New Orleans Republican. [volume] (New Orleans, La) 1867-1878, 1876-07-02

pinning, was gone, and q thin calf and
some melancholy chickens were walking
about underneath, as though the place wal
an a1bor. There was little patch Of gar
den, but no grass, no flowers; every thing
was gray, the implanted house. the sand ~
| stretching on all sides. At first thongh'
| the place was uninhabited, but as l drew
nearer q thin smoke from one OF the chin
| news told of life within. and said to myself
| that the life would be black-sklnned. o.
course. For l was quite accustomed
now to finding the families of thu
freedmen crowded into just suct
houses as this, hidden away IN I'M
expected places; for the freedmen hardly
ever live up on the even ground in the
broad sunshine as though they had righl
ont into the frilges of wood, where their
| low rooted cabins. numerous though they
NAV be, are scarcely visible to the passer
by. There was no fence around this house
| it stood at large on the waste as though !,
belonged there. Take away the fence from
house and you take away its responsibility
it becomes ut once an outlaw. l assembled
the crazy, surken steps that led to the front
door, and lifted the knocker that hung
there as if in mockery; who ever knocked
there now save perhaps river god with
bis wet fingers as he hurried by, mounted
on the foaming freshet, to ravage and lay
waste again the poor desOlate fields But
no spirit came to the door, neither came the
swarm of funny little black faces had ex
pected; instead, saw before me white
woman, tall, thin and gray-haired. Silently
she stood there, her great, dark eyes still
and sad, looking at me as much as to say
"By what right are you heree'
Excuse me, madam was my involun
tary beginning; then l somewhat stupidity
asked tor glass of water.
II would not advise you to drink the
water We have here: it is not good" replied
the woman. knew it was not; the water
is never good down on the levels. But
was very stupid that day.
IL should like to rest awhile was my
next attempt. 1t brought out wooden
chair. bat no ccrdiality., tried every thing
l could think of in the way of subjects tor
conversation, but elected no replies beyond
monosy tables. could not very we'll say.
''WhO are you, and how came You here''
and yet that was exactly what wanted to
know. The woman's face bathed me, and
do not like to be baffied. IL was face
that was old and at the same time young;
it had deep lines, it was colorless, and the
heavy hair was gray; and still felt that it
was not old in years, but that it was like
the peaches we find sometimes on the
ground, old, wrinkled and withered, yet
showing here and there traces of that eva
nescent bloom which comes before the ripe
ness. The eyes haunted me. they haunt me
now, the dry, still eyes of immOvable hope.
less grief. thought. "Oh, if l could only
help helr' but all I said was, 81 fear am
keeping you standing" for that is the
seneeless way We human creatures talk to
each other.
mt
YES" she replied, in her briet way, and
said NO more.
felt myself obliged to 60.
But the next afternoon / wandered that
way again, and the next, and the next. l
used to wait impatiently for the hour when
l could enter into the presence of her great
silence and stiffness. How still she was
1t she had wept, if che had raved, if she
had worked with nervous energy, or been
d~ggedly idle, if she had seemed
or callous, or even pious; but no,
was ever the same, and che went about her
household tasks in steady, nervous man
ner, as though she could 90 on doing them
for countless ages, and yet never with the
least increase of energy. She swept the
room, for instance, every day, never
but in gentle, incompetent
sort of way peculiarly her own, yet she al
ways swept it and never neglected it, and
she took as much time to do it as though
the task was to be performed with micro
,copiC exactness.
She lived in her old house alone save for
he presence of one child, boy of six or
seven years-a quiet, gray-eyed little fell
ow, wnO played all by himself hour after
lour with two little wooden soldiers and An
Empty spool. He seldom went out of the
rouse; he did not seem to care for the sun
hine or open air as other children care, but
.ravely amused himself indoors in his own
luiet way. He did not make his wooden
oldiers talk or demOlish each other tri-
lmphantly, according to the manner of
,Oys; but he marshaled them to and fro
With slow consideration, and the only sound
vas the click of their little muskets as he
moved them about; he was strangely silent
'lwsys. l used to wonder if the two ever
slked together playfully as mother and
hid should talk; and one day, emboldened
" welcome, not warmer, for it was never
warm, but not quite so cold, perhaps, I
aid:
"Your little son is very quiet, madam"
He is not my son."
"Ah!" l replied, somewhat disconnected; |
he is pretty child; what is his name'"
His name is John"
The child heard us in his barren corner, |
uV uO OAO uOV AoOh w VI 0PO0h, no uIdu0 |
is two soldiers advance solemnly upon the |
pool in silence, with flank movement. l |
ave called the corner barren, because it
eemed doubly go when the boy sat there
he poorest place generally puts on some
hing of hOmelike air when little child is
l it; but the two bare walls and angle of
are floor remained hopelessly empty and
isolate. The room was large, but there
as nothing in it save the two wooden chairs
nd table; there was no wOmanly attempt
rag carpet, curtains for the windows,
: newspaper pictures for the walls, none
those little cOntrivances for comfort with
lost miserable abiding places, showing a
ind OF courage which is often pathetic in
8 hOpefulness. Here, however, there was
Othing. A back room held a few dishes
,me boxes and barrels, and showed on it's |
avernOus hearth the ashes of recent fire.
suppose they sleep in q third bare room
'mewhere, with their two beds, no doubt.
anding all alone in the centre of the |
lamber, for it would be too human, of
'urse. to put them up snugly against the
all, as anybody else would do" | said to
yself.
In time l succeeded in building up sort
friendship with this solitary woman of
10 waste, and in time she told me her |
DRY. Let me telii to you. l have written
cries Of imaR ination; but this is story of
ct, and l want you to believe it. It is
ne, every word of it, save the names |
ven, and when you read it, you whose
es are now upon these lines, stop and
fect that it is only one of many life stories
70 unto it. ''War is cruelty" said our
cut general. 1t is. 1t must be 90. But
all we not, we women, like Sisters of
rarity, 60 over the field when the battle is I
ne, bringing balm and wine and oil for p,
Ose who suffer?
''Down here in the cotton country we
,re rich once. madam; we were richer I
an Northerners ever are. for we tOiled
t for our money, neither took thought &
: it; it came and we spent it; that was all. | t
? father was Clayton CoteswOrtb, and G
r home was twenty miles from here at Z
> sand hills. Our cotton lands were +