Wilmington journal. [volume] (Wilmington, N.C.) 1844-1895, 1868-12-25
Written Expressly for the Journal.
THE SPIDERS NEST.
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
BY pR. J. BRYAN PURCELL.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER I.
COTTAGE-GRENOBLE.
A CIIRIsTMAs STORY.

From the white thorn the May flower sheo
| It's dewy fragrance round our head
| Not Ariel lived more merrlly g. aasf
Under the blossom'd bough than we;
Not MANY miles from the mouth Of the
st. Johns river, Florida, lived very
wealthy planter, Robert de Kimberly
His family consisted of a fond and beauti-
full wife, mono truer or tenderer, and a
lovely child, sweet bird that warbled all
the day long on it's mothers bosom. A
retinue of slaves was ever in attendance.
Nothing was wanting to add to the worldly
pleasure of master or mistress. The slaves
loved them, and this fidelity was always
rewarded by bright smiles, kind looks, and
q heartfelt interest in their welfare. All
at the plantation was JOY. The negroes
toiled and sang, and, with the music Of
the banjo when their task was done,
danced away the moonIit eve. De Kim
berly was contented. He surveyed his
fields, and saw his servants all happy, and
he was happy. He turned to his faithful,
genial partner, who to him was dearer than
life, and through her eyes watched the III
nocent, sympathetic rays of love contained.
received, reflected. Entwining the little
arms round her mothers neck was the
greatest, sweetest tie that binds the man to
woman. In Summer season he resorted to
his cottage-grenobie within hearing dis
lance of roaring, angry, storm-lashed, foam
ing Atlantic. Here becoming luxury and
blissful quietude held their carnival. 1t
was the modest haunt OF peace, which even
the hoarse groWl of the ocean did not
alarm. The surrounding was that of u
valley land, in autumn ripe with yellow
fields, and adorned with citron-t trees and
orange. Troops of reapers carolled their
harvest hymns, and joyfully piled the
bright s1ckles. On the little mountain
slope they seemed pretty picture, full of
grace and harmony. The golden strands
of st. Johns cleaned in the distance, and
what appeared to me snoW-capped crags,
or knobs tipped with silver. The West was
flooded with all the beauties of a Southern
sunset. The notes of the toilers reach
my enravished ears, and
"As, in bare fields. the searching bees,
Pilot to blossoms beyond cur finding,
They led me on. by sweet degrees,
joys simple honey-cells unbinding; ;"
They were happy sights, and happier
sounds. Then no heart was sick. No
breast was aching. No love was lorn.-
No chilly fright of darkening news from
bloody strife crept over the palpitating
bosom. No discontinued home. No fearful
trial. The thunder of the hostile cannon
was issuing forth no reyerberations. The
red cross was not seen in the sky. The
sword was deep in its scabbard. No bowls
of the conflict. All was laughter. No
No ready indignation. All was civil. No
great exploits were those of fraternity. The
laurel was that of emulation in doing for
ones country the greatest good No dire
full fury rose but the ringing cheer of well
come. No jaundiced look, but the gentle
looks of love. All wore the gladness of q
cheerful aspect. No want stalked abroad.
All was smiling plenty. The grape vine
trailed, and was not trampled. The weary
and unmarked sons of Var were the
gleesome children of Peace.
Cottage Grenoble reflected the bright
side of the picture. 1t was in the centre
of sun-lit orange grove. Around it were
seen many sequestered dells, to which the
youthful excursionists found their way
Many were entertained by the princely
owner. The unsullied beauty of the land
scape freshened the sight with the vernal
paintings of Gods lone artist, nature. The
woody wales, and the whole sylvan scenery,
intersected here and there with sparkling
and leaping streamlets the Cabling geese
on the lawn or in the pool the loud quack-
ing ducks the gnarled oaks, with their
outspreading branches the brightning
garden of roses ; the pigeons flying and
lighting and cooling ; the blooming, gay
lilacs, and the neat cottage itself
all bespoke bliss sublUnary that cheers
the soul with every human delight. Could
mortal find a sweeter estivation The in
terror of the cottage was as bright as all
without. 1t was the abode of pleasure,
not in excess, but as dictated by pure
mind. It was the home of the heart. In
it every touch of love was felt, and ecstatic
joy did shine on all. The we'll stocked
library, the nice drawing room, the neat
parlor, the comfortable dining hall, told
the friendly circle that here was social in
corruption: Happy thoughts. Happy
smiles. Happy hearts. You found all
these at Grenoble. No wonder, then, that
De Kimberly basked in the sun of felicity.
The struggling beggar always found him a
ready helper. None was ever turned from
his door cold or hungry. He would press
his darling cherub daughter to his heart,
and would say, "May my angel never
want" Aud then with Hood would sing,
how
tit was pitiful!
Near whole city full
Home she had none"
The child would prattle about the poor,
and the weary and the heart-sore. The moth
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