The Somerset press. [volume] (Somerset, Ohio) 1873-1977, 1874-10-23
2.

uull Olu ME tli4Gi NOVN1 NAA'TS N|N~- -
erich in the Kitchen and Poor in the
Parlor," is chiefly valuable for its recipe
for making gooseberry tarts. She had
wept over that redeeming work of Lit
tie Henry and his Bearer" she had shud-
dered over "The Rufian Boy" and she
had got to Pope. Then she began to
sigh for fresh fields and pastures new
Cooper she tried and could not; and, as
for the theological works, what were
they good for but to press flowers in?
o old, dry doctors. did not your pull
ses beat as this image of spring and hope
and JOY. threw open your musty pages, and
laid the freshly gathered flowers in your
heavy grasp? Were these the only flow
ers you had helped press down and dry
up?
Who will read those accumulated
words of wisdom-old sermons, theolog-
ical treaties, records of undying dull
ness? 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 amt 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 mag
nificent at the endr' said Emily, who
did not want for words.
"Well, I guess you'd better not read SO
many of 'em That isn't at all like life, y
said poor Thomas, remembering the tav-
ern window; besides, your Aunt Mar
garet says you walk in your sleep, and
have bad dreams, and guess you'd bet
ter go off and get some more wild-flow-
ers."
So Emily would dance off to the
woods, and Thomas looked mp some more
novels for her, and, finding a good, old
fashioned story, would leave it accident
ally on the top of the step ladder, suffi-
ciently rewarded if he saw her flush OF
pleasure as she discovered it. There
were no poisonous plants in this Forest
of Ardennes-all was the good, whole
some pasturage of which Charles Lamb
speaks: and the young maiden who was
thus set free was as protected as the lady
in "Comus," or that other creature OF
whom great English Shakespear says
"a thousand iveried angels lackeyed her."
Thomas Yarn, in spite of his inability
to make living, was so good creature
that his virtue shone through his be.
draggled exterior, as the sun himsel
shone through that tavern-window thro
which he saw the distant world
Miss Margaret, rectangular spinstel
that she was, permitted him the guard
ianship 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 hel
presence when he told her the scraps Of
news she so dearly loved to hear.
Oh! on one of these occasions, what d
piece of news she told him!
"You may shut up the library, Mr.
Yarn, | am going to take Emily off tc
school. The trustees will allow you youl
accustomed stipend" Miss Margaret
loved to use new and grandiloquen'
phrase as well as another, "and your
work can be resumed in the spring; now
prefer to have the library shut Good
EVENING"
And she swept out without a look; be
sides, who had ever flattered him or soft
ened the asperities of Fate to this crea
ture?
Poor Thomas! From him that haiti
nothing shall be taken even that h,
hath!
He took out the piece of folded China
paper, and looked long at the tress o
black hair. He wondered, knowing how
low down he was, that he could be so ex
quisltely miserable. There is a grea
talent in human nature for pain and suf
fering and dull grief. That side of ou
nature seems to be singularly gifted
We have no such unlimited powers il
the way of joy and gladness. After TIL
sixteenth year of existence is passed, i
seems doubtful if any one can feel rap
turously happy for very long time
say three minutes. But the power o
suffering constantly grows with ou
growth and strengthens with our strength
No one ever complained that he had nc
talent enough for this sort of thing
Even Thomas Yarn, who had seemed t
have talent for nothing else, felt With
himself the comprehension of an intel
lectual colossus for suffering.
1t is hard thing to take out of a poo
life the friendship, the unquestionin
love of child. He saw Emily furtivt
ly during those years when she dance
over that mysterious land-that border
land of girlhood and womanhood--bu
when she came home from boarding
school, and looked at Thomas Yarn wit
new eyes-he who had not grown clear
er, or younger, or more agreeab1e-I
felt that he had lost his little friend. ST.
reinstated him in the library; but sE
came there seldom herself: she had
new book to read-her own romance WI
being written; lovers were coming in II
flesh, instead of on the yellow pages
her old books-so Thomas and memoI
busted alone.
One day Thomas took down a volun
of Scott's Commentaries" in which l
saw moth creeping, and, as he did so,
wild-hower fell out-one of those whic
had not been elevated to the dignity
Emily's herbarium. 1t was heavy o,
book, with parchment cover, and,
he busted and shook it, Thomas YaI
shook out his fate-a folded paper fe
to the ground with bits of fern, a pres
, ed violet, a lady's-slipper, and sever
: fringed polygalas.
e 1t was a will. lie knew the han
t writing well, for in has struggles for e
s istence he had boen a copyist. and hi
m u r u