The Wheeling daily register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1864-1878, 1876-07-22
NONE TO CARESS.


There had been summer shower
roof, window, garden, were washed TO
dazzling polish and the wonderful liquid
coujeur de rose of the moment poured
over all an air of enohantment. The
slender Young woman in deep mourning
whom the stalwart proprietor OF the awk'
ward vehicle lifted down like "a feather
accepted her dreaded destination with q
smile.
allow lovely" were the first words
that escaped her lips; and they were sp-
propriated as fitted compliment by q
rustily.clad man, who seized the little
gloved hand vigorously in his horny
palm, and chopped ne saw Miss Thatcher
very we'll" :. ,
"Supper's bin ready this half hour"
WAS the laconic and not amiable saluta'
ton of Mr.. Sesmans spouse, who re-
celved Louisa in the porch.
IAN the boys is gone fshin', you see,
said the host. "When Solon's to hum
from grammar school, Ezri's sure 10 jine
him, an take day or" -.
After tea, served in narrow white
washed anteroom to the stiff funeral par
lor, where Miss Thatcher was bid "take
of her things" the young lady begged to
be shown to her own room, snd was led
I'D stairs to low-windowed bedroom,
csrpoted with braided rags, and furnished
with Redeemed pine and csico counter
psnes. The luggage had been pushed In
with mental ejaculation. what on
earth can q distric' school-maam want
with two big trunks" and the audible
information. "Ive filled your pitcher.
Here's candle. The git-up belrll ring
at six"
With as slight preparation as might be,
the overwearied girl-homesick to her
hearts core-crept into bed.
She awoke with start. The room was
quite dark; Il cool damp mountain wind
rushed through the open windows. She
lighted match and glanced at her watch.
Only 9 o'clock, and the world still wide
awake. A BURT Of hilarious laughter
arose from the kitchen below, where the
returned fishermen were scaling their
fish. From the house beyond the orchard
came the tinkling of piano, and thin,
sharp female voice practiced gingerly a
song just then come into vogue:
No one to love, none TO caress,
Travelling alone through LIES wilderness.
"My serensde." thought Louisa, as she
tried in vain to recOmpose herself to
sleep. "Could any words express me bet
ter? An orphan, without brother or sls-
ter, penniless, nearly friendless, the one
being that loved and adored gone from
me forever. No one to love, none to
caress.' Could anything be truer of me
than that?'
The village school children were en-
chanted with their teacher. She was
gentle and firm, interesting and compan.
ionable. There was not q sunny day all
summer when some OF them did not come
alter school to take her with them to Red
Cedar Pond, the holidays rendezvous OF
the country around.
If the afternoon proved rainy, and this
Juvenile escort failed. Miss Thatcher,
wrapping herself in waterproof, and TAX
Ing a book with her, would 90 down the
orchards steep bank to the old mill. She
"msde friends" with Tim, the millers
boy, and Bill Bowles, the miller, and %he
old deacon" the prehistoric proprietor OF
the premises, who had not failed day
these City years to look in, rain or shine,
to see "if things was to rights
She found love OF a 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 whirl, the
boom and splash, OF the mad food whose
sound up on the hill yonder assumed such
a drowsy monotone.
"You be so fond of readin miss" said
Tim, the iniller's boy, "mebbe you'd take
q shine to q Gurus book we've got ere.
| There was a time when all the visitors TO
Red Cedar Pond cum down to take a look
at it; but it's grown rusty like. A hand.
writ book, miss--a msnscrip sum folks
calls it. II b'longs, you might say, to
Bowles' Mill, for it was left with the old
deacon to be kept TIL called fur, an was
writ BY the curusest spesmln of human
creiur; but he died afore my time. I'm
a stranger in these parts. l wus reared
twelve miles back
"And no one has called for the bookf
Mot yit," said Tim, mysteriously-"not
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 cretur
who writ it. He died suddin, an was
burid up in the deacons buri'l lot. Al
sum say he wusnt buri'd, but is gone q
sea wage, an II come back; An sum say
hes been seed bodily round Bowles' Nil!
moonlight nights. But you needn't be
scared, Miss. The book is nst'ral harm
less, An if you say so, I'll git it fur YOU
this mint an when you re through read
in ont, I'll put it back
| Up to the rafters he climbed nimbly by
certain foot-holds not very visible, and
| brought down, his feet in nervous appre-
tensions for his safety, dusty volume
which he calamity wiped upon his coat
sleeve and offered.
An autobiography, not so very old, 70,
its closing date was 1874. Four hundred
pages of yellow letter-paper stitched to
gether by the dozen sheets, and finally
bound in wrap of black leather. Writ
ten in a fine, pointed hand, difficult to
read at first, but once mastered in its
idiosyncrscies, lesible 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 parallelogrsms, but without
any figures or marginal references Il
show connection with the writing.
II am one oftwo brothers" the nara
tive commenced, sin all points as unlike
from the moment Of birth, as Jacob and
Essu."
Then followed, intespersed with tht
incomprshensible maps, briet history o
an unhappy childhood, unloved Is child
hood could be, an adolescence utterly IN
blessed and dissatisned; and after page
of atheistical TRADE against the ineq usiisy
of fortune and the bitter tyranny OF fate
the personal history developed into de-
| s.r,rn;va a;spy If trsvals and business