University of South Carolina Libraries
* \ \ ... \ lewis m. gbist, proprietor.! |n Inirepeitbent Jfamilg ~^tctospaper: Jfor t|e $ramotion of t|e political, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of % SoatJ. |tebms-^so ayea^m abvakcb VOLUME III. YORKVILLE, SOUTH CAROLINA, THURSDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 8, 1866. NUMBER 29. SMtctcfc JMrg. THE BEAUTY OP OLD AGE. I often think each tottering form That limps along in life's decline Once bore a heart as young, as warm, As full of idle faults as mine! And each has had its dream of joy, Its own unequalled, pure romance; Commencing when the blushing boy First thrilled at lovely woman's glance. And each could tell his talc of youth. Would think Its scenes of love evince More passion more unearthly truth Than any tale before or since. Yes! they could tell of tender lays, At midnight penned in classic shades, Of days more bright than modern days? And maids more fair tlan modem maids. Of whispers in a willing car; Of kisses on a blushing cheek, Each kiss, each whisper fhr too dear Our modem lips to give or speak. Of passions too untimely crossed? Of passions slighted or betray ed? Of kindred spirits early lost, And buds that blossomed but to fade. Ot beaming eyes and tresses gay, Elastic form and noble brow, And forms that have all passed away, And left them what we see them now. And is it thus?is human love So very light and frail a thing? And must youth's brightest vision move Forever on Time's restless wing? Must all the eyes that still are bright, And all the lips that talk of bliss, And all the forms so fair to Bight, Hereafter only come to this ? Then what are all earth's treasures worth, If we at length must lose them thus? If all we value most on earth Ere long must fade away from us ? SEED AM) HARVEST; OR, * DEACON MORRIS5 MISTAKE. BY MARY W. JANVRIN. 'No! I tell you, do! I won't hare a backgammon board in the house, and that's the end of it!' exclaimed Deacon Morris in any angry tone, and with a heavy frown upon his iron brow. "I ain't going to have my boys grow up gamblers, if I can help it!' 'It isn't gambling, father. All the fellows round here play?Dick Stanton and i Ed Weston?and their fathers enjoy the game as maoh as they do. But 1 never i can have any sport!' was the quick retort 1 'Don't pretend to dictate to me,' said the deacon, sternly. 'If Stanton and Weston 1 oboose to encourage their boys in such worldly wickedness, it's their business, and 1 not mine, except to show 'em that I don't 1 countenance it. 1 hav'nt got their short- ' oomings to answer for. Ain't gambling, 1 indeed! I wonder if I don't know what ! shaking dice leads to I'd jest as soon you ' would bring home a pack of cards or a fid- \ die?and they're all the devil's own bait to 1 catch souls with. No, Tom, I'm master of my own house; and as long as I am, shall 1 have the ordering of what oomes into it; so, if you ain't contented with things here, you can go where they'll treat you better!' 1 and the hard, iron-browed man strode firmly ' across the floor of the long farm-house kitohen. 'Don't say that, father! I'm sure Tom 1 means nothing wrong !' said a mild-voiced, I patient-faced woman, looking up from the < table where she was peeling vegetables for i dinner. i 'You'd better not interfere, Hannah. I I can manage my own boys, I reckon !' replied i the deacon, gruffly. 'This ain't women's i business ' 'P'i'aps 'tis'nt; but maybe you're a little < too hard on Tom,' she said, half deprecatingly, as if unused to such 'interference.' i 'You mustn't forget that young folks can't i see exactly as old folks do; it ain't natural I that they should.' < 'Wall, better be a leetle too hard, than i have 'em grow up like JackSprague or Jim 1 Hollis?eye-sores to their relations, and 1 pests to the whole community ! My Bible i says, 'Spare the rod and spoil the child;' i and if Tom or Dave go to the dogs, it shall i not be because they ain't had the right I training ter home. So you needn't take their part. I've said it, and I'll stick to < it; not a backgammon board or a dice-box comes into my bouse !' and setting his straw hat over his shaggy eyebrows, he strode i from the door. As he disappeared past the old fashioned well-curb, whose longsweep cut the blueair 1 of the August sky, Tom lifted his eyes from the kitchen floor, where they had rested in sullen silence while his jaws settled firmly at his father's words, and said, sarcastically : 'Well, I suppose you're convinced, mother, that Dave and I are straight on the road to ruin ?' ?Oh, no, Tom ! I've more faith in my sons than to think either of 'em '11 turn out like Jack Sprague or any of his mates; and you mustn't mind what your father says, for he don't believe it himself, only it's his way of talking!' said the mild-voiced woman, excusingly. <1 tell you he does believe it, mother!' said Tom, firmly. 'He never will allow any good of his own children; and you see bow ready he is to believe we're going to turn gamblers?Dave and I-just because I wanted to get a backgammon board, to use while we are resting from baying in the nooning, when it's too hot to be out in the fields. I think it's mean and shameful, that fellows who work so hard as wo do, can't have any privileges like others ! I ain't a child, to be ordered just as though I wasn't capable of doing anything for myself. You'd think I was only ten, instead of seventeen, to hear father talk; and I won't stand it any longer !' and his face grew more determined. Don't Tom ! Your father is a little set, I know; but then he thinks it's for your good,' pleaded Mrs. Morris. For my good !' sneered Tom ; 'but I tell you, mother, its for my hurt, and you know 'tis ! You remember how its been all ourj lives?Dave's and mine; and yours too, mother?for we've done nothing but work, | work?dig, dig?pinch, save and scrimp? all to help father hoard up money to buy pastures, farms and oxen with; while every ; ^ reasonable pleasure and rest has been de nied us. We're no more account in father's I eyes than the reaping or mowing maohines a down in the meadow lot. I don't know but r father's a good man?a Deacon of the First Orthodox Church ought to be'?he said, ? sarcastically , 'but he's a mighty hard and a grinding one, I do know; and begrudges me these very few minutes, even now, that s I'm resting here from the mowing !' \ Don't, Tom!' again said his mother, de- e precatingly, with the same expression of pa- t tient submission on her face <1 know, as i well as you, that there's a good many hard s things to bear We've got a large farm and I it takes a great deal of bard wort to carry i it oo ; and sometimes father isn't consider- s ate. Bathe is a good man in the main, and t means well; and yon musn't allow yourself c to get worked up so, for David's younger than you, and you ought to Bet him an ex- v ample.' t ?0h, don't be afraid of my influencing f Dave, mother!' replied Tom, proudly 'As t for father, the very reason that he is my fa- i ther has kept me here, digging and delving; t but I can't stand it forever! and if anything c should happen that I oan't stay here, you'll ? remember that I told you 'twas only beoause i I was ground down so, and hadn't anything c pleasant, like other fellows.' s 'There, Tom ! I wouldn't think of it any t longer! 'Tisn't any use to brood over trou- t blcs?everybody has their share I' and the o crushed expression of the meek-eyed wo- o man's face told that she had hers 'Come, i my son ! bring me a pail of oool water from v the well. It's time the dinner was on the o table!' c Tom rose with alacrity?a sturdy, good- g looking lad of seventeen, witn well devel- t oped limbs and handsomely cut features.? He would do anything for his mother, whom v he loved strongly; for she, with bis brother r Dave and three little sisters, engrossed all c the attention the youth bestowed in the f home, where the stern father, so 'set' in his u own notions of right, repelled, instead of ii inviting, the confidence of his family. a After Tom had brought the pail of water 81 and set it down on a bench in the open kitchen in the rear of the room where his r mother was at work, he went oat at the back c door. As be passed the corner, where the long gable roof slanted down to the level of It the branchesof the cherry and Canada plam d trees behind the house, David, who had been ri sitting on the cellar case just outside au 0 apen window of the kitchen, rose and walked h by his side down to the great barn, whose a doors stood wide open, revealing the full- a stowed mows, and the fowl strutting to and u Fro over the spacious floor, snapping up the I scattered hay seed or talking to eaoh other n in their own cackling tongue. i( 'I overheard what you said to mother af- b ter he went out,' said Dave, pointing over w bis shoulder to where their father stood un- a hitching a pair of farm horses from a large 0 rack by the bars that opened into the hay a field. lDo you mean to clear out, Tom V w was questioned in a low, confidential tone, n ?I shouldn't wonder if I did take up 11 with his invitation,' replied Tom, with determined eye and mouth. 'I'm tired to s' death of digging, digging all the time, and 0 no fun at all. There's a wider life out in w the world, somowhere; and I'm bound to ^ have my share of it, and not stay cramped ^ np here But we won't talk of it any more, now !' said Tom, evasively. ^ 'Well, I shouldn't blame you a bit if you ^ did run away,' replied fourteen year old 81 Dave. 'There's no good times on this farm, n ind a fellow can't get any schooling, either, if he wants it ever so bad, except a little in li the winter, when father can't find any ex- d juse for us to work out doors And yet, b if he was only a mind to, you and I might tl Doth go to the academy and to college; for S be'9 rioh enough?I know that! owns farms it ind woodlands, and has lots of money at in- n terest. If we were real poor, there'd be ft some excuse for digging so !' said the boy, b bitterly. * 'Well, it ncver'll be any different, as I a can sec !' returned Torn, passionately. 'I ti wouldn't mind working?I like work as tl well as anybody, and never shirk my share, w and would be willing to stay at borne and ti help carry on the farm, while you might go w to college, for you care more about books f< than I do, but he won't havo it so ! Let p him go his own way, and I'll go mine !' si and he sat down in the barn door and look- a ed steadily ahead of him, with his determi 1( nation imprinted on his set lips. t! It was a fair picture that lay beneath the yellow, hazy glow of the hot August noon 8 ?the comfortable old farm houso, with its c small-paned windows and gable roof; the a row of plum-trees; the mossy well-curb, with the tall well sweep above, and the w sunken watering-trough, overtopped by 0 clumps of plantain-leaves and white clover ; " the spacious out buildings at the right, wearing an air of neatness and fullness; b the hired men at work in the fields on the e left, turning the hay in long billowy swathes; t; and beyond, the orchards, fields of com, fi and the still uncut meadow lot, sweeping e down to the distant river. In this pioture, b there was thrift, affluenoe, and comfort, to v an outside observer; but, to the lad who sat viewing it with knitted brows, there I t' were the dark shadows of ceaseless toil and t' deprivation hovering over it j v 'It's no use talking!' he said, at length,! a doggedly. 'Father won't do anything dif- j p ferent! He'll pinch and work till he dies, j ?, and everybody round hitn'll have to do the ; d same. I suppose he's mad, now, because ' t we're taking a bit of nooning before the j 1 hands oome up to dinner, but I reckon it'll! 1 be a long day, after this one, before I put; t my hand to the mowing again !' , v He spoko this last sentenoe under his breath, so Dave did not hear; but the do- e termination of his dark-brown eye did not' t abate, nor the doggedness that lay about a his lips; and he sat quiet in the barn-doori t till his mother blew the horn that summon- t ed the men from the fields to dinner. Next morning Deacon Morris rose at the j C first cook-orowing, as was his wont. It was t lis boast that 'uobody oo his farm laid a-bed iter the crack of day !' He left the bedoom; orossed the long, cool, dusky kitcb id ; lifted the hasp that scoured the back loor, aud went out iuto tbe fresh morniog dr. The east was just beginning to be aglow rith a soft, rosy blush; the rest of the sky yas indistinct and dail; the rooms twitterid and darted from the nests in the plum rees; tbe earth was moist and fragrant with ts baptism of dew. By and by the fiery no would monnt upward, and, with bis tot breath, wilt and wither grass, tree, and lower; but now, all was oool and dusk, and till, save for that ever-inoreasiDg twitter of he robins and swallows whioh filled the air if the summer morn. Drawing a buoket of water from the old yell, Deacon Morris poured it into the empy trough, stooped down and washed his ace and hands, and stepped back to wipe hem on the coarse roller whioh hung just aside the door; then went down the path hat led to the great barn. He swung its loors wide open, letting out a strong fra;ranoe of new mown hay from the high dows, and the heaped load yet stood on the :art, filling up the centre of the bam floor; topped in and fed tbe horses; and then rent down to tbe yard where the oattle yere. Buok and Bright, the two working ixen, lay in one corner, quietly ruminating, loubtless of many a year's patient drawing n sleds and carts; while a group of cows yere in the other, huddled together, and ne large black one reposed in lonely dig lit; in the middle of the yard, rolling her ;reat eyes with a quick, bright glance upon ler master. 'Get up, there, Smut!' said the deaoon ; rhile Chanticleer, perched on the topmost ail of the fence, flapped his wings and rowed with all might and main; and the ull uddered animal rose to her feet with an mgainly motion, and, with a vioious lowerng of her brass mounted horns, retreated inong her sister group whioh set them catteringin all directions. Order was hardly restored, ere Mrs. Moris appeared at the barnyard gate with a ouple of milking pails in her hands. Tom Hood immortalized the toils-of Engind's sewing women, who sat all day, and eep into the nights, in stifling London garets, plying their needles to the sad refrain f 'stitch ! stitch ! stitch !' the while their ungry eyes were ever getting hollower, nd their pinched faces were 'weary, wan, nd worn;' countless mournfal monodies, lore touohing than 'the African Slave's lament,' have been written on that dusky ation ; but what poet's pen has ever chron:led the trials of the many overworked, roken-down, New England farmers' wives, 'ho have dragged?and still drag on?their ppointed rounds of toil, and never think f lifting off the harness, until it crumbles way from their poor weary frames at the 'elcome call of the Master, who bringeth ot only sleep, but rest, to those he sumions?even death. Hannah Morns was one of these. When be left her own home, at eighteen, to be ome the wife of the 'likely young farmer,' rho was ?a real worker,' and 'would be foreanded before ho died,' her cheek was looming and her eye was bright; but twen? years had aged her so, that few would ave recognized the fact that she had ever nown a girlhood of beauty or elasticity of pirits, that now were dead to her for everlore. What a round of slavery that woman's fe had been ! The mother, of seven ohiU ren?the eldest and youngest of whom had een lain to rest in the old graveyard over ie hill?she had toiled hard at her tasks, he bad always risen at four iD the morn)g in summer, and fivo in winter; she lilked four oows, and prepared the breakist for her family and the hired men ; made utter and oheese for market, the sale of 'hicb was added to her husband's hoards, t first to help pay off the mortgage from he large farm he was trying to clear, and hen to swell the funds he was investing in 'ood-lots and pastures; she raised flooks of arkeys and geese?from a limited share of 'hose profits, as the Thanksgiving annual jstivals came round, she was expected to rovide the winter stock of clothing for herslf and family; she spun yam for sale, and 11 that used at home; knitted socks in the ing winter evenings; made and mended he clothes; dried apples, and preserved ruits and berries; did all the cooking, weeping, washing, and ironing; in short, ombioed in herself the offiocs of wife, lother, housekeeper, and servant?all in he person of one slender, delicate woman, 'ho never found an uninterrupted hour to pen a book for the cultivation of her mind, rhich hungered and starved the while. Can you wonder that she orept into her ed every night with pains and lameness in very joint? that she aged so, that, at thirp-eight, you would have thought her over fty ? that she wore habituually that crushd, sad, weary look, as though life were very urdensome, and the grave would not be so ery dreary when she laid down in it ? And yet no poet has ever written upon bis theme ! Possibly it is far too prosaio for hem. Now and then some English tourist, rho has been received into the families of ffluence this side the water, chronioles a laragraph complimentary to 'the delicate, pirituelle loveliness of American girls,' so liferent from the beef and beer solidity of he women of his own nation, and adds, they fade early, and yet usually attain a ong life ; from whioh fact we may conolude hat they possess elastic frames and strong, riry constitutions.' Yes, 'elastic' we know they must be, lse they would never enduro so long; but ho bow, long strained, mast break at last; nd so these poor tired women go down to heir graves, glad to find the rest they never iad in life. Isaac Morris was deacon of the 'First 3hurch'?one of the pillars of orthodoxy ; mt he worked his wife, his children, and hired men hard; and added farm to farm, aore to aore, and hundred after hundred to his gains. Onthis August morning, he looked frowningly on his wife as she entered the barnyard. 'It's later than usual, Hannah! The cows ought to a been turned inter the lot before now; for it's the dew on the grass that makes the riohest cream. Where's the hands .f Abed yet f And the boys, too ?? That Tom has been huffy enough ever since the talk yesterday, beoause I wouldn't let him have his own wav about tbateambline board, and he's goin' to keep it op by layin' abed this mornin'; bat I'll pat him into the harness to day. After he's sweat a spell down in the medder lot I guess he won't fell like playin' them perdition games of his'n. Gee Bright, over there!' flourishing his long arm at the 'nigh ox,' which oansed that animall to wheel suddenly against the black cow, to the imminent danger of npsetting the milking-stool which Mrs. Morris had just placed beside her.? Wall, David, where's Tom? Gettin' to be a fine gentleman before his father, layin' abed late of mornin's?' called oat the deacon, sarcastically, as his yonnger son approached from the honse, buttoning his shirt collar sleepily as he came along. Tom, sir ?' asked the lad. Ain't he oat here? I didn't know bat that he'd been Up this ever so long.' Bat he ain't! Nobody's come oat of the house before me, for the door wasn't unfastened. Ain't he ap stairs yet ?' No, sir!' replied David, a sudden light flashing across his brain, remembering bis conversation of yesterday. 'Where is he, then ?' That's more'n I can tell, sir!' answered David, resolved not to betray his brother to his father. Deacon Morris left the barnyard and started off for the house. As soon as he was beyond hearing, the lad walked up beside his mothor, and said, I shouldn't wonder if Tom had taken father at his word, and gone, mother !' 'Gone! Tom gone!' echoed the woman, paasiDg id her milking, and turniDga white, startled face apoD ber sod. 'Yes, mother! Bat doo't look so scairt!' he replied, 'Yoa koow what was said by 'em both yesterday, aod I guess Tom's made good his threat Dot to staDd father's treatment any longer ! I thought he really meant so then, when he said it.' 'But, Oh, I've heard hior say it so many times before; aod you don't really think h'es gone ! You don't know it, Davie ?' asked the poor mother, imploringly, risiDg from her milking stool and laying ber hand od his arm. "Yes, mother, I do know that he meant to leave ? he told me so yesterday in the barn, after he went out,' answered David 'I can't tell a lie to you. But I didn't think he meant togososooD ? to leave last night, while we were asleep. He must have got out of the shed window, if the door was fastened when father came down.' '0 Davie I Davie! I wish you'd told me !' said the mother, reproachfully. 'Why didn't you tell me ? I'd have talked with him, and coaxed him to stay. Tom was always a good boy, and would do anything 1 asked him to.' ?I tell you, mother, I didn't dream he meant to go so soon !' replied the lad, quite touched by her distress, and a vague feeling of remorse ooming over him now his elder brother was really gone. 'But don't feel so bad about it, mother!' be said, stoutly. 'I know Tom. He's smart as a steeltrap; and 'twon't -be loDg before we shall hear from him ? that he's got something to do somewhere, so he can make his way. He'll let you know, I mean. He'll write to us, mother.' While David was talking, he did not see his father returning from the house with great, and angry strides, and pause a moment behind him in the barnyard and overhear his last sentenoe <Hah ! you helped him oil, did you r? You told him to steal bis clothes ? the best Sunday suit I bought him ? and clear out, did yon ?' he cried, passionately, taking bold of David's collar, swinging him round, facing him. ' Don't Isaao Morris !' pleaded the poor trembling woman. 'Don't hurt Davie !? He isn't to blame 1 But is Tom really gooe ?' she asked, with a look on her face which betrayed that she expected, yet dreaded the answer. 'Gone ! of course he has ? the young rascal ! Stolen his clothes, too ! Not a rag worth wearing has he left in the press. I thought so the moment Dave come out with- , out him. He's been in a regular, sullen, slow fire, all along these last six months, ever since I forbid his goin' to the singin'school in the village; and that gambling dice-board, yesterday, fixed his flint for bim. But let him go. He's made his bed, now let him lay on it! He never shall darken my doors again, let what will happen ; and if he comes back, I'll turn bim away as I would a dog. And I forbid you from speakin' about him amongst you ! Let his name be auathema and mar?' 'Isaac Morris, don't curse your own son !' said bis pale wife, with more oouragc and dignity in her tone than it bad held for many a year. 'It ain't Christian ? and you know you profess to follow the Bible.' The deacon stopped a moment, and a red flash came over the swart face, pale with anger before; then be said, contemptuosly: 'You go fiuish your milkin', woman, and not talk about things you don't understand ! There ! see what you've done, uow !? Ten quarts of good new milk lost!' tor just then, old Smut lifted her hind foot and gave the {Jail a sturdy kick, which sent its contents in a foaming white pool upon the ground. <1 should thing there'd been mischief ennugb done for one day ! David, did you know that Tom meant to run away ?' he asked, sternly, turning towards him again. All tho proad, manly blood of the boy's heart was stirred. He bated bis father then for bis cowardly attack apon his poor trembling mother, who bad picked up her empty pail and turned to milk another cow ; and be half rejoiced in averting some share of the general blame to his own shoulders. So be did not reply evasively, or in the strict negative, as be might have done; bat said, firmly:? 'He told me, yesterday, that ho wasn't going to stand this sort of life mnch long er ; though I didu't know that he meant to go off last night, sir '1 'What,sort, of alif^.do jo.n mean,sirrah ?' thundered the deacon, angrily. 'The sort that made Jack a dull! boy ? 'all work and n6 play,' father,' replied the lad, coolly. 'Don't repeat over your poetry to me, you young rasoal!' was the irate command. ?I see how 'tis; you two youngsters have put yor heads together to conjure up this plot; and you1 re as muoh to blame as he is. Come round into the barn with me, sir 1' David obeyed. By the compression of his delicately-ohisseled lips ? bis mother's lips they were ? and the distension of his thin, proud nostrils, you saw that his spirit was aroused ? that spirit wbioh has carried heroes and martyrs to their fate; but, casting one enoouraging, smiling glance to the trcmbliDg woman who pansed. in her milking with a sickening terror at her heart, he followed his father. Deacon Morris shut the great barn doors olosely behind them. Yet be need not; for David would not have flinohed, or uttered a orv. if everv blow of the lithe, dark ? ^ # ly red oowbide bad taken bis heart's blood. Mrs. Morris rose from her task, put her hand to her heart, and staggered faintly up to the bouse j while Jim Bailey?one of the hired bands, who had oome out in season to overhear a portion of the conversation ? kindly took her place, and presently carried in the two foaming milk pails At six o'clock the sound of the horn brought Deacon Morris and his man into breakfast David was also in his place ; but no food passed his blue, pale, set lips. He was too sick to eat; and his lacerated shoulders quiverejJ and throbbed under his coarse gingham shirt. When the meal was ended, the deacon said, with a preparatory 'hem :? David yoa may get yourself ready to go down to the meddcr lot and mow , to day. Now Tom's gone on his own wiobed way, you'll have to knuckle down to a purty fair share of hie work. I shan't have no gentleman in my family. Let this momin's lesson be a warnin' to you. You needed the ohastisement of the rod, and I've administered it for your own good.' David did not reply, but he set his lips together more firmly as he rose, and took down his hat from its peg on the wall, and went out. But that night ? when the poor, almost heart broken woman crept up to bis chamber a few moments, to bathe his lacerated baok ? he said: 'Mother, if it 'twarn't for you, I'd follow Tom before daylight ? But, for your sake, I'll stay here and try and obey father.' The next day was the Sabbath?the calm, blessed New England Sabbath ?and Deacon Morris attended church three times, and, at the family altar, prayed with great emphisis for the rebellious and godless, who rise up against the rule of their elders in the land.' And tho passages he read from the Holy Book culled from those portions red with the terrors of the Law, till all the still air of the summer twilight seemed to quake with the dread resonance of bis stern, empkatio voice. Ten years went by. No marked changes had come to Deacon Morris, except that he was grayer, grimmer, made longer prayers on Sunday nights, said shorter graces on week days, and drove his hired help and family harder than ever. David was a young man of twenty-four now; and helped 'carry on the farm' under the surveilance of his father. Mrs. Morris looked older and paler, and seemed always tired, but still toiled on from morning till , night the same as ever, assisted only by her eldest daughter Sarah; for the o'her two girls, Martha and Dorothy, girls of nineteen and seventeen, with a natural desire to escape the deprivations of their cheerless country home, and to dress as well as others of their age, had obtained situations in a distant city?the one as milliner, and the other in a fancy goods store, where her pret- , ty face attracted many customers to her em- , ployers. , , All were good, sensible girls; but Dollie ?for so her name was abbreviated shortly ( after being transplanted to the city?was ( quite too young to be removed from a mother's watchful eye at just the age when youth- ; ful vanity may be fostered into a dangerous | flame by the breath of that class of admi- ] rera with whom many of her fellows came in contact. I Tom had never been heard from?way- j ward Tom, the first-born boy, whom the poor i mother ever mourned, and David daily ; thought of, though his name was always < 'banned, barred and forbidden,' when the i stern ruler of the family was nigh. If Tom ] had ever written home, no such letters had i been received ; and none knew whether he ] was living or dead?what distant or near shore held him now?or if his life's barque < had crossed the Dark River to the Unknown j Beyond. I 'Hannah Morris was failing,' the neigh bors said. 'She had the old fashioned oon- j f/Oba linnfl fnr T7O0T-H 1 HUtUJJUUU. UUUUCbllUCO lumo 1I1UU >V1 bat they generally went sadden at last!' and j her loss was often prophesied to the old dea- i con, who grew more stern, penurions and | 'set,' as the years rolled by. I Some who pitied tho poor, almost worn- 1 oat woman, were bold enoagh to express a ] hope that 'if Deacon Morris ever got a seo- ' ond wife, 'twould bo somebody who wouldn't i be the slave poor Hannah had been and i even selected for him a grasping, avaricious masculine framed widow, whose farm joined t his, and whose 'tender mercies' had proved j 'cruelties' to the two former spoases whom t she had bnried in the old grave-yard over f the hill. Therefore, great was the astonish- r ment of the qniet farming town when the c tidings circled throughout its breadth, one o hot July day, that Deacon Morris had fallen c from a haymow to the floor of his great bam k ?broken a hip, and sustained suoh severe fc internal injuries, that old Doctor Benson t had expressed his opinion that he could not survive. P There was a great sensation throughout 0 the neighborhood., Hay wu left in long j tjwatha ; burses were UetactieU from racks r and harnessed into light buggies, for their jowners to ride over to the 'Morris place" j and see how the deaoon really was. c But the fiery July sun mounted higher fc over the bayflelds, and sunk to his bed in the orimson piled west; the hot summer a nighc came down, so sultry to the Btrong and c well, and almost stifling the breath, grow- s ing ever shorter and fainter, on the lips of e the dying man. v At sunset the family were gathered in v the old bed-room adjoining the long, roomy y kitchen. The tall, antique olook tioked p solemnly; the great cat pattered up and a down the floor, pausing before each one of the group, as if asking the meaning of the strange quiet that had fallon on the house- ^ hold, usually busy at this hour; a tame ^ toad hopped out from its bed under the ^ plantain-leaves by the well-curb at the back door, and squatted upon the flat stone at the g threshold, only to be stirred from its post , by the footsteps of a tall, bronzed, bearded man, who strode hastily into the little foot path leading around from the lane, crossed q the kitchen floor, and joined the group in ^ the bed-room. 0 At any other time Mrs. Morris would * have turned paler, and pressed her hand to her heart, as she had a babit of doing ^ when agitated; but now she only diew ^ Tom's hand into hers, and whispered "Just ^ in time.' A n J Ti* riJ tAA onnJ Ktt tKo QtMnrvo x J. u u i/anuj vuu an^u uj vug Mrva??ugv j Presence whose noiseless footstep was creeping over the bed-room floor toward the dying man upon the pillows?he had no time for ejaculations of surprise and wel- I come, while Sarah?good, faithful girl? S scarcely stirred from her station by the bed, o where she was moistening the lips of the t unconscious man. fl Mwi I in time? Do you know me fath- c cr?' asked Tom in a husky voice, going b close to the bedside, a tear stealing down o the cheek browned by the kisses of ten o years foreign suns and winds. t But no response came. The dulled ear e could not bear; the dimming eye could not b sec; the stiffening tongue could utter no word. Tom stood, vainly waiting for what p did not oome; and then, with a choking 0 sensation in his throat, stepped baok to bis v mother's side again d Just then old Parson Meanwell, who bad 0 entered the bed-room a half hour before, i knelt and offered a prayer for the sinking d man; but, ere it was concluded, the j, breath had fluttered out from his pale, blue ^ lips. And so Deacon Morris 'died and e made no sign.' D The neighbors talked it over that night? tl about Tom's return. 'What a pity that p the two younger girls oouldn't have been ]( there, too! But the dispatch didn't reach 0 them in season. It was singular that Tom n should have got there just in time.' a The funeral was large, as befitted a dea- ^ oon of the Orthodox Church. All the w deacon's good points?'the upbuilding of j] Zion,' in which he had assisted?'the great J loss to bis family, which could never be s| repaired,' were dwelt upon in the lengthy |, sermon and the prayer; and then tbey laid ^ him away in the grave hollowed besido a j tiny mound raised there nearly thirty years before, beneath which slept the first born little Hannah, and the later one which held flio Knriorl h-iho Knu loot. lint hntnrepn thft _ ? J "~J1 w mother's heart aod Heaven 0 But by and by?when the estate oame to g be settled, and it was known how many n broad acres that grasping man had owned, f( and how many thousands were left, invested 0 in bank stocks or in mortgages on farms j] wide-scattered through the country?there were not wanting those who said : ai 'Perhaps, after all, it was the hand of jj Providenoe that took Deacon >lorri9 away. ? His family can have some privileges now. Tom will stay at home, ot course, and he and (< David manage the farm ; and the girls won't Q need to go away aod earn their living, with s] all that property left to be divided amongst 4 them ' But it was too late. Habit becomes sec- . and nature. The seed bad been sown, and j the harvest most be reaped. ^ Money and lands were left for the inheritance of Deacon Mori is' children, to be sure; ^ but it could not benefit them now as it might ^ have in earlier years. tj Had not Tom?high spirited, passionate, ^ but noble-hearted Tom?been driven from ^ his boyhood home by his father's harshness , and the denial of the harmless indulgencies and relaxations necessary to bis years, he ^ would not have now felt the rover's unquenchable craving for the ten-year-gone . life of adventure on foreign shores, to which after a few months at the old homestead, he returned again. Had not David?at fourteen, high-browed, ^ earnest eyed, and with a scholar's ambition P in his active brain?been dwarfed and men- w tally starved while his young, growing frame al was made an instrument for the commonest P laborer's toil, he would not, at twenty-four, 18 have settled into hopeless inertness find sto- o: lidity j caring for nothing beyond the rounds of the farm on whioh he remainedj and at length marrying a common-place girl, whose w mind was of a lower type of cultivation than b his own, thus precluding the ofttimes privi- 01 lege of the wife lifting her husband out'of w the slough into whioh lack of early educa- ei tion or depraving circumstances may have tt cast him. it Had not Sarah?the good, faithful prac- a X, ical elder daughter?witnessing the ex&m>le of her hard working mother, been >rought np to think all of her sex born to ill the niche of honsehold drudge, she would lever have made her own life an exaotcopy if that mother's ; and resigned the control if her own inheritance to the close-fisted, lalculating farmer, who sought her hand leoause he reokoned rightly that she would lecorae a 'smart,' 'capable,' 'working,' wife o help him acquire more property. And Mattie and Dollie, too I Lively, iretty, apt girls, who, onder the discipline if education and cultivated sooiety, would tave ripened into sensible, intelligent wo* nen, who would have influenced for the letter all with whom they came in oontaet; lad their youth been oast under fostering ircumstanoes, how widely different might lave proved their future! With no yearn? ng for the city's gayest pleasures?the thetre, the oonoert-hall, and ball-room?M ourted by the mediocre class of the social cale with whom they mingled?with motp levated ideas and a higher standard, they rould never have gone back to the city's whirling vortex, to become the wives of fast oung men, who married them for their ortions, and then led them lives of neglect nd unhappiness. And the poor, hard-working mother*rhat of her ? Ah, when the iron band ras lifted, it was too late. The springs of ler l ife had been sapped long before. For bw years she went about in an absent, quiet ort of way?missing the stern rule to which he tad for so long been acoustomed; and hen she died. The neighbors said, 'it was the eld-fash* r>nn/>! AAnonmntiAn PaIVq alnnwc /I f JUOVI wuouuij/viuu* X'Utao niirnja uivj/pvu way sadden with it, at last.' Of what real 186 was Deacon Morris' wealth ? What ;ood seed did he sow in his life ? Little, re judge; for the harvest reaped was soany and blighted; and the Dead Apples, rhose taste is like ashes, were pat to his amily's lips. And it might have been so liferent for them all. Ah 1 are not the lives of all men, like )cacon Morris', sad mistakes ? An Instance of War's Ravages in Alabama.?One of the editors of the ielma Messenger, writing from Tuscaloosa , n the 28th alt., says: A little business in he coort house led me to inquire into the nancial oondition of this portion of the ountry, and I learn that sheriff's sales are lecoming so oommon that almost no purhasers are found for the valuable land and ther property exposed for sale. A genleman informed me that some twenty farmrs had been sold out lately, their lands ringing less than one dollar per acre. A sad instance of the reverses of fortunes roduoed by the war was mentioned in the ase of old Air. Prewett, of this county, rhose estate was sold out on the first Monay in this month. At the breaking out f the war, he was the wealthiest citizen of 'uscaloosa county. He owned threo bunred and sixty slaves and large tracts of ind. He had large sums of money at insrest, secured by mortgage on negro proprty and land. He was a homespun, ecoomioal countryman, who bought every* bing at the lowest price for ctsh. He aid his physioian's bills before the dootor jft the house. When General Croxton ame to Tusoaloosa, he took from this old iao some forty head of horses and mules, 11 his money, provisions, etc., whioh was ;is first calamity. Next came emancipation rbich swept his slave property. Next came be breaking up of all the men f;o whom 'rewett had loaned money, or for whom he tood security. Finally an execution was ivied on his property for o few Thousand ollars, and all his real estate '-at sold oner the sheriff's bauimer for six hundred ollars! Curious Clock.?Many years ago there * * as a oloek made by one Droz, a mechanic f Geneva, whioh was renowned for its inenioas construction. This clock was so lade as to be capable of performing the illowing movements : There was exhibited it a negro, a shepherd and a dog. When le clock struck, the shepherd played six ines on his flute, and the dog approached d fawned upon him. This clock was exibited to the King of Spain, who was reatly delighted with it. "The gentleness of my dog," said Droz, is his least merit. If your majesty touch ne of the apples whioh. you see in the bepherd's basket, you will admire the fielity of this animal." The King took an apple, and the dog ew at his hand, and barked so loud that ie King's dog, whioh was in the same room uring the exhibition, began to bark also; t whioh the superstitious courtiers, not oubting that it was an affair of witchcraft, astily left the room, crossing themselves as ley went out. Having desired the Minis;r of Marine, who was the only one who ared stay behind, to ask the negro what clock it was, the Minister asked but relived no reply. Droz then observed that le negro had not yet learned Spanish; pon which the Minister repeated the queson in Frenob, and the blaok immediately aswered him. At this new prodigy the firmness of the [inister also forsook him, and he retreated recipitately, deolaring that it muit be the ork of a supernatural being. It is probble that in the nerformance of those tricks ? r # ?roz touched certain springs in the meohanim, although this is not mentioned in any f the accounts of his olock. ? r iftplK .v. To Keep Cabbages. ? The very best ay to keep these ever tried by us is to ury them in tan-bark to the depth of ten r twelve inohes. They will keep in this ay perfectly, even to the color of the 6mallst particle of leaf. Those who cannot get tn bark will not be able, of coarse, to try : bat but saw-dust or even chaff would be good substitute, 4