Marshall County Republican. (Plymouth, Ind.) 1856-1878, 1870-10-06
Stltfteo Storp.
A SCHOOL TEACHERS STORY.
One OF the Tragedies OF the Great
Fresnet.
DE LIZZIE A. s. CHESTER

Had any one asked me If was acQuaint-
ed with Emily, 1 should have replied,
Very well, indeed" Emily and l had
taught in the same school for nearly two
years We-had sat at the same table and
occupied the same room. We had inter-
changed our thoughts and opinions freely.
We had read, studied and sung together
We had sometimes dressed alike. Emily
had told of the people whom she had known
and had acquainted her with the few who
had ever lighted or dar kened my pathway
We were what the girls in our school cali
ed very intimate friends. Yet it came
about one evening that found had not
known Emily at all.
have since sometimes wondered how
many of those people whose paths have at
different times run close by my own, and
whose words and deeds have been inter-
linked with mine, know much about
When 1 remember that to know what a
person Is now, without considering how
circumstances have wrought on his char
acter, or to judge one by his external acts,
ignoring the inward movings, the tempta-
tions, the trials, the failures, or successes,
that have given birth or shape to the out
ward act, Is to follow superficial obserya-
ton rather than acquaintance, then the
people chat know seem very few.
But thought that was acquainted with
Emily. l understood her temperament and
disposition as IL was then, perfectly.
knew that her home had once been among
the hills of one of our western counties.
knew well how that home looked for En-
lily had often described it to me. She was
much in the habit of calling my attention
to little story and halt cottages with plain
yards. and pointing out fheir similarity to
the one which had been her home. She
spoke OF il as hers still.
See, that is like cur house IN the porch
over tho front door," or "that grapevine
trellis in the yard is like ours" she would
say.
knew that Emily had never had broth
er or sister and that her mother had died
three or four years before met her. Stand
ing under the trees in one of those rare
June twilights when the invisible world,
where those wait who have gone before,
seems very near. Emily had talked with
me of her mother, aud pictured the peace
ful closing of her life for me knew that
her.father was living, and that he wrote to
her sometimes, but she never mentioned
the contents of his letters. She spent her
vacations in the little room which she and
shared during term time, or she visited
here and there among friends. Her father
1t was one Sabbath evening that learn
ed more; the evening of the Sabbath pre-
eediDg the great October freshet. We had
attended two services in church that day
and aftefward been reading. As the dark
ness came on we closed the books and sat
thinking The rain beat heavily and drear-
lily against our windows aud on the plank
sidewalk below. The trees in the ward
groaued and creaked, and gave forth all
those varying mournful sounds, which the
east wind has always trick of playing on
half-decayed old trees Our room, was
damp and chilly. We had built FIRE. hop-
ing to make it more cheerful, but the fire
wouldn't burn. We coaxed it with bits OF
paper, kerosene, and matches 1t went
out persistently. The stove was a new.
fashioned one. and Emily and I are accu.
stoned to old-fasbioned things. Finally
We gave up the FIRE and wrapped our shawls
about Us.
L sat in the rocking chair with my feet ON
the low stove hearth, and Emily was on
the floor by my side. We love to lay by
ths school teaching dignity, which clings
10 Us stiiny through our working hours,
and be children when we are at horne.
EInily's favorite seat is on the floor by INV
side, sometimes leaning her head back
against my knee.
We had not spoken for some minutes
that evening, when became convinced
that she was softly crying. Tears were
unusual IN our room. put my hand down
to her. and she grasped it tightly; then
turned and laid her face in my lap Sob
ping.
1T seems to me on such nights as this
that L can't bear my trouble and hive. Per.
sis, she said.
1 could not ask her what her trouble was:
but L laid my hand on her forehead and
stroked back her hair. She understood
the motion.
The wind, the rain, and the dark al.
ways bring it all back, and / can't help il. >
said she, looking up at the window where
the wind was driving the rain most fierce.
~. 1T Is about my father, Persis, and ]
cam bear to tell you what he is. because
he Is my fathe1."
shan't write out here all that followed
for the world has heard the story which
drunkards wives and daughters have Ia
tell until it has grown impatient at the re-
hearsal. 1t has all leisure to listen to fine
spun sentimentality, tears for the victims
OF supersensible sorrows, and admiration
for the heroic men and women who sacrific
their happiness to hair-splitting theories in
regard to right and wrong; but the trials of
drunkard's family have become an old
and tiresome story; moreover, q SAVIOR OF
grosspess very unwelcome to person of re-
hned sensibillties clings to them. So. as
said before, will not repeat all those
words which seemed to me SO full of pa
th0s.
Emily told me how happy her childhood
was, how full of love and hope; and then
how the blight came, first upon her moth
er's life and then upon her own. That
mother ad0re6 her husband, and raised
MIN to an eminence m her thoughts Just
below her Makers and when he fell she
ssood face to face with the ruins and could
neither doubt nor deny longer, all her
strength went out OF her. She became one
OF those care-worn, broken-hearted vo-
men, whom, since the curse of intemper-
ance doubled itself In our land, We may
little sympathy or consolation, since their
sorrow Is such common sorrow.
My father was man of natural refine
ment Of feeling" said Emily at one time,
''but he sometimes treated this angel wo-
man, whose life had became but sacrifice
willingly offered to him, with the grossest
cruelty. Then came the reaction, when
mis- melancholy frightened us. Those were
the days In which the blood would leave
my mothers face at the swapping of the
fre, or the cracking Of dry twig in the
yard, and she would say, THAT noise was
not pistol report, was it, Emily?"
Those were the evenings in which Hhe
never retired until after my father was
asleep, when she carried her lamp into the
bedroom softly, aud carefully slipped her
band round under my fathers pillow. She
allowed one to sit mp with her while she
served, and at these times / used to stand
at the bedroom door and watch her With
bated breath j should never have been
surprised to see the steel Of knife flash