Green-Mountain freeman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1844-1884, 1849-03-15
GREEN MOUNTAIN FREEMAN, MONTPELEER VERMONT,


on his shoulder. Remember, | shall share
my all with you. l shall come back, and
make lady of you yet, Lucy
He kissed his mothers cheek, pressed his
fathers trembling hand, dashed tear from
his own eye, and sprung upon the wagon
which was to convey him to--city. He
waved his red silk handkerchief as they
were plodding up the hill, and Lucy forced
back hel binding tears, and watched breath
lessly. 1t was gone-and now the last
glimpse of his tarpaplin hat had sunk from
her sight. She sunk upon the door stone,
and sobbed in her agony.
Away, away to ice bound Labrador 7
Ugh! what shiver the very words pour
over one, even in the summer atmosphere
ola stove-heated room. We shrink from
following the sailor-boy among cebergs and
everlasting SHOWS, and we will not; the
pale, sad girl needs much more our notice.
Lucy was very lonely after her brothers.
departure; but new spring of responsible
ity was touched in her heart, and with it
came the new strength that always follows
in the train of duty. She must be to those
decripid parents both son and daughter
the sole prop of their declining years. She
found few hours for reflection; but when
the old folks were asleep at night, she would
sit down before the old Fireplace, and take
hei dearest of earthly treasures-Robin's
picture. 1t was not very finished speci-
men of artistic Workmanship. Robin had
it taken during his last visit to the city, and
gave her most agreeable surprise with it.
But, though rude, it was likeness, and
imagination supplied all that was deficient,
as she sat there by the Goals where Robin
and she had always sat together on winter
evenings before.
Month after month rolled by thus. A
year came round. They heard frequently
from Robin at irst; but then came long
interval of silence and anxiety. Other sick
nesses, besides the heart-sicknesses of hope
deferred, came The mother was laid up.
on her bed, and the father bowed his gray
head yet more heavily. Why don't Robin
write? they had repeated again and again,
till at last they almost feared to speak it.
and anly looked into each others eyes when
The ever present thought asked utcrance.
Fearful was the foreboding ofeach. -
One evening, as Lucy stood by the open
door, so absorbed in her thoughts as scar
cely to notice what was passing, neighbor
riding by tossed to her letter, saying, It's
not Robins handwriting, though it's from
the seas, | take it, Lucys blood forsook
its free channels, weight of many tons
seemed crushing her heart but she COM
pressed her white lips firmly, and with trem-
bling fingers she raised lhe letter. She
carried it to her old father. He burst it
open-read it. He sat as if petrfied there
was no motion-no sign of Joy or grief.
What is it, lather!'
There was no reply.
FatherP Lucy laid her hand on his
shoulder. The letter dropped to the hearth !;
the old man bowed his face on his hands,
and heart-rending groan burst from his
very soul. The poor girl had scarcely the
power herself to read those few lines. They
were from a stranger, and told in cold and
simple words the whole story. The writer
was messmate Of Robins and had accom-
panied him TO Greenland. There malig-
nnnt disease had broken out among the sail
ors; none, who had been attacked, recov-
cred. Robin, the idolized only brother
and son, was left, at the very point of death
at the time of the ship sailing, with little
colony settled there. There could be no
doubt of his death--so ran the letter He
could but just breathe when they left him,
and was utterly unconscious.
Years rolled by, and Lucy was one of
the worlds poor orphan girls Father and
mother had sunk to rest in the grave, and
home had gone with them. Lucy was friend
less and penniless, and the charity of the
world was cold. But, with industry and
her needle for her inheritance, she toiled
for her daily bread The poor sewing girl
found few to smile upon her. Driven hith-
er and thither by the shifting winds of cir
cumstance, overlooked and slightly paid.
she sank into Responding mood, and the
hopeful fountains Of her young heart seemed
closed up. What wonder that she listened
to the words OF one who offered home
and thought of little else? But Lucy was
disappointed "A local habitation had in.
deed been gained, as well as a name, but
it was only by her own endeavors that il
could be preserved. | will not follow the
history of their united destines. Suffice
it to say, that eventually they removed to a
frontier State, and at length were settled
down in the little red house at the top o
the hill-the one | have described above.
Lucy Browne sat in her own little room
one summer afternoon, at the time wheI
she was first introduced to the readers no
tice. Her face was wrnkled and sad
sadder, perhaps, than its wont; for she hat
been, for the first time in many years, pour
ing forth the story of grief from her bur
dened heart. A kind neighbor sat will
her-a lady whose benevolent heart haC
drawn her towards the poor woman; ant
with innocent curiosity, she had that da,
asked her of her history. Lucy told he
the story of her youth-and with The tellin!
came back the remembrance of youth,
: feelings and dreams. The withered chcel
fushed-the lip quivered-and Lucy arose
and, taking from drawer the well.pre
5 served picture, placed it in the hands of tn
yislter. 'There-you may see all that
left of the brother once had. Poor Rot
t in poor. dear boy-its nigh thirty year
5 since saw his own living self iol the las
. time, and brushed his brown curs-the
r were handsomer than in the picture-bu
they have mouldered away long since.
shall never see him again in this world
neUerr
: She closed the picture, and sadly turne
e towards the drawer
e AT that moment step fell on their car:
e. and n shadow darkened thp doorwav 'Tb