The Fremont weekly journal. [volume] (Fremont, Sandusky County, Ohio) 1867-1877, 1870-05-27
1MjsrelIaneons Selections.
From the Argosy.
RENEE.
BY JULIA KAvANAGH.

IL grow Idll OdhSs DcGMeCH WHICH
you see soft green slopes, where COWS
are grazing qSietly, or broad fields
full of yellow waving corn; but nei-
ther farm house, nor homestead, nor
blue smoke curling above thatched
roofs half hidden by orchards of
apple trees, do you once behold
along its track. A sort of solitude
is ever there, not the grand old soli-
tude of Natures making, but her
milder daughter, that other solitude
which meekly bears the traces of
mans yoke.
Along that road a peasant lad OF
| twelve years old or so was walking
on hot summers day, some years
back. He had curly hair, a fresh
and merry face, bright as a sunbeam,
quick look and a frank happy
smile. He was very cleanly though
very poorly dressed, but he wore his
blue blouse, faded by many wash
ling, with as jaunty an air as if it had
been a princes garment. His little
cloth cap was set on one side of his
head, and gave him quite saucy
| look; and he stepped along the hot
sunny road as lightly as though
this burning summers noon were
famed by the freshest breezes OF
spring.
Suddenly he stood still. From a
field of corn on his right hand rose a
girlish voice singing the old and
beautiful Advent hymn, "Adeste
FideIes," in tones so sweet and clear
that the boy listened like one en-
tranced, while the voice went on
pouring fourth its sweet music, fill
ing that supreme landscape with
the joyful praises of the Lord.
Il must see who it is" thought
the lad; 81 did not know there was
such bird as that in all Manneville.'
He lightly leaped across the ditcl
which divided the road from the
corn field; then, creeping along the
tall wheat, he stole softly in the di-
rection of the voice till he could sec
! its owner. He saw a small girl
about his own age as he thought
whom he recognized at once al
the daughter of a weaver, whos'
tumble-down house stood not fal
from his mothers cottage. She wa
sitting in the grass outside the corr
field. and the long stick, ending in
bunch of futtering rags, which sh'
held in her right hand, told the lac
Iher occupation. She was too smal
and TOO weak for other labor, so she
sat there the whole day long to keel
away from the ripening corn bolt
and hungry little sparrows, or sucf
foraging hens as might stray from
distant farm yards in search of booty
IShe was very little creature, yer.
Idemure and grave, with a small, pal
face, wistful dark eyes, aud yer,
Idark hair. She wore a little closC
lifting black cap, according to tn
fashion Of the country, and it addeC
to the weirdlike look Of her ittl
wan face. Her other garments were
plain and poor enough indeed, but
as the boy knew from previous ab
servation, strangely neat and precise
lin their cut and fashion. She nov
Isat with her head so turned that shC
could not see the lad, who croucheC
How in the grass, and kept as quie
| as he well could in order not t.
Istartle her. He hoped, indeed, tina
ishe would finish the hymn without
detecting him, but a daring cock
made his appearance in the pasture
field; deliberately he strutted TOWARD
the corn. The girl waved her stick
and at once preceived the boys head
and staring eys peeping up abov'
the grass. In vain he dived down
it was too late; she ceased singing
that very moment. The boy, feel
ling discovered, sat up, and there was
a pause, during which the pair look
ed at each other very gravely.
81 wish you would go on" a
length said the lad.
To this request the little girl gave
no sort of answer, but continued
looking at him with the immovabl'
countenance ola young sphinx.
81 wish you had not seen me,
he resumed, after waiting in vail
for a reply. "You have a beautiful
voice; oh! so beautiful"
The little girl shook her rod at
chattering flock of sparrows, but re
manned mute.
81 know" he continued, nothing
Idaunted, "we live close to each 9th
er, but I never hear you sing. In
ldeed, I never hear you talk at all
| l said to my mother the other day
The weaver's little girl is dumb
On hearing this the young songs
tress smiled and showed the lad tive
rows of pretty little white teeth.
'Do go on" he entreated; 81 vii
Hook another way if you like; but
oh, do go onn'
| His looks and tones expressed Sc
great longing to hear her that tht
little maiden relented, and withou
saying a word, again broke fortl
Into song. She finished the "Adest'
lFideles,@ and unasked she began
another hymn. This she wen
| through, still in the same clear, beau
| tiful voice, which would have mad'
any music enchanting, but which
when giving utterance to grand ol(
tunes that have been for ages or
| the lips of worshiping generations
sent the boy to the seventh heaven
His laughing lips quivered witt
emotion, and his saucy eyes grew
| so dim that the blue sky, the yellow
corn, and the little singer hersel
all vanished from his sight in a mist
| But this was soon over. The LITTLE
Girl cot tired of singing, and the boy
stepping through the grass, COOL.
sat down by her side, and opened
conversation, in which information
leading to questioning played
; prominent part.
'sMy name is Louis Picard. Wha
is yours? Renee Deschamps.
like Renee. And 50 you have los
your mother. My father is dead
, too. He was a tailor. Yours is :
weaver, l know; l have seen him a
his loom. My mother is a dres
maker. We are from Fontaine
YOU know. We came to Mannevill
isix months ago, because rent |
Inhnnrn1. hnrn nr,n To he n tnilOl