The Lancaster ledger. [volume] (Lancaster, S.C.) 1852-1905, 1854-06-14

up her untold power for good, to IL life of
empty pleasure Painted butterflies may
fit awhile in the sunshine, and be gone but
the few days of glitter and pageant leave
crampcd heat dark and desolate. Regard
less Of self, unseehing Tor praise, unlocking
for gratitude will do what can for the
worlds good if sorrow comes not to me, |
will seek it, and relieve it, and may Heaven
help me, should he5the resolve of Il noble
woman, upon the bSginning of her worlds
experience. Many ysneh women there are !;
some, like Mary r.. made so by sorrow !;
but ah, how many, bow very many, when
they that look out Of the windows arc dark.
ened, turn, with NO nncr gladdeucd eye, up
on the hearts neglected resources.
The rest of our story we tell after the
fashion of storytelling.
In an obscure tenement, in the suburbs of
C., James r., was dying. Twas only four
o'clock, yet the streets were already tighten.
cd, for it was cold, dark and gloomy Not
a sunbeam had gladdened that death-room
the whole day long. Gray masses of fclouds
were tossing about the sky the winds whis-
tied round the corners of the streets, and
now and then an Uminuus snowflake melted
night that followed Rich mems children
clustered round their pleasant home ircsidrs,
while their fathers wrapped their welLfurrcd
| cloaks about them, and hurried Oh before
the blast. But God save the poor on such
i" night, who shiver oyer their dying embcrs,
or shake, in hunger and rags, before the rich
mans door. Oh, there's gladness enough
and to spare, in many house; and why
withhold it from tho poor and needy!
So thought James r., as his eyes wan-
dcrcd round his cheerless room, and rested
anon en- his wife, who, "wcary and. worlr,"
toiled for bread, over the Sieepipg infant in
her lap. She was bst wreck OF the beau.
nful Mary r. Of the woodland haunt.
Time and care and sorrow had robbed
Ier checks of their roses, and made hard
| lines round her once dimpcd mouth. The
ringlcts were gone, and silver threads way-
ed on her pale brow. Her fingers were thin
and blue, her checks piichcd, her whole air
that Of struggling poverty and sorrow, Yet
there were still left traces OF the old Mary
i'm the earnest depths of hcr dark eyes,
now so very large, and that look of saddcncd
resignation so beautiful in the homeless or
phan, and far mere eloquent in the sorrow
stricken wife and mother. Death had set
his seal on her also, seen in the hectic flu sh.
occasional spasm of pain, short breath, and
hollow cough. The mother felt it, and
dropped hot tears on the cheek of her al
most orphaned boy.
The father saw it, "Poor Mary you'll
soon follow me-" saii he. "And oh, when
die, carry our child to my father. He
could not spurn dying woman! he could
pot shut his door upon that innocent little
bIbc, though il be so like its frtherr The
woris died upon his already half-palscd
tongue Mary spF,ng to his bedside Her
gentle assiluities rallied once more the vi
tai spark and, calling for his boy, the father
laid his thin hand upon his baby head, and
sent up one ag ,nihcd petition to the or
phan's friend; then, turning to Mary, he fall
tered out" That little song once more,
Mary, The song of our woodland haunt"
The poor wif,'s heart was breaking, every
breath we'll nigh subjected her, yet she
could do aught for him she loved; and she
sung that song, sang it with voice sweet and
clear, IA in olden time. But oh, where were
he bright hopes and light heart of Wood-t
land Mary.
The dying man fixed his glazed eyes fond
| ly on her; once his wan face lighted up with
tho shadow Of the smile Of other days.
Poor Mary" he faltered the smile vanish
cd, and with it passed toa better world the
freed spirit Of JamesR.
| Two days Of sunlessncss and dreariness
without, equallcd not the snnlesaness and
dreariness within that lone room, whence
were borne out, at their close, all that was
dear on earth, save her child, to poor Mary
Ri
The third evening found her on her way
to Mr.. Rs, with her child.
| Let US now lOPk lntO blF. IL cosy DarlOr,
where we meet the stern man, and his pale,
suffering wife. The wood fire was mostly
burned out yet still he crouches over the
dying embers, and rubs his hands anon, as
a fresh burst Of wind whistles against the
easement. Oh! it is a pitiless December
night; there is no mercy in the sharp sleet
that comes, pat, pat. against the window
paDes, while the blast whistles shrilly
through every crack and Granny.
"a sorry night this, for poor wayfarers,' =
at length remarks Mr.. r. 10 his pale wife in
the conner A tear starts 10 her eye and the
rebuked man drops bis hesd on his breast
and rubs his hands most vigorously. His
mind is ilTat ease. That silent tear barbed
afresh the arrow ranking in his heart
Their thoughts wers alike with their cast
of child, perchance that moment wealth.
er-heaten wayfarer. Never, since James r.
hsd been thrust from the threshold OF bis