The Weston Democrat. [volume] (Weston, W. Va.) 1875-current, 1876-02-28
HE TELLS A STORY.
ne Houssnyc Gives Ms Characteristic
Skctch Of Parlsinn Life.

"
sketch OF ParIsian Life.
And now, my dear readers, says Ar
sonc Houssaye in a letter to the New
York Tribune, let me tell you story ol
ehnother friend Of mine, who was ar
ass, but not q savant. His name was
Pierrot.
Tho frost was silveriug the trees OF the
plrk Mouceau with dull white powder,
like the head OF marquis OF the old
regime. 1t was in front Of the rotunda,
md nine o'clock in the morning. The
sun hung in tho fog like globe Of fire,
but cast forth no beams. The wind was
cruel to the poor world. People walked
rapidly along tho Boulevard do Cour-
ccllcs; women veiled tlleirfaces and men
drew their heads inside their collars. II
was u. day when n lovers sigh would
have frozen in the air.
Twas hnrrying by like everybody else.
A female rngpickor, palc and famished,
led by tho bride poor little donkey,
which seemed hundred years old, and
which dragged n poor little cart, full oI
tho rubbish Of tho street: rags, broken
bottles, torn papers, worn ont skillcts,
crusts Of bread, the thousand nothings
which arc the fortune Of raSpickers.
Tho woman had done good work since
midnight, but tho ass was ready to drop.
He stopped short, rs Ii he had made up
his mind 10 go no further. His legs
trembIcd and threatened. n fall. He
hung his head with resignation, rs il
awaiting the stroke OF death.
The sight touched and arrested me.
A man would have cursed and beaten
the poor beast to rouse him; the woman
looked Mt him with M eye of motherly
pity. Tho donkey returned her look, as
II saying: "You see it is all over. l
have done my best for you night after
night, because l saw your misery was
greater thai mine. You have treated
me well, sharing your bread with me,
and your 'ncighbor's oats, when you
could steal any; but am dying ut last. "
The woman looked at him and said
gently: "Comc, come. dear Pierrot,
do not lcavc me here" She lightened
. tho load by taking ont basket Of
broken bottles. "Come, now," she
said, rs il talking to child. "You can
get nlong nicely now." She put her
shoulder to the wheel. but the donkey
did not move. He knew he had not
the strength to walk to st. Ouen, his
wretchod home. Shostill coaxsd him.
"Hqw do you think We can get on this
way, Pierrotl To be sure, l could drag
the cart. But can't put you in it, aud
you would bo ashamed to be dragged
after it,. The donkey raised his ears,
but no move.
I was going to speak to her, when she
ran to tho nearest wine shop. The ass
followed h'r with anxious eyes; he seem-
cd fearful that lie would die without his
mistress. Ho was' so little you would
have taken him at Il distance for Pyrc.
mean dog. He had grown gray in the
harness. A few tufts OF gray hair re-
mained here and there on his emaciated
body. He looked like mountain burn.
ed bare in many places. His resigned
mir showed n mind free from worldly
wlnitics. ae was far past the age where
one slrikos attitudesI He was almost
transparent in his leanness. But his
face was oil the moro expressive. 1t
Ind something almost human in its in
tclligence and goodness. Why, had he
been condemned to such suffering; was
it the expiatiop Of former life passed
in luxurious oreiesl
Tho rngpicker soon returned. bring.
ing q piece OF bread and a piece OF
sugar. The ass turned and showed his
tceth, like old piano keys. But although
it was his breakfast time, he had no
more strength in his mouth than in his
legs. She gave him the sugar. He took
it as il to oblige her, but dropped it
ngain, and the same with the bread,
"What shall I do2" said the rag.
picker. She thought no moro OF her
cart. She was full OF anxiety for her
friend Piorrot. "Pierrot |" she cried
again. Two great tears came to her
eyes. She took his head in her arms
and kissed him like child. The ca
ress did what nothing else could do.
The ass reused himself and brayed as in
his best days. Ifeared it was only his
swan song. approached and said to
the woman: "You seem to bo in trou.
ble."
=, "oh," sho said, crying, "if You
knew how love this beast. I saved
him from tho butchers four years ago.
Iu those days had only hod. have
raised seven children with my hook.
Tho father is gone and one other, and
my eldest daughter was taken away a
fortnight ago. My worst grief was that
I had to take one to the foundlings-I
had eleven in all-four OF them died at
the breast. It's no use; you can't have
good milk when you work in the streets
all night. This little donkey has been
my consolation. He was better com.
pany than my husband. He never got
drunk, and never beat mo, and I never
beat him. Did I, Pierroti"
The poor little beast appeared to
share In the conversation. he half
raised hia oars and aSRented. One of