American citizen. [volume] (Canton, Miss.) 1864-1890, 1873-09-06
OLD AS THE HILLS.
BY KATE W. HAMILTON.

| ONLY the story in general; Mrs. Marth
was not SO ancient, neither was she yer,
young, though she did remind one of
fresh new barber-pole as she leaned from
the window, her head bound up in greer
veil to protect it from the imaginary dus
of an utterly superfluous sweeping, ant
her straight form arrayed in the brightes
of striped prints. The hair under the
green veil was too faded for youth, and
ever her face was n network of lines, the
footprints of countless worries, that spell
ed out her name of Martha as plainly as
letters could have done. The whole world
| of human affairs was a great machine tC
her. She fancied that her foot upon the
treadle was all that kept it running, and .
single false movement or slip of her toes
would send everything back to chaos
Such responsibility of poking up, oil
ing, screwing, and experimenting was
enough to tattoo any face with care
marks.
The small kitchen of the cottage did
not look altogether like the center of the
| universe, but that mattered nothing so
long as it was that to her; and the partic-
ular perverse little cog that seemed to be
out of order this morning was Master
| Paul. That young naturalist had a half
hour before, been trying to perch on the
| chicken roost as his !avorite bantam did,
and had endangered his bones and dam
| aged his brown linen suit by a fall; but
now he was engaged in some mysterious
agricultural enterprise that quite baffied
| Mrs Martha's discernment. There had
been a deal of digging with her carefully
polished fire-shovel, which she had not
discovered in time to prevent; she had
| only witnessed the completion of the
| planting great stamping down of earth
with Paul's small feet around highly
colored, variegated, and altogether singu-
lar-looking cluster of foliage. But the
final ceremony of his appearing with a
| watering pot and plentitully sprinkling
both his plant and himself, so far aroused
her anxious curiosity as to draw her to
the scene of action.
1t needed no very near approach to as
tonish and horrify her. Her best feather
buster, kept sacredly for parlor use, was
buried handle downwards, only few
inches of the soft, brilliant tips remaining
above ground, and they forlorn and drag
gled from the refreshing shower bestowed
upon them.
paul Rivers, what on earth have you
been about now?"
Paul leaned back, with two small mud
DIV hands thrust into his pockets, and sur
viewed his work with beaming satisfac-
ton.
81 Impose I'll raithe thome biidth of
paradithe," he explained.
birds of destruction! and you're of
them yourself! l wish your father would
stop showing you pictures and telling you
stories of every flying beast and creeping
fowl, that's what L dor muttered Mrs.
Martha, wrathfully. ''Here's my best
buster just ruined"
Don't YOU mind, Cousin Martha I
Inspect l can pick enough featherth from
my birdth to make you a thouthand
dusthers," urged Paul, consolingly:
But Mrs. Martha would none of such
comfort. She rooted up her brush with
indignant alacrity, and walked toward the
house with it, shaking out the sand and
Frightening the dropping feathers by
the way. Paul followed her, remarking
rather despondently.
II don't thee how nobody can raithe
ANYTHING if they can't have nothing for
theed.''
'sWhat is the trouble now, Paul ?'' ques-
toned a face from the vine-shaded piazza
and a face looked out from under the
swaying tendrils-a manly face, bearded
and mustached, but with high brow and
deep. dark eyes so like the child's that the
relation was apparent.
Trouble? it's nothing but trouble all
day. long with him,'' responded Mrs.
Martha, promptly entering upon recital
of this last affliction. But her listeners
laugh was by no means soothing-how.
could he appreciate the value of a duster?
and the exceeding gentleness Of his rebuke
to the little culprit, and the obliging read
mess with which he began to explain
various processes of Embarrassing and tam
ing exhausted the good housewives last
atom of patience.
For PHYS sake, don't fill his head
with any more such stufft'' she burst in
upon Paul's eager questioning. you'll
have him trying to build a nest in the tops
of the trees next, or butting his head off
against the fence to see if he can't be a
wood pecker. It's all very fSe to tell |
h i'm such nonsense and call it natural his |
tory, but it's another thing to have the |
bother of looking after him and keeping |
him from breaking his neck with it, | can
tell YOUR
g You must be a good boy, Paul. l sus-
pect you are great trial to Cousin Mar
tha,'' admonished Mr. Rivers, shaking his
head at the child. But if she hadn't
you she would be equally distressed over
else. She couldn't be happy |
unless she had something to be miserable
about" he added to himself as he turned |
away and assembled the stairs-a smile
lurking in his eyes and about his lips as
he secretly wished he had witnessed the |
agricultural experiment, and could have
made a sketch of it.
" A precious pair of themr' commented |
Mrs. Martha, still aggravated by that look
of suppressed amusement "The father
VIII do nothing but read old books with
heathenish names, and paint pictures of
and rickety, halftumbled down
churches; and the child is as full of ri
diculous Inventions as a patentoffice.'
There; if that scarlet tidy is dry I'd better
bring it in; if he should conclude to be a
robin next, he'd tie it on for a red breast,
suppose, and go hopping around the
yard with his mouth full of straws.'
In the light, pleasant upper room, half
studio, half library, the artist dropped
into an easy chair, and surveyed the pic
ture on his easel, the other pictures on the
walls and the books in their cases, with
glance that saw none of them, and with
the smile slowly fading from his face.
Poor little Paul, this was not ust the sort
Of life for one like him. Cousin Martha
loved him-her nursing of his groups and
colds, her care of his wardrobe, and even
her frequent seedlings proved that, but 1t
was an outside love that never got near
the soul of the child. She was a scrupu-
lousy nice housewife; the house was
beautifully kept, but it was no home.
Paul Rivers the elder sighed little as he
reached this thought that came often now
Only body of rooms with no home heart
in them. 1t was different at that cozy
sunny little nook over the way, and the
musing eyes wandered in that direction,
as they frequently did of late, to catch
now and then the fluttering of delicate
dress through the vine-leaves, or the
glimpse of "A graceful figure in the garden.
Little Paul had first established a
with this neighbor over the
IL 1. r,.,l.