The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1870-10-20
MY STORY.
BY S. $. STONE.


How could that man in the store tell me
this with such a stolid air, and then put up
that brown parcel for that brown calico
woman rs inditferently as if it was of no con-
sequence in the world?
'sIm looking for a letter." said Brown
Calico, sleepily, ''folks been gone nigh :,
fortnight.'
Talking spell with the Old man. ain 7
they9' inquired Jones, evidently finding her
the more interesting Of the two.
eyes, but | says to Sairy Ann"
| never heard what. went out of the store,
SO full Of disappointment and disgust that
had to stop and wonder which way to turn.
My rapid walk in the bracing October air,
imagination had coniured up in regard to
that mythical letter, which now seemed likely
never to have q being had put me into a
state of excitement that could not be cooled
down all at once, and there was no safety
valve at hand to carry it off.
''Walt for the train" was my first thought,
but the track looked hopelessly suggestive of
cars in the distance. did not care to sit
with Mr. Jones and be catechised respecting
my past, present and future; the messy rock
al the elevation in the road was picturesque,
but decidedly cool at 4 O'Clock in the after
noon; and wondering for the twentieth time
that a forlorn little country store should be
nestled in the midst of so much beauty,
toiled up the ascent weary and dispirted-
verify wishing that | could have plunged
suddenly into the Office whence the expected
letter was to emanate. and grasp the delin-
quent by the hair OF his head to bring him to
y realizing sense of what he owed to society
in general and me in particular,
OF course, the creature was not responsible
for the delay of the ears; but for a week |
had daily taken this trip of mile-quite to
the amusement Of the family, who began to
laugh and hint at the attractions of Mr.. Jones :;
whose attractions consisted in not having n
wife. and living where men were scarce and
women plenty. The mystery of the letter
was not the least delightful part of it; and
would not have the postmark and handwrit-
inc seen for fear of endless questions and
tcasings about my gentleman correspondent.
For | was spending those golden October
days with friends who shared their cares and
pleasures with me, and expected the same in
return but III this matter | was an arch
hypocrite, for it was my pet secret-brooded
over, and jcalously guarded from every ap-
proach. l had been trying my wings little
out in the world, and it remained to be seen
whether l should fall to the ground hopeless
ly crushed, or soar away, on cloud of fame.
to some height quite inaccessible to ordinary
minds
OF course had been writing; and al
most thought that no one had ever done it
before. For u month or more | had been
drinking in the beauty that lay around me-
the beauty Of hill and stream and changing
leaves and autumn sunsets-until it seemed
to me that it would be quite despicable to
live such life and only eat and drink and
sleep in the ordinary way. so, in a wild,
delirious thirst for fame (and truth compels
me to add, for money also,) | put pen to
paper, with what | fully believed to be the
sudden Inspiration Of slumbering genius, and
the result was actually Il story 1t had an
orthodox beginning, middle and end with a
hero and heroine, conversations amusing, in
structive and pathetic, and an astonishing
number of chapters and pages. Indeed |
was amazed at the swiflness with which it
grew beneath my hand, and in my Ignorance
considered this IN additional recommended
ton.
| wrote it by snatches, for some of the fam
lily was always hunting me up and comment
ing on my iondness for solitude; and | had
read it so often to myself that l almost knew
it by heart. aimed high, and having select
ed popular periodical, sent it off with a
modest note, ia which the editor was favored
with my address and requested speedy an
swer. That was two weeks ago, and no
answer yet
1t was too provoking. when this was Sat
urday, to be told that the mail was not in,
for | must now wait until Monday before |
had another chance. The post-ollice was a
mile of, and as | was the only ono who ex-
pected anything. none of them would take
the trouble to make a second visit.
ANY letter." as approached the house.
shook my head with q feeling Of bitter
ness as | reflected that it was harder for me
than any Of the rest. People who 90 for
letters are always looked upon as in meas
ure responsible for their nom arrival; and as
| had often had the feeling myself, | was not
surprised to see that they regarded me as an
incompetent letter-man.
The day closed in, and that delightful time
which old-fashioned people called "early
candle-lighting" arrived-the hour of the
whole twenty-four when it was so charming
to draw costly up to the table-lamp and open
letters, papers and books that have ust ar
rived.
We We're rather nice looking party at
Mill Edge-plenty of bright eyes and checks,
and quick, merry tongues, with an unbound
cd capacity for enjoyment. Dear Mrs Dar-
Bile, too was so kind and hosptable, and the
open wood fire was lovely, filling the room
with dancing shadows; but | was moodily
pining after my letter, and rejecting on the
base ingratitude of the editor to whom had
sent my treasured story.
II do believe that's Fred" said some one,
starting up ''.Just like him to come n day
or two before he is expected"
Mrs. Darble rushed to the door at the
sound of footsteps on the crisp garden walk,
and suddenly remembered that had total
lv forgotten the existence of the eldest hope
of the family, whom had never seen. He
was always away at college when Imade my
visits, and had lately taken his diploma as
NJ. d., and settled in neighboring town:
This was one Of his flying visits home and
| began to wish that had put on my white
piquc, with knots of scarlet ribbon.
lie came in laughing, caressing and caress-