL 11 Jim ngaia seated nimseii Deneatn toe oia oak, and could uot kelp reflecting upon the meaning of the strange interest which old Louisa had manifested in his welfare. "Who is this young D' Vilton, and why should old Loo charge me to keep secret what Ilosa told me?" were the first questions which naturally occurred to him.? "If," he thought, "D' Vilton is really a foundling, why need there be secrecy in the matter? Old Loo denies that he was found in the streets?she advises me to be on my guard?what does all this mean ? Why llll must I give up selling rrfatcbes, too ??but, pshftw! the poor old woman knows not what she says." Jim was about to leave the spot, when the cry of "help! help!" was heard in another part of the grounds; and a multitude of persons were seen flocking in the direction from which the exclamation proceeded. "My child ! my child!" screamed the same voice; and Jim was now really alarmed. Running along the hanks of the beautiful stream, which flowed throueh the grounds he uttered an exclamation of horror, as his eye caught sight of Ro6a, struggling feebly with the waves of tbe*iver, which were fast obtaining the victory over her feeble efforts. Men were running hither and thither for means of rescue or assistance; women were screaming and fainting; but poor Rosa was becoming weaker and weaker, and the strong current of the stream drifting her further from the bank. "Throw her a rope !?launch a boat, for heaven's sake!" exclaimed one of the men present. "Merciful heavens!"?he continued, "the poor child is sinking !?see ! she's gone 1" f l CTnvn T rtA?nr\ T? Ann T" AvnlnimAi^ o a1 nov JUL V I U JL UULUCj JLVUOO . CAtlUIUiCU a tiCOl young voice; and the boyish form of Jim sprang into the air, then plunged like an arrow into the troubled waters of the beautiful river, aqd swam rapidly out to the drowning child. A loud shout of applause followed this heroic act, and the anxious multitude gathered upon the bank of the river, to witness the interesting scene. "Go it, my fine little fellow!" "Hurra, my lad !" "Ye'll save the wee lassie, by me sowl!" and such like expressions, encouraged tfie young' swimmer, as he skillfully darted through the yielding water. Another deafening shout rent the air, as Jim grasped the form of Rosa, and struck out for the opposite bank. "Launch the boat, you dastardly cowards !" exclaimed old Louisa, who at that moment made her appearance. "Dinna ye ken, that the lad canno' hold out against the current!?quick ! or lad an'lassie baith shall soon gang down!" This was very true; for Jim was almost exhausted, and the weight of Rosa, who clung wildly to his neck, was fast depriving him of the little strength that.remained. The boat was soon launched and manned; and just reached the children in time to save them from a watery grave. Poor little Rosa was laid upon the sod, at the feet of her mother, apparently more dead than alive; while Jim stood shivering beside her, gazing anxiously upon her pallid countenance. The child was placed within a carriage, and driven rapidly away; the mother was too much taken up with the critical condition of Rosa, to think of bestowing thanks upon the gallant Jim. The crowd, whioh bad collected, were now slowly dispersing, and Jim was about to follow them, when he felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder, and, looking up beheld the stern countenance of old Louisa. "Rash boy!" she said; looking upon him with a mixture of anger and sorrow. "What have I done to merit your displeasure, my good Loo ?" asked Jim. "Endangered your life," she replied. "But, may I not rather deserve your praise for that very reason ?" replied Jim. "Praise for what?" asked old Louisa. "For savingthe life of Rosa," replied Jim. "Mark my word ! you will live to curse this very day. Better, far better, that she should have perished in her innocence, than live to suffer the great sorrows that lie in the dark future. You know?not what dire rul results must spring trom tne rescue or that fair girl; but Jim, the act being done, you must nerve up your young heart to meet the woe which will soon come upon you for her sake. But why do I thus speak?destiny, destiny must have her sway!" "I know not what you mean by such strange talk, Louisa; but I am not sorry that I have saved the dear girl's life; neither am I afraid of anything happening tome because I did so." "You do not fear, because you have not parted the veil that hides the future. The bird fears not the snare; the savage fears not the cannon's mouth; the night fly fears not the flame of the candle; the infant fears net the dirk of the assassin. Ignorance begets fearlessness?I can pardon your bravery." "Bo you mean to warn me, Loo, by such strange talk, or do you mean to threaten ?" asked Jim, somewhat angrily. "It is enough, Jim, to know, that I am your/View/; and I pray you to confide in old Loo, the fortune teller." So saying, the singular woman walked rapidiy away. TO BE CONTINUED. For tlio Yorkville Enquirer. TO A E B E. BY MAUD IRVING. The silvery moon is fast wending Toward her western home; And the gem-eyed stars of even Fill the pure, azure dome. The echo of the midnight bell I now distinctly hear, All, all is calm and still around My heart is sad and drear. I'm sitting all alone to night, My thoughts are of thee, love, For thee, I weep and pray to-night, Pray to Heaven above. I feel as if it would be bliss, Deneath this midnight sky, To lay my weary aching head Upon thy breast and die. For all the world is dark to me And all its pleasures vain, Unless those pleasures shared with thee, Life's pleasures, cares and pains. Oh ! couldst thou read my heart aright, While bending at thy shrine; You would no longer doubt m}' love Nor fear to call me thine. Never complain unless you expect to do some good by complaining. \mtt foetrg. Re-published by Request. MARY LEE. BY 3. F0BBEST GOWAN. Mary, when the shades of evening Fall upon my path below, And the stars peep out from heaven Bathing nature in their glow? When the songsters of the wildwood Hush their music 'pon the tree, Love I much to sit and muse me On my bine-eyed Mary Lee. There is not a star above me, Nor a flower about my pathr Ne'er a zephyr floats beside me, But o'erwhelming power hath ; For the star, the zephyr, flower, Thoughts of beauty bring to me? And the wrapt heart e'er discov'eth Kin in each to Mary Lee. All the Qod-lit stars in heaven. All the fragrant flowers below, Lose their beauty in the absence Of the one that made them so. Glimmers in this heart the starlight? Blooms near me a fragrant fiow'r ? ? , Ah! the star and flower cometh From my lovo of Mary Lee. In this world, where light and shadow Strugglcth ever for the sway, And the sick heart throbbeth wildly With the woe that on it lay, It is sweet as angel kisses, Pure as infant thoughts to me To look forward to a future Shared alone with Mary Lee. On some dark and stormy midnight, When the thunder groaned aloud, And the lurid lightning flashes Forth from out the inky cloud, Hast thou never seen a lone star Peep from 'hind the cloud 'pon thee?? Thus, amid my life, so stormy Beams the face of Mary Lee. I have braved the storm-God often? Breasted oft the maddened wave? l Stood unmoved amid the tempest? Sported near the yawning grave; I have smiled beneath the dagger, Laughed away oalamity, But now yield myself a pris'ner To the love of Mary Lee. P'raps the darkness will not ever Shade and hide the flower to me? P'raps the sunshine through the dark cloud Will burst forth in purity. . .. In the misty, mystic future There may be one flower for me, And the heart may yet be happy With my much-loved Mary Lee. Ah ! perhaps, that blissful hour, And these present thoughts of mine, Are hut dreams, which may not ever More be realized in time! Never mind!?the dream is beauty? Full of heaven and hope to me ; Wake me not, except to whisper, , "Thine for'eh is Mart Lee." drigiiral Jjaptrs. TLMHanifA* (ha VrtrVwlllu Pnntilrof SNATCHES FROMBUSY MOMENTS. -BY AUNT MARY. NOTHING--ONLY TIRED. 'What's the matter, wife? You look down in the mouth.' 'Nothing; only tired.' , She has been waiting for you ; counting the weary hours until you return, longing to lay her aching head on your broad breast, and there find the rest she so much needs; but, the careless question, more carelessly put, makes her shrink baok to herself, and with a forced smile answer, .'Nothing?only tired.' And you are half vexed that she is not ready to amuse you as usual, with the housebold chat; you miss her merry laughter, and are almost impatient at the weary step. . 'Your face is as.long as my arm?what's wrong old woman ? Come, cheer up, cheer up, don't look-so low down.' The tone almost starts the ready tears, and, in half dread they are coming, you throw yourself back in your chair and whistle unconcernedly, yet not loud enough to drown the stifled sigh that painfully struggles with the sickly smile, with which she strives to answer you ; and impatient that it should so annoy, you startup with a long drawn yawn, 'wonder if dinner is ready,'?discover it is 'awful late,' and 'wish to heaven you could have things in time.' You will not see how bravely she struggles to keep down the tears ?how quietly and uncomplainingly she rises from her chair to hurry the dinner that is two minutes behind time, and vexed with her, but more with yourself, you scarcely wish to kiss the face, that is upturned to yours, as she whispers 'Good bye!' so reproaching you with its paleness. But what has she to do, but to make a fellow's home pleasant when he comes to it? better have no home at all than?' No, your own heart will not let you go farcber. What has she to do ? Nothing, only baby has slept badly last night, and the mother gets up wearied. She must put on Johnnie's shoe because Johnnie has a sore foot; and she must comb Nannie's hair, 'cause nurse hurts Nannieand, 'mother, please just button my shirt, and 'mother please hunt my 'spenders?one of em's gone clear as a whistle;' and 'mother, Tom ain't blacked my boots, you ought to thrash him right off too; and little Charlie's cryiug for his breakfast, and wakes baby, and baby must be nursed, and mother would like to dress her, but father wants his breakfast, and she must make the coffee, and boil his egg, or it will be sure to be overdone, or underdone; and 'la! mother look at Nannie washing my boots in the foot tub;' and Nannie feeling r. 4. 4.- _ii J X- iL.i 1 l~ periecuy cuujpeietit iu ulicuu iu &uui uruuuu of Tom'e business, rebels at the idea of an interruption of her task, and mother has to teach the little daughter submission, and with such patience that the little one shall feel a hand of love holds the smarting rod ; and Jim's lessons must be gone over, and 'mother Jim ain'tgota sign of ashoe string and 'mother where is my bonnet, I hung it right here last night. I wish people would let Oh ! mother, where did you find it? you can find anything;' and 'Missus, please ma'am, baby wants you; and Miss, cook say her finger's cat; and the bread is riz, please HBBnHH make it; and 'please ma'am' the batters' oome, and Jerry wants yon jisfc a minit to ax yon if yon sed plant de beans in de big bed, and de peas in de little bed, or mas he plant de peas in de little bed, and de beans in de big bed;' and 'mother, lady's in the parlor, and baby's crying for yoa;' and Manm, Snkey say please ma'am jest sew np dese holes fore she iron em;' and 'cook wants to know if its time to get oat dinner;' and Jerry say 'he done plant de peas jist as yoa told him (not) and he done cat ap all dem green stalks (Dahlias) and lef the fine red and yaller flowers (Holyhocks) and he say, what mas he do next?' and 'Miss, please narsfe baby,' and 'Masterforgot to send home de ham;' and'Tom mast go for it, and mother mast' do Tom's work; and 'cook knows dinner will be too late;' and mother fanra it tnn tint aava nnthincr? nnd -"^7 ?J B> J ~ so fretful ma'am, I can't donothin with her;' and just as soon as baby drops asleep, Nannie comes in crying with a cut foot and Charlie, 'lasses' from ear to ear, insists upon kissing Nannie, mother, and baby, all round, and cries to find his affection (or'lasses') unappreciated; and cook says 'as baby's sick, she'll make the pudding if you'll make the sauce;' and that letter must be written to Auntie to-day, she'll be so uneasy; and 'mother, Tom won't clean his knaves, and' dinner's most ready ;' and Charlie's face is to wash, and Nannie must have a clean apron, and (of course) baby's to nurse, and the children are home from school, and Charlie's lost Jim's top, 'and he shall get it, and right off too;' and mother finds it in Jim's own pocket, and Jim 'knows mother's a witch, cause she finds everything;' and mother must kiss Charlie into good humor after Jim's rough words, and 'Jerry say he bin waitin for you and hadn't he better let de'big sun-flowers stand, and cut up the little ladders (Gladiolus) dey don't make muchforshow;' and mother in terror for her flowers, gives baby screaming to nurse, and goes out to find her carnations and chrysanthemums gone, while the 'four o'clocks' and 'baohelor buttons' stand in alL their glory, - to delight Jerry's eyes and heart. And mother works and direots, until the sun makes her poor head aohe worse than ever, and comes in to take baby, and please ber if possible; to make peace between Jim and Charlie; to show Sally how to cut a dojl frnrlr. and trf tiAf* thp Tnan nf a hnhr fnr TCan. _ > -- ~-e ?- ??"j ? ? Die, who, while mother's back is turned, bites off its nose, and pokes ont one eye, which comes nigh breaking Sally's heart; and mother, who sympathises with Sally in her | love of babies, must promise to make it whole by a new one; and Jim springs up to speak for a new top, and Sally begs mother to dress the new baby, and Charlie wants Noah's ark, and a steam-engine, a nanny goat, and a horse, in a breath; and Nannie wants two dolls and a cradle, 'cause sbe broke sis Sally's' which she seems to think deserves a reward of merit?and baby wants ?what only mother can give it, and mother is deafened and distracted, as well as sick and weary. But hark! she hears the click of the gate and her heart springs to greet the oomer, even before the children's joyous shout of 'Father's come F discovers him; and her eye brightens, as unconsciously she smooths her nair witn ner nana, ana sees tnat baby Has not discomposed her dress. Ani as he enters, a qaick revulsion would lead her to throw herself upon the dear breast and take what women call 'a good cry/ but his temper has been ruffled in the 'heat and burden of the day/ and her grief must stand back. But never mind, sweet wife, tby loving patience will be rewarded, and 'in the cool of the evening7 he will return, and though no word may ask forgiveness, the gentle kiss, the tender inquiry, the watchful care will teach you to bless the patience that learnt you to bide your time, and answer with what cheerfulness you could? Nothing?only tired/ Written for the Yorkvllle Enquirer. CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. BY MAUD IRVING. It was the calm and tranquil twilight hour; the sun's last lingering rays stole through the lattice, that shaded the door of an humble^welling, situated near the outskirts of jflTestern village. A wonJK&j^le and wasted by disease, occupied aWffm chair, near the door. She was watching the eun, as he set in beauty and majesty. The floor of the dwelling was void of a carpet, and the furniture coarse, and hut little of it. Seated near one of the small windows, was a young and beautiful girl, whose white and softening fingers were busify plying the needle; the curls that clustered around her faultless head, forming a thick and truly beautiful veil. 'Lulu,' said the invalid mother, in a weak voice, 'do not go out to return that work to night.' 'Why, dear mother, do you make such a strange request? You know I promised Mrs. Hawley that she should have the articles this evening without fail, and to-morrow morning she intends to leave the village.' 'The request, Lulu, may have appeared to you a strange one, but I feel that my hours, are numbered, that this night will be the last I shall spend with you on earth, and I have much to tell you, ere my lips are sealed in death.' 'Mother, dear mother, talk not of death. If you should die, I would be all alone in this wide, wide world; no one to love, or protect me/ 'It is of your unprotected state I would speak. I would, for the last time, give you a mother's counsel.' 'Mother, mother,' sobbed the stricken girl, 'you must not die now ! God is not unjust?he will not bring this evil upon us. Oh ! no, no, I know he will not.' 'Hush, my child, God is good, and just? he doeth all things well. Why will you re UU?' 3T : :a w. . ?>J fuse to submit to bis will? I cannot longer be your guide and director, but Lulu, my darling child, he will guide your foot-steps. He is a friend to the weak and helpless.; trust him, and all with you will be well.? I would speak to you of your father.' 'My father! Oh, tell me of him, I hare so longed to hear of him?to know him.' , 'When I. was a girl of about jopr age, I met Walter St. Clare. He was, at that time, a handsome, black eyed-youth of some nineteen years, still at college, pursuing his studies ; the first time I met him, was at an evening party, at the house of his cousin, with whom he was spending his weeks of vacation. These sue Weeks, were the happiest of my life. We were thrown much in each LMI ilt A TA <? AAAM MAfl ui/ueio ouuicijr?-uuu tuc vauauuu auuu sed. away, and Walter waa obliged to return to his stndies. The night- previous to bis departure, bis cousin gave a party (wonld to God I had never lived bo see that night!.) and ere we parted, he obtained from me ? confession of love, and a promise to become his brde so soon as he should finish biff college course. He told me that he .was the pot* sessor of wealth, and that the one sole object of his life would be tosurround me with every comfort that love and wealth could bestow. When we parted, he put this ring 011 my finger. Here Lulu, take it, keep it while you live. Two weeks after his departure, I received a letter, full of assurances of love and devotion. My fifthe* discovered the correspondence, and fbjrbid me to continue it; telling me that Walter, was a dissipated, worthless young man. Hq warned, advised, and threatened, all to no purpose,' Walter at leDgth, completed his course, and graduated with honor. Unformed him that my father had forbidden all intercourse between us. We met olandeatinely. He at length persuaded me to be privately married, and then inform myfatbar; and if be still withheld his consent, to repair to the city, where we coold find a happy^toe. I consented, and we were married, ^iben I informed my father, he was pained, but cot angry. He still refused to give his consent. He gave me Some kind advice, and said I must go with the husband of my ohoice; I had acted in direct opposition to his will, - _ J v . U .. vL ti ' ; t auu ue uuuiu uut give me ma uiesFing. X bade him adieu, and left the home of my childhood. My husband took me to tlbe city. Here I lived in a "large, * and "sumptuously furnished house, with servants on every hind. I rode in a luxuriant carriage, and wax for a time very happy. You were born, and frota 'the day of your birth your father began to grow cold in his manner toward me?but little of his time was spent at home. One morning I awoke to find myself deserted.? I looked anxiously for his return for some weeks but he came hot. The house and furniture were seized for debt, and I was turned homeless upon the world. I sold nlVjewels, and came to this place, where (&vc struggled on?fighting against poverty. Thfeieat you know but too well. If, after I an^. hud in my cold grave, yon should ever meet your father, tell him I forgave all. My task is done, and now the chains that bind my spirit to the earth are broken. Good bye, Lulu > g-o-o-d b-y-e/ Her head sank upon hdr bosom, and ber troubled spirit had found rest. Lulu's future looked dark and drear.? 4 Dark clouds were piled up, one upon another; not a ray of sunshine stole into her young heart She was alone, all alone. Oh! the poor orphan's lot is indeed a hard one. After the burial of the body of Km. St. Clare, Lulu determined to go to tbe^nty in search of employment. She armed in the city of New Orleans about dark. On the morrow, she eagerly sought for employment, but was unsuccessful. Day after day, she continued her search for employment, and day after day returned to her lodgings unsuccessful. Her small stock of funds was rapidly diminishing. She was about to give up in despair, when the stage-manager of a popular theatre, attracted by her superb form, and sweet face, offered her a situation as ballet-dancer. She eagerly accepted his offer, and for weeks, she was under a course of training. Large play bills were posted on the corners, and in conspicuous places, heralding the appearance of the young and beautiful ballet-girl. The name given her was Mille Geraldine. The daily papers were filled with notices of her appearance, and the theatre was filled to its utmost capacity, on the night the timid girl was to appear for the first time, before a large audience. Her success was complete. Temptations not a few, surrounded the path of the innocent girl, bat she remained pure and spotless through all. One evening when Mille Geraldine had ever surpassed herself, she stood leaning against the scenes, when one of the actors who had ascended a mimic mountian, took a mis-step and fell. He was carried from the stage and placed upon a couoh. Another immediately took his place, and all went on as if nothing had occured. Lulu approached the couch upon which the injured actor lay. He had been hurt seriously. Lulu bathed his brow with water ; and while doing so, he saw a ring glitter upon her finger. Frantically grasping her hand, he exclaimed? <Grirl, where, oh! where, did you get this ring j and pray tell me, who you are ?' 'My name is Lulu St. Clare. This ring my mother gave me in her dying hour?but, sir, you are growing worse.' <My child ! my own child!' he ejaculated, pressing her slender form to his bosom? 'tell me of your mother. She cursed me with her latest breath I know, but tell of her.' 'The manager calls me; I must away . and dance; I will return soon, and tell you all/ The beautiful girl left her father's side, and was soon swaying gracefully to and fro, in keenin? with the rich music of the or r?o # . - ? chestra. It seemed as if the andienoe would never be satisfied. Call, after call, for the ballet-girl to re-appear, and while she glided gracefully, like a fairy born creature, over