The weekly clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1863-1882, 1876-12-20


al rugg-d nature of David, on the otht
n hand, seemai to have hardened und,
z ffhe rod the hard features had becem
IS harder, the cold gray eye colder an
/ sterner than ever Even now, Will
t reading the sweet Christmas idyl, tn
5 sweet story whose burden is the songs c
J. the angels, Peace on earth good Will t
j men, his harsh voice lost none of it
: accustomed harshneSs, but uttered Tia
} sacred words detiantiy, in tones suite,
5 rather to tale of battle and violence thar
70 the glad tidings of everlasting peace.
Slowl and steadily, never raising hi
leyes from the sacred page, David Hoi
read on; but even above his loud harsh
tones could be heard the unmistakablt
signs of Il storm without. The vino
BOWED and roared over the wild wes
country moor, straining against the cot
tage caves, wrestling with door and case,
Iment, and piling heaps of snow high
against the lattice windows. It was a
night in which no one, with home to 90
to, would willingly have been out of
doors; any shelter. even the poorest, and
z sdghest, would have been preferable to
fexposure to that Pitiless storm and yet,
out IN the cottage garden, under the full
fury of the bitter wind and driving snow
a woman stood. bareheaded and motion
less, gazing through the lattice with
wild, longing, hungry eyes at the scene
within. After little while she crept
into the porch, but not to ask for shelter
One knock at the door, rs though dealt
with feeble or timid hand, was heard
and then, waiting not the result, she
/ u n, /,
| long hair streaming in the wild wind, to-
wards the open moor
After u moment or two the door open
ed, and light from within cast Il broad,
bright beam into the outer darkness
and Mary Holt, shading her eyes with
her hand, peered forth into the storm.
She caught sight of the flying figure
and called her husband, and the two
gazad after it till it disappeared alto
gether in the darkness. David was the
first to re-enter the cottage, saying as he
did so, Come in, Missuss, come in,
will 'ee? It's some foolish prank o one o
village wenches. She thought 10 fright
us, | reckon" His wife turned to fol-
low him, but as she did so, stumbled
against bundle lying at her feet
She's left some'at behind her, then,
said the old woman, STOPPING to examine
it, when faint wailing cry was heard,
and she started back an instant; then
hastily snatching up the bundle rushed
into the cottaga. ooh, Davy, did zee
ever; it's child" As she spoke, she
laid her burden on the table, aud letting
fall the thick wooden cloak iE which it
was wrapped, discovered a baby of three
or four months old, whose wide open
eyes seemed to testify the utmost aston
ishment as to how he got there. With
motherly instinct the good soul took the
child in her arms, pressing it to her bo
som with murmurs of endearment. But
David's brow was black as night a
pretty thing, the shameless jade, to sad
die honest folk WI her love-brat; but I'll
find her out, | warrant-aye, that | will,
if it cost me twenty pound T.
"Nay, Davy, don't zee be too hard on
the poor soul. There's never sin with
out sorrow; and she have had a weary
sight o pain and misery before she'd be
willing to part with her child
"And serve her right, baggage" re
piled her husband. III there's law or
justice in the parish, I'll have her in the
stocks before another week is out"
"Davy, Davy" pleaded the good |
wife. "oure you've forgotten that Its
Christmas Eve, and the good words you |
were reading but now. Oh master, |
don't be angry overmuch tonight"
David was about to IL Ike Il stern re |
joinder, when his wife caught sight Of a |
small locket of gold and blue enamel, |
which was hung about the chid's neck |
by blue ribbon. With a cry, as if she |
had received blow, she gasped, ooh, |
David, David, look at this' Its hers,
its AlIy's, our own child's.'
A fash of indescribable emotion |
passed for moment over David Hollis |
face, aud lip ana eyelid quivered. Bat
1T was ouiy tor moment, and the stern |
face hardened again, shade paler, per
hapS, bat dark and stern as ever When !
he spoke it was slowly and distinctly.
81 don't know Of whom YOU speak |
had a child o that name once, but she |
brought shame upon us. Take her who
will, shes none Q mine"
''She is our own flesh and blood, D3-
vid," pleaded the old woman, in agony |
of tears. The Lord made her that, and |
bitter words won't alter it. Oh to think /
that she should have been here, close to |
our door, and out in the storm Davy. |
won't you-won't you fetch her back?"
David sat silent, sullenly gazing into
the fire.
''Davy, you call yourself Christian
man. You wouldn't turn a dog to door
on such nighs as this, aud yet you'll /
suffer your own child to be wandering on
the moor, without a place to Law her
head"
''She can ask for shelter"
''Shelter Likely that she who
daredn't face her own father and mother,
I'D seek shelter o strangers
As she spoke she opened the cottage
door, which, the moment the latch was
raised, was flung back heavily by the
wind, and a torrent of snow poured in.
Like the timid bird, valiant in defense
of her fedgelings, the mothers gentle ma
ture rose to arms, and battled in behalf
of her child.
"Oh, David, shame on you Have
you the heart OF a man, to sit there like a
stone image, when your own flesh and
blood may be perishing o cold and wet2
Lord help me, I'm but feeble old
woman, but my only child shan't die
outside my door, an me sittin' by the
fire within"
With eager haste the old woman
fetched pillow, and placing it upon the
hearthrug, laid the child upon it. Then,
her fingers trembling with excitement, /
she lighted the candle in an old horn 1
lantern, and throwing a thick shawl over
her head, snatched up the cloak in which I
the baby had been wrapped and rushed
to the door.
As she reached it, David rose slowly. /
"Well, missus, if you are bound to go,
[ reckon I'll have to 90 too. But mind |