Baltimore daily commercial. [volume] (Baltimore, Md.) 1865-1867, 1866-06-13
DAILY COMMERCIAL.
B ALTIM O RE, MD.
THE REBUkE.

was laboring man, his face brown with toll.
| All day long ne had been out in the hot sun
| upon the top Of house, Stating the roof
Sometimes his head was giddy and his back
| weak, buthe Strengthened himself with thoughts
| OF nome and the treasures there. And now
| at the sound of his feet, at sound of his
| voice dlmples break over smooth red cheeks.
| and LOVING fingers play with his curls. He
shuts his eyes to frame the picture in his heart
| the picture of his wife getting supper-the
picture of his prattling baby. He feels the
| cool of the evening, and all these things COM
| fort him, yet he is not quite grateful-not
| wholly; for to-day he saw another picture
that made him enviOus; rich Sam Marlowe
riding out with his wife and child-a handsome
| two; Sam, portly, contented and smiling, his
wife, with a dainty color in her cheek, and
| rich garments folded about her.
Gle and / were boys together" said the
poor man to himself, bending to his work
again; land see how Providence has blessed
him, though he began with almost nothing.
Now he keeps horses and a carriage, lives in
a beautiful house, has married fortune, and
with plenty Of leizure, can bring up his one
boy just as | have longed to my Tom. I, by
| marrying early and poor, have brought burdens
| upon Mary's shoulders that must be hard to
bear. Five little ones and only day laborer
yeti" and he sighed YEARLY.
his fellow laborers wondered what had come
over their usually merry friend; now had
brought that shadow home with him--the
phantom horse and rider, the envy and the
care.
"My Mary is a handsomer woman than his
wife,, he muttered, nursing his misery, land
yet she never knew rest. AS for taking her
out for drive, he ended the sentence with
a bitter laugh.
Moments passed, during which the cloud
grew thicker and heavier. A neighbor passing
| by, told of a strange disease that had lately
appeared IN their midst; the doctors called it
diptheria, she said, and it was a terrible and
fatal sickness. Then the door shut and the
voice faded away, but the something dreary
did not pass from the mans heart.
Suddenly there was a sound of alarm in the
bright kitchen.
Harry, come here
He arose slowly, and passed through the
door of plain little parlor.
His wife held the baby in her arms; the
other children were gathered anxiously about
"What can be the matter with him? He
seemed well enough till now. But his lips are
| blue, and suddenly he ceased play, and hear
| how he draws his breath! Harry, he is very
| sick you must go for the DOCTOR"
| Harry started at once; little Herbert was
| his idol--a most beautiful and attractive child,
| winning and lovlug-a very angel III the
humble home. 1t was not long before She
physician was in their midst. His first glanC
| was startling, his second grave. Herbert was
very i'll; the terrible sickness was upon him
in its most fearful form. All that night they
ministered to him in his agony, for they felt
| that in such struggles the little frail flower
would soon be broken from the stalk, though
shielded by tendereSt care. And, alas when
| morning broke in unclouded brightness, the
sweet face Of the babe was set towards it, but
it saw no light the spirit had gone to It's upper
home and left the house desolate.
| How long time elapsed no one knew in
| that household, for the hours passed UNDECIDED;
| but death came again and again, and Harry
| and his wife stood in their lone home desolate.
| The strong man was bowed to the earth with
agony. For a time his reason was threatened.
| He accursed God; he heaped curses on himself.
| II was envious Of another" he cried, land
| see how God has smitten me. o, give me
| back my children! Only give me the blessings
| Of my eyes, the jewels Of my heart, and III
| toll like slave-not only through the burning
| hours Of the day, but into the blackness and
| chill of midnight. | will live on a crust; |
| ask not for comtorts-hut give me my children,
| Lord, for | am bereftn'
| His wife, in the midst of her own grief tried
| to comfort him, but he, would not listen to
reason. tie saw only through the crowding
| earth, black with damps and horribly alive
| with insect vitality, the beautiful brows Of his
| five little children, hidden away from him
| forever and ever.
| While this sorrow was still fresh upon him,
| came letter postmarked England. His wife
| opened it, and learned that an uncle, of
| whom they had heard nothing for years, had
| died within a few months, and left her husband
| his heir.
Over the five graves OF his little children O
treasure of gold was ready to be poured.
| Harry listened with stony glance, What
| was wealth to him now? go, for Just one
loving smile from the blue-eyed baby. Take
the treasure, dear Lord, don't want it now
| rather give me a few feet of earth beside my
children. Heap up the gold, and put my little
Berry beside it, living, only for one hour let
| me feel his dear lips pressed to NINE, and for
| that choice l would barter every dollar. o
| for poverty, blessedpoverty, with ns childrenW
II say, Harry, do you know you're fast
| asleep in the dratt|'
| Bewildered, up into the thick bearded face
| of the speaker the laborer gazed.
| ''Well, haven't you word Of welcome for
| your brother? What do you see with those
| wild eyes of yours? Is the man crazy?'
| For Harry flung himself upon his knees and
with strong cries. thanked God again. Then
| he sprang up and wrung the hand of his sailor
brother-run past him, caught his wife and
| kissed her, and gathered his babies about him,
held them all to his strong, loving heart, while
great tears rolled down his cheeks. Then, as
his wife looked on wondering, frightened, he
cried in d choking voice.
Il dreamed they were all dead, Mary, all
dead; and l thank God that it was only
| dreadful dream. Never, never, shall | be
| envious again. O, Mary, too see them as they
| lay there''-and again he covered their smiling
| lips with kisses, sobbing in his joy.
And that was the way the repining husband
and father was led to give up envy and all
uncharitableness Truly, sometimes the Spirit
| doth come to instruct US in our dreams.
| GalIantry of The Horse.
| An English lady of rank and wealth, writing
from Egypt in 1862, said 81 fear you deem
me rather boastful of my Workmanship, when
| | tell you two Arab horses which threw their
1 Il NOT ba