Orleans independent standard. [volume] (Irasburgh, Vt.) 1856-1871, 1860-07-27

vi hac bdAN MANU-
80, John, it aint anything about Reu-
benz She cried out the words as one
might if a sword had struck suddenly
into his heart.
Rebecca had sat still at the table, her
sweet face struck white with wonder
and fear, and her brown eyes fastened
on her parents; but now she sprang up,
and dropped down on her knees at the
deacon's feet: 30, father, do say it isn't
Reuben and her voice was like her
mothers. The deacon opened his lips,
but he could not speak. He took the
hands Of his wife and child, and covered
them with his own trembling ones. 30,
Lord, have mercy upon US 7 groaned the
stricken man, and then they knew.
Mrs Palmer crept up to her husband,
and whispered in faint, broken voice,
Just say my boy isn't dead, father. /
can bear to hear anything else
And the deacon made no answer; but
the great tears fell down his furrowed
cheeks, and it was enough.
The tidings of the disastrous battle at
Long Island, which closed the summer
of seventeen hundred and seventy-six,
had filed the land with mourning, for
thousands of widows and orphans had
been made in that terrible hour when so
many brave Americans lay dead on the
battlefield, and the news of the success
full skirmish which took place the follow
ing month near Kings Bridge, in New
York, was everywhere hailed with glad
ness and gratitude, and the little vii
lage of Woodstock bore its part in the
general rejoicing on that autumn night
when the stage first brought in the ii
! dings.
The deacon's family was the only one
in Woodstock to whom the news brough
any sorrow, for it was in this engagement
that Reuben had fallen. He was a grea
, favorite throughout the village, and
, every heart was filled with sadness wher
it thought on that bright, handsome fac'
| lying stark and rigid on the battlefield.
Ii was late that evening when Parsol
: Hunter entered the stricken house, 70
friends and neighbors feared to intrud
on its awful grief But the tender-heart
5 ed old minister could not rest till he ha
carried the sweet balm of his love an,
!, faith into their broken hearts.
Parson Hunter was a tall, white-haire
old man, fine representative of tn
stanch old Puritan minister, but beneat
i. some stateliness and austerity of manne
beat a heart where were all fair an
fragrant blossoms, and golden fruits {
charity and love heart in whose plea.
ant goodly paths the angels loved to wal
with their shining faces, and of whol
they wrote, 'Of such is the kingdom
heaven
> The minister found the family in ii
kitchen, where we left it, utterly crushe
down by grief which expressed itse
neither by moans nor tears.
- Mrs. Palmer sat in the large arm-cha
" before the fire, where her husband hs
placed her, the crimson light futterir
over her face, which seemed frozen
n- stone, and her fearless eyes fastened in
ID blank gaze on the wall, and it was We
ro perhaps, that alarm for her reason or b
1t, life had somewhat diverted the though
IN of the deacon and his daughter from Il
oe dead to the living, though it seemed
the minister that the last hour had do
er the work of years on both of them.
nd My friends said the minister, spea
D. ing in his deep, solemn tones, | shou
not have come into your house of mour
= ing tonight. feeling that the Lord cou
90 speak to your hearts better than l b
gh [ remembered that it was twenty-fo
at years ago this very month when y
'ut brought Reuben up to the altar to de
cate him to his God, and / felt tina
re had right and title to come
ur And these words unlockd Mrs. Paine
face. She turned suddenly towa
an the old man as the vision of d
m. Sabbath morning rose and walked
ID its long path of years and stood
for fore her.
lry Il see him see him ? she sobl
nd out, with the little brown curls dane
round his face, and the merry blink
us under them. My little Reuben he '
his the sweetest baby that ever gladder
ing mothers heart, and | was so proud
her him, and thought God would spare |
to to be the staff of his mothers old a
lrd, because had given all the others TO
o, Parson Hunter, IT can't be true I
we'd / shall never look into his face agi
the never bear the sound Of his voice, |