The Carbon advocate. [volume] (Lehighton, Pa.) 1872-1924, 1877-02-03
WAS IT LUCK 4?
BY JENNIE STERLING.

prosper, or If it happens that good luck
seems about to "turn up" disappoint-
ment invariably follows as if some Ne
mesis pursued them.
An individual with just such family
history, on certain day in the year
1875, was sittings at the small window
of poverty stricken-looking dwelling
in the outskirts of Brooklyn.
He was middle. aged man, pale, mel
ancholy yet having an aritoeratic bear
ing, which even shabby clothing could
not quite conceal.
While appearing to gaze at the view
without, his thoughts were in reality
concentrated upon himself.
elena" he said, suddenly addressing
his companion, "Lena, there is no use
in striving against fate, The family
curse pursues me even here; now just
as l expected to be installed as clerk in
Hopkins employ, a younger man steps
into the position.
To-day, find i have reduced the
slender sOles of my faithful boots to
such extreme attenuation that | doubt
If they can carry me much longer in
search of employment. l am thorough
ly discouraged"
His wife responded with a sigh; all
through the years of their married life
he had been discouraged. 1t was the
same old cry under all circumstances,
whether of good or evil.
She was of that gentle type of women
who are born CONSIDERS, who suffer in
silence, but are accustomed to look at
the bright side of things, to point to
the silver lining of the cloud, to the
rainbow of premise; but now, she, too,
was losing hope and courage, being un-
der the influence of torturing poverty,
which was slowly pinching AMI grind
ing their lives away:
"Hernenn," she said at last, "you
are right; fate Is againt u.s."
Her husband turned quickly, and
looked inquiringly and anxiously into
her face.
1t was pale, wan face, possessing
traces of former beauty; she answered
the look by repeating, 81 say fate is
against you"
This from you, Lena? then am dis.
couraged; let fate do her worst" he said
bitterly, folding his arms, and sitting
listleasiy back into his chair.
Hermann, you mast sell the ring I"
"Wnat sell the only reminder of
former greatness Our Heirloom. What
can you be thinking Of, Lena ?"
II am thinking of gold," she replied,
with an empty purse and no credit,
an exacting, impOrtunate landlord, and
no prospects for the future. " is folly
to hoard the gittering bauble, for sure.
ly it is nothing more to us, shut up as
it is IN its leathern case"
Eyes, yes, am God forsaken.
have been selfish enough in dragging
you down 20 my own level. will sell
the ring for your sake; but Lena, do
not forget that curse may follow"
Hermann Ulrich emigrated from
Germany with the expectation of i'm
proving his condition in the land of
freedom.
He belonged to a "good old stock"
family having a fatality attached to its
history.
His father, from the wreck of fallen
fortunes, retained the ring which he
placed on his sons finger when dying.
81 charge you not to part with it,"
he said; keep it for your boys sake,
for what ever good fortune is in store
for its possessOr, it brings-lOse, or sell
this family legacy heavy curse will
inevitably follow, so says our tradition,
so say |, !" and thus was the good bar
on's bequest brought safely over the
ocean and kept as sacred treasure, not
so much for its intrinsic value, as for
its associations, and the superstitions
connected with it.
The grandchild to whom It would
decend in the order of consanguini-
ty, died shortly after their arrival in
New York City.
The small sum of money at their dis.
pOsal was soon exhausted; Obliged to
move from place TO place in search of
cheaper rent, they at last located them
selves in Brooklyn, and there, strangers
in strange land, starvation seemed
probable Nothing remained but to sell
the ring, and it was not without many
severe struggles that UIrich consented.
1t was Lena's words decided his wav-
erng purpose. "My boy is dead. and
S~hhpN oSS my "ll6 olhINOf uc bhlN
to himself apolOgetically.
About mile from the dwelling where
these unfortunate victims to supersti-
tion were fighting poverty and adverse
fate, there lived poor withered old
woman in miserable shanty called the
'rOokery."
She was out every morning long be-
fore the dawn of day with her basket
and hook, diving into cutters and bar
rels in search of something to exchange
for bread.
She worked industTiously at her hum
BILE calling with will; because she had
motive, a motive as strong as any
which moves the heart to action-it was
love.
Yes, it was a loving heart which
beat beneath those rags.
To watch her, bending over filthy
barrel, searching through its mass of
rubbish, to note the seant faded dress
and the old rag which served for q
shawl, and the dirty hood drawn over
the wrlnkeled face bronzed by constant
exposure to sun and Wind-it would be