Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1871-04-08
Gales aud Skttthes.
A TULE SKETCH.
BY LEONARD KIP.

between the two little camps, to light his pipe
at the fire of one of the other men and, while
the Kanakas heaped on the dry chips, he tar
RED moment to talk.
"a pleasant thing to see a woman once
again, one of the miners remarked. 1t was
kindly meant, though perhaps uncourtly spok-
en-, and the other took no ofiense.
Eyes, suppose it must be so" he respond
ed; ''perhaps more pleasant for ethers than it
is for her, to come into this wilderness. But
yet, what can a man do? l was not rich
enough to stay at home, nor would she have
remained behind, even were | inclined to
leave her there; so we have come out togeth-
er, trusting in God for happy success at the
end"
SIN mning?"
Nay, do not care to risk that lottery.
am doctor, and shall stop at Stockton. We
had hoped to reach there tomorrow, but the
falling of the breeze has set us back. And
therefore, seeing your fire, we have come
ashore to await the wind again, in company
of others"
So, with the usual manner of random in
quiry, explanation, and volunteered informa-
tion that prevails among strangers when meet
ing, the men conversed, and, after moment,
separated. The miner strolled down toward
the river to look at the boats, and the doctor
returned to his own fire, which by that time
had been fully kindled. The ruddy blaze
was every moment leaping higher and higher,
throwing its CLEAN far around, and brighten
ing into perfect distinctness the faces of all
who sat or stood about it the kanakas, the
Docter, and-yes, there could be no chance
of mistake about it-Mary herself, seeming
not day older than she had been years ago.
without one line OF anxiety or shade of appre-
hension upon her face, as, strong in her ma
yiya o,,I r.rt h. ,l,,,1,,
templated the novel scene about her, as though
she were in her Eastern home; in every ex-
preston and line, the picture of herself, as in
the evening of that olden parting, she had
stood at the garden gate and held out her
blushing cheek to him. Was this thing a
reality, after all, or was it vision sent by
some mocking fiend to lead him, as it were,
through despair to destruction?
Long he lay pillowed upon his blanket,
and, with his face turned toward the fire, gaz-
ed upon her as at first she stood still for mo-
ment, and then, nesting down into the pile of
shawls arranged behind and about her, sought
reverie and repose. He was not afraid that,
however the light might strike upon him, it
would be possible for her to recognize the
traces of her former lover in such thin,
wasted, ragged bearded, and grimy face.
Therefore, in safety, he could let his eyes
rest upon her and drink in those oden ex-
pressions and the remembrances which, one
by one, they called up, and wonder what stern
fate had presided over his destiny to have
made him throw away that prize. Gone now
were the content and peace which he had so
lately felt and in their place was whirl of
passion, dependency, and regret At times,
with the sudden storm of hatred that shook
his heart, he felt as though he could have
drawn his pistol and sent bullet into the
heart of him whom she now called her hus-
band. Yet these feelings were only momen-
tary paroxysms. For the most part, his heart,
though torn and miserable, cherished no NAL
ice, being sorrowful rather than angry For,
after all, he had no cause of offense against
her. He first had forgotten her, treating her
with such silence and neglect that she must
it was not expected that she would forever re-
main single for the sake of one who had
proved so unworthy of her.
Well, he would not go home again, now.
What was the use of ii? The hills and brooks
would coldly greet him, it seemed; nor would
he care for their greeting at all, since she,
only well-loved memory of the scene, would
be absent. He would rather remain awav
forever, than look again upon such frigid
vacancy of remniscence-would live out his
life to the very end as he had lately passed it,
now that all motive for reform and every pos
sible encouragement to do better were at an
end. There could be nothing left to live for
now and so he would let the great wave of
excitement and dissipation which had of late
carried him so relentlessly onward, still bear
him along, and dash him, at last, lifeless and
and torn, upon that same beach of obstruction
which was already laden with the moral wreck
of so many thousands of better men. In his
pocket were yet few hundred dollars with
which, in San Francisco, he could keep up
the old game. No doubt that he could find
friends to help him to spend it there; and,
however rapidly he might let the ounces fly,
thare would prove enough to last his time. A
few weeks more of that wasted life were
probably all that could be left to him; possi-
bly, only few days; but what mattered it,
1t was now too late to change; nor would lhe
care to do so, with that memory of a last dis
appointment ranking in his torn breast.
And now, amid all that sense of reckless
ness, there came upon him one controlling
desire; to be still known and thought of by
her little. Not that he could bear to have
her recognize him. 1t would be too much shame
to have her see in the poor, ,emaciated, squalid
and diseased miner, the brave, elastic youth,
who, all aglow with enthusiasm and conf
dence in the world and his own success, had
last parted from her. Rather than have her
eyes rest upon him with even the slightest
chance of detection, he would crouch into the
very ground. But if when she was far away
again, with no more opportunity OF seeing
him, she could be led to realize that among
that group of men there had been one whom
she had once loved, and that to the very end
he was thinking about her, and trying to
pray for her happiness, and in his heart long
ing for her forgiveness-why, that would be
,,fxht