Spirit of the age. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 1849-1865, 1854-11-08

to drink, if you do anything for them when
they wander about 50, continued Richard.
He did indeed repeat an oft-heard scnti-
ment of his fathers, when he said, for, tho
a worthy man in most respects, Mr.. Gra-
ham was one Of those who remember the
poor only 50 far as he Sufferers are good
and virtuous, and struggling hard to sup
port themselves.
But the holier and better teachings of
his wife hal given the children other feel
ings, and Richards conscience smote him
when little Annie quietly said:
Mother wouldn't have sent them away
if the man did drink rum
You promised US story, cousin Mari
an said Richard, glad to turn from pain
full subject; tell us about old times, like
those best
Tell about war; said James
About Indians said Fred.
About when you was little girl like
me- said Annie.
Tell us about something you never told
us BEFORE said quiet boy in one corner.
If the gifted Marian had one power in
perfection, it was that highly valued but
rare gift of telling stories. There was
long low seat in the kitchen, which they
called SETTLE 1t answered the purpose
of wood box and sofa in the winter even
ings, and being painted bright red and var
nished, it looked like good natured face
in front of the fire.
On this the children used to sit for hours
and listen to cousin Maran's enchanting
stories, which were usually the thrilling real
tiles of history dressed in her own glowing
thoughts. Sometimes she recited an old
fairy tale or some wild legend of early times,
but to night the white-puned dove laV low
ingly by her, and her eyes rested sadly on
its trembling breast, as it uttered those low
moaning sounds, which nothing on earth can
equal in plaintive sadness. Marian's heart
beat time to the mournfu notes, for there
were noble feelings striving against her wo-
mans fearfulness thoughts Of poor sufferers
in that wild storm, Of ftheir peril, and it might
be of their death. She rose resolutely and
said:
i am going to find those beggars.'
As she spoke she began to wrap a shawl
around her, while her lovely face glowed
ssl guqt1epus faeline Ss,,-.
Don't 90, pleaded 1tttle Annie, you'll
be all buried up in snow
God will take care Of me, ANNIE she an
swered, laying the Olue-eyed dove in the
child's lap.
You shall not 90 alone, cousin Marian,'
said Richard, whose better feelings we're
awakened by little reflection.
L. lon.o.r eoiI
rough boy as he was, he knew how to admire
her heroic resolution, and he knew the peril
of such an errand.
While they are hastily wrapping coats and
cloaks around them, we will follow the beg
gars on their lonely path.
Il
That house looked some like our old
home, didn't it, pa, said the pale, sad hear
ted girl, as she looked back on the lighted
house where shelter had been refused them
oh, how wish we were back where we
used to Iive,' she adde as the old man walked
: on silently.
You have forgotten, havn't you, that the
: : old place don't belong to US now he an
u swered, harshly don't worry about it, fo
;, we can't help it now
= Il know it, said she sadly, we have nc
u home any where
Oh, how mournfully those simple word
u were spoken, bearing the tale Of youns
= heart crushed and blighted, of young hope
ie chilled forever. It touched the heart of tn
:; hardened father, and he drew his motherles
III child close to his side, murmuring:
Poor dove, poor Isabel!
Y Az, the beggar-glrl bore that proud name
- and she had graced it in happier days, whe
Se /, her father was an honored and trusted maj
d When the noblest vessel on the broad lake
W. was his own. before rum had ruined goC
Y like intellect and wasted plincely fortun
ne 1t was dark now in those forsaken hear
lu even as on Gods earth, and their path wi
" lost. Faster came down the blinGing sno
NC and in their utter deSolation the wandere
% at last sat down, unable to proceed, and wei
as ry with exertion. And now the neglecte
u Isabel lay folded in the bosom of the fath'
er whose fallen fortunes she had so devoted
followed, and hot tears fell from his eyes
uu her pale face.
Isabel, darling, can you forgive me th
70 | have deprived you of love and home, al
II every thing on earthG can you forgive 4
vas for being drunkardT
al 'Oh, father, do not talk Of those thin
aI au- now; am happy in dying with you. I
Tue Tue dear, dear father.
an Shadowy phantoms gathered dimly rou
ioi' the repenting man, pointing far back TO
lost home and character, to the grave Of
I.eq broken-hearted wife, and to the fast closi
y ! eye-Iids of his gentle daughter. Brol
ery words of agony and coutrition, mingled "
ney the hollow dirge that the old trees sung
/. YER the dying.
T TA IsabePs eyes we're shut; the father kn
ney it BY bending his cheek down till it toucl
hers, and he felt almost glad that he I
1slo NS not the closing Of those gentle eyes, so
wa wa nv weary day sheir light had cheered
gMn rs since poverty and drunkenness had dri
Inc Li him out to beg for daily bread; they v
e up h.lovod lake and tbsv svsy Ioolsd L;r
OA him. Now they we're closed; the I
'!rn :ri Of her weary spirit Werc opened, and
glrl, saw such white winged angels as had o
A~e' HOated dimly through her dreams, and