The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1856-11-13

haHub ~ eAiOWh ouu q new Rdu0 IL
ranged between Mr.. Wardell and Black, the
wstch of the one being staked against the
gray mare of the ether. The middle-aged
man bitches his chair toward the jockey, and
prepares to watch him, as a cat does the mouse.
:" Go IN tother apartment, and help yourself
to something comfortable" calls Wardell to
Charley whats use a looking out there,
when all the flowers have got their eyes shet"
Charley says Re is not looking at anything
particular; he is thinking how the game will
go; and keeping his face toward the wall, be
goes noiselessly out of the room, stirs the fire,
and sits down. The cat jumps from the win
dow, and rubs her back against his legs, but
he does not notice her and the snow drifts
down before the lights of the window, and
lodges white on the sash, but he seems not to
see it, nor does he see the young woman who
stops, aud for a moment looks earnestly upon
him. The wind rumbles through the loose
clspboards, and means and blows and drives
its way through confined alleys and along the
open street, and his thoughts are carried away
In it to the comfortable homestead, where his
father and mother live, and where, the golden
ripples of her hair falling down her pill
low, his young innocent sister is lying, fast
aseep-dreaming of him, perhaps-of the
mellow red apples, and the streaked juicy ap-
Piles, he was used to bring home from the or
chard to her-of the nuts they have gathered
together in the windy autumn woods-(how
dark and dreary, and snowy, they lie now y or
it may be, of the shining bundles on the thresh-
ing floor, which many a time she has helped
him to unbind. He can see her smiling as she
dreams, and he can almost feel her soft hand
In his, and believe himself picking his way
among the flowers that quite hide the green
grass with their beauty, all through the hollow
where the orchard ends and the soping COW
pasture begins, her little bare feet tripping
lightly along, and leaving the fat dandelions
scarcely more fiat behind her steps than be-
fore them-the sheep, with their crooked-horn-
ed leaders in 'front.' run timidly before them
the crow flaps past, and calling as he goes,
away from the black stub, and the hawk lifts
his brown wings little higher above them,
while bluebird and blackbird whistle and twit-
ter in the low boughs close by. He feels the
wind softly winding about his neck, and play
ing with his hair, and he wonders if it is the
same wind that growls and rumbes and whistles
brokenly, as if it had forgotten the old times,
now; and then he wonders if he is the same
boy that used to go to bed at eight o'clock, and
sleep so well till the ROSTERS awoke him, and
the red and yellow daybresk was widening
above the eastern woods. All seems so quiet
and beautiful, he cannot understand if he be
the same boy that used to plough and NOW,
and sing as he ploughed and mowed-how it
came about that he is sitting in this dingy and
vile-smelling grocery. He looks at his feet, to
see If they be the ones that used to brush up
the sweetness from the red and white clover in
the morning meadows; and then he opens his
hands, brown and hard, and asks them, in
thought, if they be the hands that shook down
the apples, and dipped up the sweet cider, and
gathered the blackberries, and swung his little
sister in the grapevine swing under the green
maple tree. Was it a maple tree, or a walnut
He can't tell, nor whether it was on the hilltop
or half down the side. A confusion swims
through his head, and he almost thinks he is not
the same, when he hears, close by, market
wagon lolting along the rough stones. He turns
his face to the light, and watches for its ap-
proach the oil lamp in the window splits, and
blazes brighter for moment, and he distinctly
sees the team go blythe heads of the horses
are dropping, and they pull hard, loosening the
harness on their sides, they strain forward.
He sees a blue streak on the flank of the one
next him, where the chain has rubbed so hard
and so long-they are not too well fed, he feels,
and the load behind them is too much for their
strength, for the wagon creaks and the wheels
turn up and turn down, heavily, slowly. In the
front of the uncovered wagon he sees an old
man, sitting, his hands without mittens, and
the snow falling and melting on his homespun
drab-colored great coat; and he shudders to
think of the chill it may impart, for the old
man is his father.
Again he calculates, 90 Lordl" but in
lower voice than before-a voice that scarcely,
in truth, comes up out of his heart and so,
leaning his head on his hand, he straightens
the temple of his life, for he knows now that he
is Charles Highway, the boy who used to rise
so early and work so hard. He don't see the
bluebirds, nor the clover, nor feel the soft
wind-he thinks this he hears tonight is the
same he used to be acquainted with but he
feels the hot, burning sunshine as he swings
the heavy cradle through the wheat-his hands
blistered, and his coarse shirt wriDging with
sweat. He sees the Sabbath come, and in all
the neighbor fields the sickes and the scythes
hung up, but himself still STOPPING and swing
ing, or moving away the rough bundles that
now and then brush in his face, close under
the almost blazing shingles of the barn. He
sees the same scanty meals of pork and potatoes
go. before him, and before him, till he loathes
tie provision, and longs for a change. And
his mother he sses, too tired to smile, and too
anxious for getting more, to enjoy what is got.
He the basket of blackberries he has brought
home, moulding and wasting, because there is
no time to make pies, and no sugar to spare. |
And he sees the golden ripples of his sisters
puuCu anu JWlStcU ufluer u morn |
comb, and herself rubbing and scrubbing, who !
should be at school. He sees, plainly, the I'M
plastered garnet where he slept, and the wooden |
pegs where his coarse, Questionable clothing
hung. He can hear the echoes of the axe that |
felled the oak-knoitiest and hardest of all
and feel the aching soreness in his arm, as he |
thinks of the heavy and sp!intered maui. He |
cannot see the roses, nOw--nOt even the sweet |
briar that curtains his sisters window; but he |
sees the burdock growing high and bitter, the |
red, shining pokestalks, and the many other |
profitless weeds that used to grow in his IA
TIERS deor-yard. The rumble of his sisters |
spinning wheel 10 in his ears; punches of white
and gray rolls hang in the windoF, next the
sun and now and then a care-worn and unsui.
ling face looks out and he leans on his hoe
handle for a moment, in the hope she is going
to cali hirn home to supper; for his dusty feet |
are aching and bleeding with the briars that
are stuck under the nails; but the face disap-
pears directly, and the spinning wheel rumbles
on anew and, with grotesque shadow length.
ening away behind him, he digs his hard row.
he remembers the tilles he used TO come to
town, with bay and potatoes, and how every
body seemed tolive easily but himself, and thinks
of the contrasts he made, as he drove home the |
tired horses through the clouds of dust-a little
money in his pocket, that was not his money
how tired and discouraged and hungry he used
to be, as he stood all day ia the nlarketrplsce
the flies eating his horses, and bis heart eating |
ITSELF He remembers the last day, not many
months ago, on which he set out for market
the last time; he had a load of oats to SELL
a large load. He remembers all about it right |
well, and he feels something &c the old rebel |
lion rising up, as he thinks how his father taat !
day told him. anorilv the old hat was good 4