Juniata sentinel and Republican. [volume] (Mifflintown, Juniata County, Pa.) 1873-1955, 1876-08-09


grown rusty like. A hand-writ book,
miss-a manscrip sum folks call it. L,
b1ongs, you might say, to Bowles'
Mill, for it wus left with the old dea-
con, to be kept till called fur, an was
writ by the curusest spesmin of a hu-
man cretur; but he died afore my time.
I'm stranger in these parts. l wus
reared twelve miles back"
"And no one has called for the book ?''
"Not yit," said Tim, mysteriously-
mot yit. Folks is too sup'stilious.
There be sum who say it never will be
called fur till the old deacon lies aside
O. the cretur who writ it. He died sud-
din, az was buri'd up in the deacon IS
buri'l lot. An sum say he wush't buri'd
but is gone sea wage, an IL come
back: an sum say he's been seed bodily
round Bowles' Mill moonlight nights.
But you needn't be scared, miss. The
hook is nat'ral harmless. An If you
say 90, I'll git it fur you this mint, an
when you're through readin' ont, I'll
put it back
Up to the rafters he climbed nimbly
by certain foot holds not very visible,
and brought down, with a flying leap
that startled Miss Thatcher to her feet
in nervous apprehensions for his safety,
dusty volume, which he gallantly
wiped upon his coat sleeve and offered.
An autobiography, not so very old,
for its closing date was 1874. Four
hundred pages of yellow letter-paper
stitched together by the dozen sheets,
and finally bound In a wrap of black
leather. Written in a fine, pointed
hand, difficult to read at first, but once
mastered in its idiosyncracies, legible
at ease. And having this popularity:
on almost every page, mixed up with
the text, were maps carefully drawn
and dotted, inclosed in neatly ruled
parallelograms, but without any figures
or marginal references to show connec-
ton with the writing.
81 am one of two brothers," the mar
rative commenced, sin all points as un-
like, from the moment of birth, as
Jacob and Esau."
Then followed, interspersed with the
incomprehensible maps, brief history
of an unhappy childhood, unloved as
childhood could be, an adolescence ut
terly unblessed and dissatisfied; and
after page of atheistical TRADE against
the inequality of fortune and the bitter
tyranny of fate, the personal history
developed into a descriptive diary of
travels and business connections in
South America, whittier the writer had
immigrated in his twenty-sixth year.
So far, and little farther, the manu-
script bore marks of having been read;
pages were dogeared, and there was an
occasional thumb print. But the style |
was so dull and monotonous, and the |
detail so lacking in adventure, that not |
one of ''the visitors at Red Cedar Pond"
had been inspired with sufficient Curl
osity to read the volume to its close.
Not one-excepting Miss Thatcher.
She read every page carefully, even |
with avidity.
One Saturday morning. beautiful |
sunny morning, for rainy days could
no longer be waited for, the interest of
the diary had become so absorbing
Miss Thatcher was early in her favorite /
place at the old mill, when Tim, with
surprisingly long face, accosted her
in startling whisper:
"The manuscripts bin called fur"
Miss Thatcher turned quite pale. "Is
it gomez" she asked. family.
"No, miss, not gone," said Tim. ra-
diantly, well satisfied with "the start"
he had given her; "not tuck away
when you wus a-readin' ont. Catch
me! Says i, Sir, you must bring a
written ORDER So he went up the hill
to the old deacon 's-that wus Yesterday.
He'll be here fur certain to-day. But
you've got the Manuscript, miss, to look
at once agin, anyhow. Catch me
a-givin ont up till had ter"
''rim, you are very good, kind fel-
low," said Miss Thatcher.
She took the manuscript, and it was
then that, before she had read a word.
she wrote in fine pencil mark upon the
margin Of one OF the sallow pages-a
page she turned over leaf after leaf es-
pecially to find
mo one TO love, none 10 caress."
Hardly had she written this when
the sound of a crutch was heard on the
mill bridge, and voices, and in another
moment the sunny doorway of the mill
was darkened by two figures.
There was no escape for Louisa. She
arose from her love of a corner, with
the manuscript in her hands.
81 am sure you have come for this"
she said to the old deacon. Then she
glanced at his companion.
He could certainly bear no relation
to "the curusest spesmin of a human
cretur" described by Tim as the author
of the diary. She caught the impress
sion, in her rapid glance, of a scholarly
looking young man, with pale fore
head and dark moustache, who wore
eyeglasses.
81 believe l am the owner of the
record left here so many years ago."
the young man explained. "But
have no reason TO carry it awav at this
sIall be In the village over
the Sabbath, perhaps through the week.
If you have not finished reading it,
shall leave the book with you gladly"
''Ob, no" said Miss Thatcher, quickly
too quickly she afterward thought;
but embarrassment, or perhaps fate,
urged her to decline the strangers po-
liteness.
She was going, and as she went an
impulse caused her to
turn back, and say, "If you are kindred
to the man who wrote the book, twill
make you very sad, l hope-T hope
you will feel little love for him."
At church on Sunday the claimant
of the Bowles' Mill manuscript ap-