Keowee courier. [volume] (Pickens Court House, S.C.) 1849-current, 1858-11-27
"No Sorrow Like Mine. y

iN SO HhTu SO cruel. Sulu tho
young mother, and here a sub broke into her
voice; she clasped her hands over her ewes.
and the tears broke through lier fingers
such salt bittor tears us could only break up
from mothers hGart--a mother robbed OF
her first born
Two weeks ago that very day he had been
with her in the chamber whore the Young
mother now sat in darkness and desoiation.
the little Joyous head Huttcring about the
room, tie little restless feet pattcring along
the floor, and the little glad voico breaking
up in quick shouts of laughter, or lisping out
those pretty broken words and entreaties
which are such sweet music to mothers
heart; and now -
There stood in tho corner q little crib, with
its pretty lace curtains, and over it hung the
snowy apron aud embroidered merino dress
he had last worn, and at the foot lay the lit
tie morocco slippers that the mother cauI Init
have removed from her sight, though the feet
that had worn thcm now lay folded close to-
gcthcr, and down so deep under the grass
that no warmth of the sunshine could ever
reach them.
DON'T, Mary, don't 1t might have been
worse Remember there are sorrows greater
than yours" saii the soft, pityng voice Of
Ms. Howard, the lady's most intimate friend
who was passing tho morning with Ecr.
| The stricken woman looked up in iugrcdu-
l0us astcnishmcnt that checked for moment
the flow of her tears. "IIow can you tell
nc this. 2" she exclaimed in voice
broken with gricf0nd wounded fcclings; che
was my only 10y, my little Harry, with but
two years and Eve months over his golden
head and loved him so; and then don't
believe there ovorwaS another quite so pretty
and bright child.
You knew, too how my very heart WAS
bound up in him; how, if ever ran out for
| an hour. | WAS never easy until | got back to
him again; and how used to watch him az
ter he'd got to sleep in the crib there, with
ono little chubby hand wrapped up like
lily under his check, and the smiles crimp-
ing up his red lip and then, just to think of
his pretty, frolicksomc, teasing way, that
made me stop every other minute and hug
him up to my heart, and cover his face with
kisses. Oh, Harry, my baby, my precious
baby shall never sec you again Surely,
Helen, there never was sorrow like unto my
| sorrows" and the sobs broke out again
Yes, Mary, there was" and Mrs. How
| ards solemn tones checked the tears of her
friend. ''l know of sorrow with whose
bitterness yours bears no comparison. and it
has como into our family unto my own and
only sister, for lcr pride, hor idol, her Her
! bert is in prison !"
"Oh, Helen y cried Mrs Sprngue, spring
ing up from her chair, while she looked at
the pale, working features of her friend,
chow you horrify mel"
81 cannot talk Of it, Mary or it will drive
me, as it has his mother, frantic. You Saw
him in his childhood and can you remember
what a beautiful promising boy he was; but
he was impctuouS, and fond of society and
all sorts of fan, and his mother was ioting
and indnlgcnt; and so he grew up to his sew
! cntccnth birthday. reckless and sclEwillcd.
/ Mo-, Il L.. I. l.
malicious.
must make my story short-he fell into
bad company. and bad habits; and ore night
when intoEicatcd he was pcrsuadcdto join
some inccndiarics The ringlcadcrs were
detected, and The boy was scntenced to a ycar
in the penitcntary, which might have been
ten, only his youth plead hard with the kind
| Ted Judge; and now he lies down in fc-
Ions cell, while his poor Erokcn-hcaried
mother PAGES hcrroom, with thetcars stream
ing down her wastcl checks as she means
over and over these words: If lie bad died
when he was baby If he had died thcnp"
And s. Sprngue listened to this story
| with mingled horror and sympathy. which
made her forget her own grief and at its
close she said solemnIy: eyes. Helen. her
sorrow is creator than mine. L had ten thou
sand times rather Harry had died than lived
for this"
And for you, OH stricken mother, who
have laid down with such heart-aches as God
boSt knowcth, the child of your love. do
write this history.
Thoye is & 8OrT0w that is heavier than
deaths the sorrow Of sin and shame and
from this the little one, over whose bosom is
set the green seal of the summer grass is
forever delivered The child walks in that
blessed county where no disgrace shall ever
scar its soul or crimson its cheek, and bitter
as the cup appointed you to drink. it will not
bring to your soul that sting which some
times causes n mother to cry out for her child
"Would he had dicdW
BE comforted, you who have given mp the
sweet, fragrant blossoms of your lives to a.
dorm the garden Of your God 1t may be, if
your hands roll away the curtains of the fu-
turc year, so that you could behold what
awaited your beloved on earth, you would
| say: 1T is better that God had called
them"
PRETTY GooD.-A good story about the
Tribune iunatics is current in newspaper
circles. 1t appears that Judge Clarke, of
the Superior Court, recently gave public
utterance toan opinion shared, one may
remark, en- possant by quitca number of
his contemporaries, and large portion of
the COMMUNICATING "the editors of the
Tribune were regarded by him as no better
than lunatics" Soon after that expression,
Mr. Ripley one of the editorial corps of
that journal, was summoned before the
court to act as Juror. Now, it being un-
pleasant for the Rev. Mr.. Ripley to leave
his literary duties, to listcnto the (perhaps)
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