The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1876-07-13
None to Caress,

woman III deep mourning whom the Stall
Wart proprietor of the awkward vehicle
lifted down ike a feather accepted hel
dreaded destination with smile.
"How lovely" were the first words
that escaped her lips; and they were APP
propriated as a fitting compliment by a
rustiiy clad man. who seized the little
gloved hand vigorously in his horny
palm, and chopped he saw Miss Thatcher
quite we'll"
"Supper's BIN ready this halt hour
was the laconic and not amiable saluta-
lion of Mr. Seamans spouse, who receiv-
ed Louisa in the porch.
AN the boys is gone tishin', you see, =
said the host. ''When Solon's to hum
from grammar school, Ezris sure to ine
him, an take a day off,
After tea, served in 4 narrow white
washed anteroom to the stiff funeral par
lor, where Miss Thatcher was bid 'take
Oft her things" the young lady begged
to be shown to her own room, and was
led up stairs to -windowed bed
room. carpeted with braided rags, and
furnished with redeemed pine and calico
counterpanes The luggage had been
pushed in with mental ejaculation,
"What on earth can a distric' school
ma'am want with two big trunks?' and
the audible information. '.Ive filled voul
pitcher. Here's a candle. The git-up bell
II ring at six"
With as slight preparation as might be,
the overwearied girl-homesick to her
hearts core-crept into bed.
She awoke with q start The room was
quite dark; cool damp mountain wind
rushed through the open windows. She
lighted a match and glanced at her watch
Only nine o'clock, and the world still wide
awake. a burst Of hilarious laughter arose
from the kitchen below, where the return
ed fishermen were scaling their fish. From
the house beyond the orchard came the
tmkllng Of a piano, and Il thin, sharp te-
male voice practiced gingerly a song just
then come into vogue:
mo one to love, none to caress,
Travelling alone through lifc's wilderness. ?
."My serenade," thought Louisa, as she
tried in vain to recompose herself to sleep
" Could any words express me better
An orphan, without brother OF sister, pen
niless, nearly friendless, the one being
that loved and adored gone from me
forever. No one to love, none to caress
Could any thing be truer Of me than
that ?''
The village school children were EN-
chanted with their new teacher. She was
gentle and firm, interesting and compan-
lonable. There was not Il sunny day all
summer when some Of them did not come
after school to take her with them to Red
Cedar Pond the holiday rendezvous of
the country round
If the afternoon proved rainy, and this jll-
venile escort failed, Miss Thatcher wrap
ping herself in waterproof, and taking a
book with her, would so down the or
chard's steep bank to the old mill She
made friends with Tim, the miller's
boy, and .Bill Bowles, the miller, and
1.-The old deacon" the prehistoric proprie-
tor OF the premises, who had not failed a
day these fifty years to look in, rain or
shine, to see ''if things was to rights
She found 4 love of Il corner where,
through the cracks under the great beams,
she could see the water wildly rushing,
and where she could hear, in its grand
excitement, the grind and whill. the boom
and splash, of the mad flood whose sound
up on the hill yonder assumed such a
droWsy monotone.
You be SO fond of readn', miss" said
Tim, the miller's boy. ''mebbe you'd take
a shine to a Gurus book we've got ere
There was 4 time when all the visitors to
Red Cedar Pond cum down to take a look
at it; but its grown rusty like. \ hand
writ book, miss-a manscrip sum folks
calls it. 1t blongs, you might say, to
Bowles's Mill, for it wus left with sthe
old deacon, to be kept till called fur, an
wus writ by the curusest spesmin. OF a
human cretur; but he died atore my time
Im a stranger in these parts. | wus rear
ed twelve miles back"
"And no one has called for the book ??
Not yit. " said Tim, mysteriously-
mot yit, Folks is too sup'stitious. There
be sum who say it never will be called fur
till the old deacon lies aside O. the cretuI
who writ it. He died suddin. an wus
buri'd up in the deacon's buri'l lot An
sum say he wusn't Duri'd, but is gone a
sea wage, an ii come back; an sum
say he's been seed bodily round Bowles's
Mill moonlight nights, But you needn' t
be scared, miss. The book is nat'ral
harmless An if you say so, I'll git it ful
you this mint. an when you're through
readiE' ont, III put it back"
Up to the raiters he climbed nimbly by
certain foot-holds not very visible, anc
brought down, with a flying leap that
startled Miss Thatcher to her feet in nerv-
Gus apprehension for his safety, a dusty
volume, which he gallantly wiped upon
his coat sleeve and offered
An autobiography, not SO very old, tol
its closing date was lS47. -Four hundred
pages of yellow letter-paper stitched to
gether by the dozen sheets, and finally
bound in a wrap Of black leather Writ
ten in Il fine, pointed hand, difficult tc
read at first, but once mastered in it,
idiosyncrasies, legible at ease. And hay
ing this peculiarity: on almost every
page, mixed in with the text, were maps
carefully drawn and dotted, inclosed il
neatly ruled parallelograms, but without
any figures OF marginal references to show
connection with the writing.
II am one OF two brothers, ~ the nara
tive commenced, ''in all points as unlike
from the moment of birth, as Jacob anc
Esau,"
Then followed, interspersed with the
incomprehensible maps, a brief history OF
an unhappy childhood, unloved as child
hood could be, an adolescence utterly un
blessed and dissatisfied; and after a page
of atheistical TRADE against the inequality
of fortune and the bitter tyranny OF fate
the personal history developed into de
scriptive diary of travels and business
connections in South America, whittier
the writer had immgrated in his twenty
sixth year
So far, and little farther, the manu-
script bore marks of having been read
pages were dog-eared, and there was al
occasional thumb print But the style
was so dull and monotonous, and the de
tail so lacking in adventure that not ont
| of ''the visitors at Red Cedar Pond" hat
been inspired with sufficient curiosity to
read the volume to its close
Not one = excepting Miss Thatcher
She read every page carefully, even with
avidity.
One Saturday morning "a beautiful
sunny morning, for rainy days could NJ
longer be waited for, the interest of tn,
diary had become SO absorbing - Mis-
Thatcher was early in her favorite place
at the cid mill, when Tim, with sur
prisingly long face, accosted her in
| startling whisper: