Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1873-03-13

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Us characteristic New England vii
lage with its white houses, large, and
little, and its two lonely wooden spires.
was walking as l came in sight Of the
village, and stopped, touched with
the poetry of the peaceful scene.s pust
then the noon-bell pealed forth from
one of the little churches-the first
church bell had ever heard. Ibid not
know what it was, and was obliged to
inquire. have stood under the belfry
of Bruges since, and heard, amid the
dull jarson of the decaying city, the
chimes from its Understanding bells
with far less of emotion than l expert
enced that day, as / drank my first
draught of the wonderful music. o
sweet first time of everything good in
life! Thank heaven that, with an
eternity of duration before us, there is
also intinity of resources, which ever
varying supply and ministry, and ev-
er-recurring first times!
My father and the rest of the family
had preceded us, and we found them
waiting at the village tavern for our
arrival. Dinner was ready, and l was
quite ready for it, though / was not 50
much absorbed that cannot recall t.
day the fat old woman with flying cap
strings who waited at the table. H.
deed were | an artist could reproduce
the pictures on the walls of the low,
long dining-room where we ate, so
strongly did they impress them selves
upon my memory. We made but a
short stay, and then in our slow way
pressed on. My friend of the team
had evidently found something more
exhilarating at the tavern than tobac-
co, and was confidential and affection
ate, not only toward me but toward all
he met upon the road, of whom he told
me long and marvellous histories. But
he grew dull and even ill-tempered at
last, and / had quiet cry behind a
projecting bedstead for very wearineSs
and hOme-sickneSs.
was too weary when at dusk we
arrived at the end of our days progress
to note or care for anything. My sup
per was quickly eaten, and / was at
once in the oblivion of sleep. The
next days journey was unlike the first,
in that it was crowded with life. The
| villages grew larger, so as quite to ex-
| cite my astonishment. Isaw, indeed,
the horses and the chariots. Theil
were signs of wealth that l had never
seen before,-beautifully kept lawns,
| fine, stately mansions, and gayly-
dressed ladies, who humiliated me by
regarding me with sort of stately
curiosity; and [ realized as l had never
done before that there were grades OF
life far above that to which / had been
accustomed, and that my father was
comparatively poor, plain man.
Toward the close of the second after.
noon we came in sight of Bradford
which, somewhere within its limits
contained our future home. There
were dozen stately spires, there were
tall chimneys waving their plumes OF
pearly smoke, there were long rows oi
windows red in the rays of the de.
Ginning sun, there was q river winding
away into the distance between its
borders of elms and willows, and there
were white-winged craft that glided
hither and thither in the far silence.
"What do you think of that boy o'
inquired my friend, the teamster.
'1sn't it pretty?" responded
"Isn't it a grand place TO live in? ?"
'That depends upon whether ore
lives or starves," he said. "If / were
going to starve, I would rather do il
where there isn't anything to eat"
"But we are not going to starve,"
said. Father will never let us starve. u
"Not if he can help it, boy; but your
father is a lamb-a great, innocent
lamb"
"W lat do you mean by calling my
father lamb? He is as good man
as there is in Bradford, any way" l
responded somewhat Indignantly.
The man gave new roll to the
enormous quid in his. mouth, a solace
that had been purchased by my scanty
pennies, and said, with a contemptu-
GUS smile, "Oh! he's too good. Some
time when you think of it, suppose you
look and see if he has ever cut his eye
teeth"
"You are making fun of my father,
and don't like it. How should you
like to have man make fun of you 20
your little boy?"
AT this he gave great laugh, and
l knew at once that he had no little
boy, and that he had been playing off
fiction upon me throughout the whole
journey. 1t was my first encounter
with false and selfish world. To find
in my hero of the three horses and the
large acquaintance only vulgar rascal
who could practice upon the credulity
of little boy was one of the keenest
disappointments I had ever expert
enced.
"If l could hurt you, 1 would strike
you," / said in rage.
"Well, boy" he replied almost affec-
tionately, and quite admiringly, "you
will make your way, If you have that
sort of thing in you. l wouldn't have
believed it. L take it all back Your
father is first-rate man for heaven, if
he isn't for Bradford; and he's sure to
60 there when he moves next, and
should like to be the one to move him,
but Pm afraid they wouldn't let me in
to unload the goods"
There was an awful humor in this
strange speech which 1 fully compre-
hended, but my reverence for even the
name of heaven was so profound that 1
did not dare to laugh. / simply said /:
81 don't like to hear you talk So, and I
wish you wouldn't"
"Well, then, L won't, my lad. They
say the lame and the lazy are always
provided for, and 1 don't know why
the lambs are not just as deserving.
You'll all get through, / suppose; and
hundred years hence there will be no
difference"
"Who provides for the lame and the
lazy?" l inquired.
"Well now you have me tight" said
the fellow with sigh. Somebody up
there 1 s'pose;;" and he pointed his
whip upward with little toss.
"Don't you know ?" inquired, with
ingenious and undisguised wonder.
mot bit of it. l never saw him.
I've been lazy all my life, and 1 was
lame once for year, falling from this
very wagon, and mighty rough time
had of it, too; and so far as am con-
cerned it has been business of looking