Orleans independent standard. [volume] (Irasburgh, Vt.) 1856-1871, 1864-06-03
Mary Clark's Christmas.

belfry Of the old North Church that
swayed to and fro, vibrating to the
guiding hand of a boy of fifteen
He was notalone in the rough tower
overlaid with rough huge beams
there were two lads besideshimself
(there had been thr e but Edgar
Clarke had gone, two sturdy fellows
with rough exteriors, but honest
faces.
i say, boys, l don't believe Ed.
can raise a turkey tomorrow, his
father drinks so, said the bell-ring-
er. He didn't have one last Christ
mas, | know, and | move to buy him
one; I'll put my part towards it.
Agreed, said the others. Eds
a tip-top fellow, and it's a shame old
Clarke should be what he is. He
looks like a gentleman, but he acts
like fool
Then We'll get a small one and
send round said the bell-ringer,
whose name was Charlie Morse,
they've only three; it won't cost
much
Edgar Clarke was known to have
a very unhappy home. His mother
in her youth had seen but little sor-
row, for she was the idol of rich pa
rents. She married Thomas Clarke
for his handsome face, and fine tai
ents, and for a few years lost none
Of the comforts of her youth. But,
unfortunately, her husband became
associated withreckless companions,
and deserted his home for more than
doubtful places of resort.
The affection Of his wife, the beau
ty of his child, were not powerful
enough to win him from the course
he had chosen, so when Edgar was
fourteen, a slender, sickly lad, for
want ofnourishment and care, Thorn
as Clarke was q wretchedly dissipa-
ted man.
At nine that evening three boys
were seated in the belfry tower, one
of them Edgar Clarke.
What are you going to do to
morrow ?'asked Charlie Morse of one
lof the boys.
Nothing in particular was the
reply, except to enjoy tip-top din
ner. [ always find a little present
in my stocking, Christmas morning.
| | wonderwhat it will be tomorrow ?
Edgar Clarke sighed heavily,
though almost umconsciously. His
heart swelled with a hopeless sense
Of his own poverty. There was
nothing for his dinner tomorrow,
but bit of cold meat, with perhaps
few potatoes. How he longed
again to cata sufficient meal-no
matter what it was. 1t took nearly
all his money, and all his mothers
earnings, to pay the rent. small as it
was. He turned away as he sigh
ed, and hurried down from the bel
| fry, and still, with a choking feeling
in his throat, wended his way home
ward.
I'D just as lief it would snow or
rain tomorrow as not he said to
himself as heneared the mean ten
ement where the faint light in one
corner told Of aweary woman stitch
ing, often into the dark midnight, to
buy food, and scant clothing. Ed
gar tumbled up the broken stairway
into the badly lighted room. Two
small apartments were called home.
In one of them, tonight the misera-
BILE father had stretched himself on
the bed to sleep off the effects Of a
drunken debauch.
20, Edgar, I'm glad you've come :
said a pale, sweet-faced woman as
he entered. Somehow I'm getting
afraid your being outnights-besides
feel lonely after dark, particularly
on Christmas eve. She stopped
lower, and wiped the tears away,
but she found it difficult to control
her feelings, and in another minute
she was sobbing aloud.
why, motherr cried Edgar in al
arm. 1t was the first time he had
ever seen her so moved.
i can't help it, Edgar. Isuppose
I'm weak and nervOus-but O! /
always dread Christmas. Last
Christmas eve my little Benny laid
there on that table; the Christmas
before sweet little Jenny, that | low
ed as | loved my life; and always
the Christmas bells have chimed over
my grief, and disappointments, ever
since | was first married. You can't
tell, my dear, how | have dreaded
this Christmas, and L have expected
every moment that something had
happened to you. Thank God
you are safe. If only your father
- she stopped, overcome again, not
knowing the drunkard in the other
room had lifted himself upon his ell
bow, and was listening with a greedy
ear.
Never mind mother said Edgar,
trying to speak with eheerfuIness