The spirit of democracy. [volume] (Woodsfield, Ohio) 1844-1994, 1866-11-20

urlVlnS rain, pluuSinS ankle aeep lnIo
the yielding soil at every step. About
halfway l saw something in the path
before me. 1t was little crimson stock
|ingl My heart leaped forjoy. Ned had
stolen her, and she kicked it from her
foot on the way; it was cruel in him to
frighten me SO. l wondered if he had
heard that silly wish of mine!
Half mile from the house I met him
and the men coming home to dinner. He
started forward the moment he caught
Isight of me. b W
i "Oh, Belll what's the matter? Is Lit
tie Pearl sick?" l1lgi
One glance at his white, startled face,
convinced me that my hope was vain; yet
cried out, angrily.
you've got the child, Ned, you know
you have-don't torture me any longer. I"
"Bell, what do you mean?"
"She's gone-Little Pearl. Ysu stole
her, Ned, to frighten me?"
''No, on my soul, Belll'
"Then she's gone; God has granted
me my wish. Obi my babyl my babyr'
1 was rushing past him, but he caught
and held me fast, commanding me to tell
him all-and I did. And then his after
words thrilled my soul with horror.
"The Indians! the Indians, boysl' he
cried, "they passed us you know! They
must have stolen her, Come!''
They followed him without word
and so did I. Over the spongy prairie
mud, the chill wind and driving rain
beating in our faces, through dense, drip
ping woods, down to the shore of the
river. We were too late. The last ca
noe was moored on the opposite shore.
God had granted me my wish. I had no
babyr
Little Pearl could not be found although
our efforts were ceaseless. Her crib re-
mained in its corner, with the impress of
her head on its pillow; but the little.
laughing face, that had looked up at us
from the depths of the coverllds, was
gone forever. l had ample time to per-
form all my household labor then. No
little, quivering cry to detain me when [
was busy; no clinging hands holding
mine, and keeping them idle. Ny wish
was granted me; had no baby!
The desolate, inconsolable sorrow of
the days that followed, no tongue can
portray; the tender longing. the sharp,
stinging remorse. But we lived and
worked, for life and labor must go on, no
matter how sore and weary our hearts
may be. At the end of FIVE years, Ned
looked round him on the ripe fruition Of
his most sangulne hopes, He had built
him up not only home, but name, in
this new country. We had pleasant
rooms, and luxurious furniture, and birds,
and flowers, and all the attributes that
go to make up happy home. All did l
say? Not alive were childless. Lit
tie Pearl had never come back, and God
had given us no other child to fill her
place; but we desired no other, our grief
for her loss being dearer and more sacred
than any new love could ever have been.
] Poor Ned, that unforgotten sorrow, to-
gether with his arduous duties, made him
an old man before his time; the silver
threads were thick on his temples, and
the burrows on his forehead deeply cut;
when we went back on a visit to our old
home, the friends Of his youth did not
recognize him, His life had lost its i'm
pelling aim and motive.
One night, in the great city, we were
returning from the opera, when voice
startled US.
"Please, sir" it said, "a penny to buy
a loaf"
1t was mid-winter; the pavements were
glazed with ice, and the countless stars
overhead glittered in the cold, blue sky,
like so many points of steel. | was
dreaming of my home in the far West, and
longing for the hour of my return tc
come. A strange feeling Of tenderness
t bound me to the spot where I lost my
Little Pearl. 1 could not bear to be away
! from it, because of foolish fear that she
might come back, and not be there tc
welcome her.
The slender, pleading voice broke il
upon my reverie; and glancing out at th'
carriage window, l saw a small, childish
figure, and tiny hand, blue and stiff
t with cold.
"Stop the carriage, Ned; shan't Close
f, my eyes tonight, if we pass that child.
> My husband started up from shis hal
: doze and obeyed me.
t "What do you want?" he asked, kindly
Q bending over and taking the child's han'
in his.
! IA penny, please, sir, to buy a loaf 70
I granny; she's sick"
: Ned took silver piece from his pock
ct, but caught his arm before he drop
: ped it into the little, waiting hand. Some
0 thing in the soft, blue eyes, looking u
: SO pleadingly in the winter starlight
thrilled my heart to its inmost core.
; yearned to clasp the little .shivering forr
to my breast, to stroke back the tangled
t golden hair, from the pallid, ,want-pinche
e face.
0 "Take her up, Ned" entreated; ssh
Y will freeze if we leave her here" !.
And good-natured Ned, who never de
o nieG me thing in his life, complied
D Down dark and unfrequepted streets int
s one of the lowest haunts of vice an
poverty; then she guided US up lon
t. fight of stairs into ehecrless attic. A
old woman lay upon heap of straw, he
I face wearing that cold, grayish hue whic
J. is the unmistakable precursor of death.
"Have you Gomez she questioned, ca
1 gerly, as we entered; "gi' me the loafl''
Il The child ran to her side, and bega
r; to stroke back her gray hair.
II "a good lady and gentleman's come,