Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1874-11-06

was passing through; and, he was indul-
gert, and let her press wild-fowers in
some of the theological works, Emily
thought he was model librarian.
Emily found the library rather over.
stocked with the sermons and grave folios
of her clergyman ancestor. rather too
sparsely furnished with the "Thaddeus Of
Warsaw" school of literature. She had
gone through Scott, and gentle Miss
Austen. and Miss Edgeworth, and dull old
Mrs. SherwoOd's story of "Rich in the
Kitchen and Poor in the Parlor' Is chiefly
valuable for its recipe fot making goose
berry-tarts. She had wept over that re-
deeming work of Little Henry and his
Bearer" she had shuddered over THE
Ruffian Boy;" and she had got to the
Pope. Then she began to sigh for fresh
fields and pastures new. Cooper she trisd
and could not; and, as for the theological
works, what were they good for but to
press flowers in?
Q old, dry doctors did not your pulses
beat as this image of spring, and hope,
and Joy threw open your musty pages,
and laid the freshly gathered flowers in
your heavy graspP Were these the only
flowers you had helped to press down and
dry up?
Who will read those accumulated words
of wisdom-old sermons, theological trea-
tises, records of undying dullnessP Why
does the greatest of subjects lead to such
poor writing?
Il wish there were some novels" said
Emily, one day, from the top Of the step
ladder.
Novels ant good for young people"
said Thomas Yarn.
"But like them,-I like book that Is
very beautiful in the beginning, and very
sad in the middle, and very magnificent
at the end !" said Emily, who did not want
for words.
"Well, guess you'd better not read 50
many OF 'em. That isn't at all Ike life"
said poor Thomas, remembering The tav-
ern window; "besides, your Aunt Mar2ret
says you walk in your sleep, and have bad
dreams, and l guess you'd better 20 on
and get some more wild-fowers."
So Emily would dance off to the woods,
and Thomas looked up some novels for
her. and. finding good. old-fashioned
story, would leave It accidently on the
top of the step.ladder. sufficiently reward
ed if he saw her flush of pleasure a. she
discovered it. There were no poisonous
plants in this Forest of Ardennes,-all was
the good, wholesome pasturage Of which
Charles Lamb speaks; and the young
maiden who was thus set free was as pre-
tected as the lady in "Comus," or that
other delicious creature of whom great
English Shakespeare says:
thousand liveried angels lackey her.
Thomas Yarn, in spite of his inability to
make 1: living, was Sc good q creature
that his virtue shonehis bedraggled exteri-
or, as the sun himself shone through that
tavern-window through which he saw the
distant world.
Miss Margaret. rectangular spinister
that she was permitted him the guardian.
ship OF her niece without fear-nay, she
even admitted him to that icy, frigid zone
of virtue which surrounded herself. He sat
on the edge of his chair in her presence
when he told her the scraps of news sAe
so dearly loved to hear.
Oh on one of these occasions, what q
piece Of news she told him!
You may shut up the library, Mr..
Yarn, am going to take Emily of 10
accustomed stipend" (Miss Margret loved
to use new and grandiloquent phrase as
well as another), land your work can be
resumed in the spring; now I prefer to
have thelibrary shut. Good evening ~
And she swept out without look; be-
sides, who had ever fattered him or soft
ened the asperities of Fate to this crea-
ture?
Poor Thomas! From him that hath
nothing shall be taken even that he hath
lie took out the piece of folded China
paper. and looked long at the tress of
black hair. He wondered knowing how
low down he was, that he could be so ex-
quisitely miserable. There is great tai
ent in human nature for pain, and suffer-
ing, and dull grief. That side of our ns.
ture seems to be singularly gifted. We
have no such unlimited powers in the way
of joy and gladness. After the sixteenth
year of existence is passed, it seems
doubtful If any one can feel rapturously
happy tor very long time,-say three
minutes. But the power of suffering con-
stantly grows with our growth, and
strengthens with our strength. No one
ever complained that he had not talent
enough tor this sort of thing. Even
Thomas Yarn. who had seemed to have
talent for nothing else. felt within him.
self the comprehension of an intellectual
colossus for suffering.
IL Is n2ru tnlnS 10 take out OF poor
life the friendship, the unquestioning love
of child. He saw Emily furtively dur.
ing those years when she danced over that
mysterious land,-that borderland of girl.
hood and womanhood.- but when she
came home from boarding-school, and
looked at Thomas Yarn with new eyes.-
he who had not grown cleaner, or
younger, or more agreeable, felt that
he had lost his little friend. She rein
stated him in the library; but she came
there seldom herself; she had new book
TO read.-her own romance was being
written; lovers were coming in the Hesh,
instead of on the yellow pages of her old
books,-so Thomas and Memory busted
alone.
One day Thomas took down a volume
of SCOTS Commentaries" in which he
saw moth creeping, and. as he did SO,
a wild.fower fell out,-one of those which
had no, been elevated to the dignity of
Emily's barbarism. 1t was a heavy old
book, with a parchment cover; and. a
he busted and shook it, Thomas Yarn
shook out his fate,--a folded paper fell to
the ground with bits Of fern, a pressed
violet. a lady's-slipper, and several fringed