Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1870-05-20
Selttt Storp.
LOST IND FOUND.

'Shos the queerest little soul that ever
was, said the farmer, looking out through
the first wandering flakes Of the coming
December storm. Don't seem bit like
other children-wonr sew. nor scrub. nor
do nothin' other girls do; just spends her
time hazing about in the woods, and run
min over the medders, There she comes.
now
The stranger. who was warming his
thin hands over the hickory log blaze.
looked up witha start at the child's figure
skimming down the road.
Your own?" he asked in husk y
voice.
The old man shook his head.
"It's sing'lar sort o. thing" he said,
musingly. II found her si,tin' on the
fallen logs down by the swamp. eight
years ago. one March mornin'-a little
creetur, three-year old, She didn't know
how on airth she come there neither DO
l; brought her homo to Mahala, and
here's she's stayed ever since"
"what DO you call her?"
well, she couldn't tell her name-so
Mahala and | concluded we'd call her
Miriam, bein' its good old Scriptur'
name. So-EIalIo, little 'un"
The door opened, and a wild looking
little elf, with huge black eyes, and
tangled mass of blue-black hair, came in.
locking keenly about her.
Daddy, there's u crows nest up in the
old locust under the hill. and Squire
Martyrs peacock is down in our woods,
and"
Miriam" poaled tho sharp voice of
Mrs. Buckley from the kitchen, come
here this minute, and help chop up the
beersheart You amt no more use round
than an old shoe~
The old farmer looked indulgently alter
the girl, as she daried through the half
open door.
"Mahala likes to scold," he said good
humoredly; "but there ant nothin' she
wouldn't do for little Miriam!"
The stranger rose abruptly.
Won't You stay to supper" said the
hospitable farmer.
mo; | only stoppedto warm my hands.
Many thanks for your fire and your kind
ness, and good bye"
Farmer Buckley stared after the long,
lank figure slowly creeping up the hill,
with puzzled, bewildercd expression in
his honest face.
Who does he look like? I can't, for
the life of me, think he muttercd. as he
stopped TO light his pipe at the red embers
underneath the iron fire. dogs. Anyhow
there's queer look in his eyes that
don't fancy wouldn't much wonder if
he'd been deranged some time in his life"
While the stranger, plunging down in
to the dim. leahess woods. murmured to
himself.
Nothing TO keep me here now
nothing to keep me here, Maiy'S child
has found good home Ny work is
done, and can 20 back to Mary"
The wind howled sadly through the
deepening twilight. the sharp snow drove
against his face like q thousand tiny sting
ing needles, but still he pressed on. with
a strange exultation in his face, still
muttering:
Nothing to live for now; nothing TO
keep me longer in this weary world"
The blue air was sparkling in the frigid
sunshine of the next morning, and the
old kitchen-clock had just struck nine,
when little Miriam burst into the room,
with her pale, elfish face whittier than ever,
beneath the tsngle jetty hair.
Daddy, daddy. there's dead man
down in the woods, just by the bend of
the brook-a dead man, all drifled. up in
the snow"
The child's dreamin'," said Mahala
Buckley, incrodulously