The weekly clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1863-1882, 1873-08-14


open them again, o, no! it is a brigh
reality. The close-cut grass stretching
out from my window, down to the over
grown plantation, is the same acros
which my ancestors tripped in their high
heeed shoes, before the red tide Of tn
revolution swept them away. The ole
stone fountain, with its broken Triton
and mouldering dolphins, then threw it.
silver spray far into the sunny air; now
few SLOW drops trickle among the Nose.
that fringe its edge.
Have you ever lived where there wal
not something that reminded you of The
dead This is the chair in which they
were sitting, long years before | was
born. Yonder is the couch where they
were lying when death opened for them
the door Of life. Their eyes saw what
am seeing; their ears heard the song OF
the birds. as | hear them now. The
blue periwinkle stars in the glass On
my table, gathered them this morning
under the oaks in the plantation; and
so, hands that have been dust for ages
gathered them on some sweet spring
morning in the past.
| am sitting in the little, dark paneled
room where, one sunny morning, my
grandmother sat with her child in her
arms, when courier arrived, painting,
breathless The Queen is guillotined! I"
There was no more hope; my grand
mother must fly. Clasping her babe to
her heart, she arose horses were sad
died rapid flight to the coast tear
full meeting with her husband, disguised
rs fisherman; trembling haste a crazy
boat on the stormy sea; a landing on the
shore of Scotland-poor, friendless, with
aching hearts. Such was the story | had
often heard from my grandmother's lips
Left an orphan in my babyhood, size
was father, mother, all to me. Hour
after hour | have sat at her feet. listen
ing to her tales of g beautiful France
of the gay court, the beautiful Queen.
the old chateau, where her happiest DAVIS
were spent " lou we're not born there
pauvre petite" she would say, softly.
"Ah. that was wrong; but you NAV die
there-l think you will. You will be
thankful for that, Mignon?" And her
eyes would wander over the bleak Scotch
moors, seeing beyond them the blue sky
and howery fields of her sunny France.
Does she know that her halfprophecy
has been in part fulfilled? Does she
know that at last my feet tread the grass
grown paths in the quaint old garden
that for me the birds sing, and the trees
shake out their tender leaves? A new
generation of leaves, but still the same
her eyes saw and loved. There is little
changed. a friend remembered us /; the
estates were saved, and | remembered
them. Not much money; but the gray
walls, the trees, the fields, are mine. /
look around; | say, NY own" Does
she know all this? / believe she does.
Her picture looks down upon me now
not as | remember her, with silvery hair
shading her delicate, high-born face. but
young, with laughing eyes, and ripe lips
just parted in a joyous smile.
In the long salon beyond are rows of
naughty faces, blooming faces, stern
wicked, sanity faces. One after an
other they lifted the burden of life b IRE
it Il while, then laying it down, crept
away to their long, dreamless sleen
under the stones in the little chapel Now
there is only one weak womans hand to
lift the banner of the name they bore 50
long and 50 nobly. Stretch out your
shadowy hands, that its folds trail not in
the dust! Strengthen me, shades of the
dead, that | bear it not unworthily
The air is still with that stiffness that
speaks of life, not death. Somewhere
IN the distance, Jean is drawing water
The creaking of the wheel becomes must |
cal through taintness. In the farm-yard
The busy hens are cackling, and the loud |
voiced cock is growing Justify. Lisette
Is Gathering about her kitchen, singing
plalntive little song; the chorus reaches |
me- Marie Marie! je vous Anne tou-
lours." l am idly wondering who was
Marie? and did the singer love her al |
ways?
Presently Lisette's heels click along |
the hall. . MadamOiselle's keys" she |
says, with a flash of her white teeth
Jean has found them among the peri
Wrinkle stars. take them from her hand /
One, smaller than the rest, has slipped
Oft the ring. A little leather box, CLASH
ed with iron, stands before me on the
window-seat. A few days before her
death, my grandmother gave it into NV
keeping. Take it, mon enfant it con-
talns the life-secrets of many of your
race. There are stories, too, from other
lips, as they were told to me. You may
0 ~ Aeau tneM. gu VIII Keep IL Tor
my sake" My life has been busy one,
and | have never opened it. Now, as l
mt the key into the rusty lock, and raise
the lid, cloud of dust salutes me, and |
m!usty, mouldy smell. The papers are
mlidewed with age; the characters al
most illegible. One is tied with black
ribbon; choosing this, l unroll the closely
written sheets. One falls out; it is in
my grandmother's clear, firm hand. Ali
now long ago was that written? The
date is IL.
A stranpa thing has oocur-aa II