The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1874-04-16
LITTLE JACK.
BY FRANCIS MARTIN.

when the cries Of pain and fear were still
ed, and her boy was at peace. Allan was
slowly getting better He was eble to
sit for an hour or two, and had even with
his wife's help, contrived to get down
stairs and sit by the fire. They talked
more than they had done for some time,
not about their child, but his funeral.
The father had brought from his north
country home an intense feeling Of rever-
ence for the dead, and the still, white
body of his child was an object for which
he was prepared to sacrifice all that he
possessed. At length the arrangements
for the funeral were completed, but the
little parlor was stripped of almost every
article of any value to defraY its expense.
When the day came, Allan, by the help
of two sticks, tottered down to the garden
gate, and leant there, sobbing as he
watched the undertaken carry away on
his shoulder the little coffin covered with
a pail edged with white. The mother,
wearing large cloak and hood provided
for the day, followed alone fearless and
white. Allan watched them as they pass
ed along the street, white with fresh fall
en- snow. He saw doors open and women
come out for a moment to look after them,
and then craw back hastily out of the
cold. The tolIing of the church-bell fell
upon him like blow, and every stroke
said, Alone, Alone, Alone! He saw the
empty church that the mother entered,
and the little empty grave awaiting bis
boy, out under the lime-trees at the end
of lonely path. He could endure nc
more, but tottered back to the house, and
throwing himself down upon the ground,
exclaimed, "Ths hand of the Lord is
against me-"
How long he lay there he did not know.
When he arose, cold and stiff, the short
day was closing: He crawled to the door
and looked out, but there was no sign of
Mary.
The long white street was silent and
empty. He thought; "Some woman has
been good to her and taken her in. She
is sitting by the fire. Perhaps she will
have good CRY and ease her posr heart. "
He was tender over her. thinking more of
her sorrow than his own. "Poor thing.
she's had deal to BEAR" he would say
to himself, when she was fierce and moody
"Here am I, no better than log, aud
that poor things got it all upon her. But
We shall manage somehow, and I'll see
her righted yet, and her bits of Ehings
about her again" But the child's death
had crushed him. That could never be
set right. The child was taken from her
and how could she go on living without
the child?
He went into the little kitchen, put a
few sticks together, made up the fire, land
put on water to boil for tea. He was so
weak, and his movements SO slow, that
the church clock struck 5 before he had
completed these preparations, and then he
sat down and waited Six O'clock struck,
and 7, and Mary did not return. His
anxiety grew too exacting to be CONTROL
ed, and, leaving the cottage, he dragged
himself step by step along the street. The
church was midway in the village, stand
ing back within its iron-railed space, with
the large old churchyard at the back,
shaded by rows of lime trees and slopine
down the hill toward the broad valley of
Holm.
Allan passed through the open gate
and along the path which he knew that
other feet had trodden, until he reached
the far end of the churchyard. There he
leaned against tree, near which there
was fresh-made grave. The moonlight
lay white on all else but down over the
grave dark figure WAS crouching, mo-
tionless and silent. He stood silent for O
moment, and then in a soft tremulous
whispr, he said
"Coom ava my lass; coom'
"Oh father" she cried, shaken with a
sudden passion of sorrow; "oh, father.
can't leave him. I can't Leave him here
By himself all out in the cold and dark
My boy, my boy; why have they taken my
boy from mel"
And she stretched out over the little
mound and naaa;nnn tol-x l.a -, ,