The daily gazette., 1877-05-01

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their shortcake-poor things, they'll be
disappointed, but I'll save the berries and
and make one for breakfast" And giving
hasty but careful look to the stove to
see that the fire was burning bright, she
threw on her sun-bonnet and ran to the
barn. There were no sleeping children
there. She looked in the calfpen, The
two little red bossies were nestled close
to the bars. looking out impatiently for
their mother cows, but no little girl stood
near them.
"Willie-Mary-my children"
The words were screamed out as emily
a frightened mother can scream. Echo
answered her, and then the silence was
unbroken.
A stream headed up into the prairie a
little further on, and beside it clustered a
young growth of cottonwoods. 1t was
her last hope, and with frantic steps she
ran there. Mary's little sun bonnet lay
on the bank, the strings stained with
strawberry juice, but where rested the
golden locks it had so often shaded?
The mothers limbs shook as with
spasms, her throat felt choked her brain
whirled the color went out flom her
cheeks and the light from her eyes, she
sank upon the grass, feeling the weakness
Of death. 1t was dark before she revived
enough to realize truly her whereabouts.
And it was only after many struggles that
she at length rose and tottered tow ard
home.
The baby was screaming in its fathers
arms, and ne, poor, weary man, as he now
hn \ f1a Ia ls.c
child, and then stood with it in the door,
way trying to peer out into the gathering
shadows, wondered and wondered again
where his wife could have gone.
Something moved in the path between
him and the barn. 1t came nearer-it
assumed shape,-it it made light footsteps
ifwas her, his Mary.
What has happened, mother? What
ails you? Where are the children? Speak
Mary, for Heavens sake, tell me what
has happened"
A sob, groan, and the falling of her
bod on the floor were his only answer.
"Wilhe-Mary-myc hhdren-lost-lost
on the wild prairie!"
In broken accents the words struggled
from her lips, as life returned to her.
Then, as her heart one more bounded
strong, though uneven pulses, she reused
herself, and standing upright, caught her
husband bylthe arm, and told him in few
brief. terse sentence the sad story OF the
children's wanderings.
"Leave mel am weak-sick-but /
shall hve-ive till see them, Or"
She shuddered and wrung her hands pas
sionately for moment. Then assuming
calmness, she said, firmly, "Take the
colt, William, and the lantern and the
cow-bells and your gun. Go straight
down to the creek and raise all about
there, making all the noise you can
Then, if yop get no trace. ride over to
Nick's cabin and rouse tn I'm, and get
their old hound-he was great pet with
the" she could only sob the word
"children. Take another sob
-"bonnet and, William, William, bring
them back to nae"
A single kiss was left on her white lips,
and the anxious father left her, and
springing on to his half broken colt, he
started. The prairie echoed to the rel
verberations of his gun, TO the noisy
tinkle of the bells, to the echoes of his
voice. but no answering sound came up
out of the still, grassy depths. Again
and again, he made the circuit of the
little clump of cottonwoods, and then
sadly he turned away and squirting his
nOTSd luLO d Win BAilOpt nc SbdIUcQ lOI
the nearest cabin. The four miles were
soon passed ,and the sympathizing neigh
bors aroused to aid his search.
"Call the dog, Tom" said the father, as
he lifted his wife on to the horse, and
then sprung into the saddle.
81 have, father, but | can't find him.
Was he here at supper, mother"
az didn't mind, child. set down his
pan of bones, but I had heap of chores
to do, and 1 didn't mind whether he
came up or no. Run to the shed and see,
child"
"The bones aint been touched-where
can he be-"
"Well, we mustn't stop for him. But,
Tom, when he does come, you show him
the bonnet It'll start him." And giving
the word to his horse, he followed the
heart broken father.
"Leave me here" said good Mrs. Bons
nett, as they halted at the creek. 81 can
find my way to the cabin if it is dark, and
I'll take good care of her too. I'll get
her to take some of that cordial -tuff my
old doctor in Indiana used to make up
for folks what was nervous, and if L can
once get her to sleep, I'll keep her So"
And with fleet steps she hastened to the
lonely home.
But it was only after much coaxing
that the mother was prevailed upon TO
swallow the cordial and lie down, and
then 1t was more to crafty her neighbor
than from any faith in the virtues of the
medicine. But the result proved that it
had not been extolled too highly, for her
limbs soon. ceased their convulsive
twitchings and her lips their low, sad
moaning, and ere the clock struck
twelve, she lay in profound, sweet
sleep. s, .s,. elr-.. l-e s. ~.
'.'Lucky thought to bring it along"
said Mrs. Bennett, lifting her head as
soon as the measured breathing of the
mother assured her she had forgotten her
troubles. "Poor thIng!" And she bent
oompasslenately over her, and smoothed
back her .disordered hair, "my heart
aches for you.
"I'll fix the fire all ready to light, and
spread the table, so that can get supper
ready in a few minutes when they come,
for they'll be dreadfully tired, and as to
poor Grey, don't believe he's eat a
mouthful since morning.
"IJs pretty night, SO still and cool
like, but [ wish it was brighter. If 1t
was only the full of the moon and the
sky clear, they might hap to come on
them; for that's their only chance. They'll
never waken them tonight with all
their bells and horns and shouts. Chill
dren sleep so sound when they're tired.
Dear me-but it's dreadful to thing of. II