Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1877-09-21

looking impatiently for their mother cows,
but no little boy and girl stood near them.
"Willie-MaryLmy childrenl"
The words were screamed out as only
frightened mother can scream. Echo an-
swered her, and then the silence was un-
broken.
A stream headed up into the prairie
little further on, and beside ii clustered
young growth of ottonwoods. II 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 ii
had so often shaded?
The mothers limbs shook as with
spasms, her threat felt choked, her brain
whirled, the color went out from 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 re-
alize truly her whereabouts. And 1t was
only after many struggles that she at length
rose and tottered toward home.
The baby was screaming in its fathers
arms, and he, poor weary man, as he now
| paced the floor with the little wrestling
child, and then stood with II 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 aud the barn. 1t came nearer-it as
sumed shape-it made light footsteps-it
was her, his Mary.
"What has happened, motherP What
ails you? Where are the children1 Speak,
| Mary, for heavens sake, and tell me what
has happeued."
A sob, a groan, and the falling OF her
body on the floor were the only answer.
"Willie- ie-Mary-my children-lost-lost
on the wild prairier'
In broken accents the words struggled
| from her lips, as life returned TO her. Then,
| az her heart once more bounded with
strong, though uneven pulses, she reused
herself and standing upright, caught her
husband by the arm, and told him in few
brief, terse sentences the sad story Of the
children's wanderings.
leave mel am wesk-sick l
shall live-live till / see them, or"-she
shuddered and wrung her hands passion
ately for moment. Then assuming calm
ness, she said, firmly: "Take the colt,
| William, and the COW bells aud your gun.
Go straight down TO the creek and raise all
a bout there, making all The noise you can.
Then, if you get no trace, ride over TO
Niek's cabin and rouse them, and get their
old hound-he was great pet with the
she could only sob the word-"children.
Take Mary's"-auother sob-"bonnet, and
| ~ I.,,i -,
mer'
| A single kiss was LEFT on her white lips,
and the an xious father left her, and SPRING
ing on TO his half broken colt he started.
The prairie echoed to the reverberstions 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
depth. Again and again he made the cir
cult of the little clump OF cotton woods, aud
then sadly he turned away, and spurring
his horse into a wild gallop, lie started for
the nearest cabin. The four miles were
soon passed, aud the sympathizng neigh
bors aroused TO aid his search.
"Call ih g dog, Tom," said the father, as
he lfted his wife on the horse, and then
sprang into the saddle.
"I have, father, but l can't find him,
Was lie here at supper, mo:herH"
81 didn't mind, child. l set down his
pan of bones. but had heap OF chores tc
do, and didn't mind whether he came up
or no. Run TO the shed and see, child"
THE bones amt been touched-wher6
can he be -
"Well, we mustn't stop for him. But
Tom, when he does come, you show him
the bonnet. Itll start him." And giving
the word to his hOis Sc, he follow cd the heart
broken father.
"Leave me here" said good Mrs. Ben
nett, as they hailed at the creek, 81 car
find my way TO the cabin, If II is dark, ant
I'll take good care of her, too. I'll get hel
to take some Of that old cordial stuff my
old doctor in Indiana used to make up fO
folks what was nervous, and il can one,
get her 10 sleep, I'll keep her So" An'
with fleet steps she FASTENED TO the lionel,
home.
But il was only after much coaxing tha
the mother was prevailed upon TO swallow
the cordial and lie down, and then II wa
more to crafty her neighbor than from an.
faith in the value of the medicine. Blu
the resllt proved that it had not been to-
highly extolled, for her limbs soon cease
their corvulsive twitchings, and her lip
their low, sad moaning, and ere the clocl
struck twelve, she lay in profound, swee
sleep.
Lucky thought TO bring it along,
said Mrs. Bennett, lifting her head as soOI
, as the measured breathing of the mothe
assured her she had forgotten her troubles
"Poor thiugW and she bent compassion
, ately over her, and smoothed back her dis
ordered hair, "my heart aches for you"
+ "I'll fix the fire all ready 10 light, an
spread the table, so that can get suppe
r ready in a few minutes when they come
! for they'll be dreadMlly tired, and as
poor Grey, l don't believe he's eaten
mouthful since morning.
: "Irs pretty night, so still and cool like
/ but 1 wish 1t was brighter. If it was onl
! the full of the moon and the sky clear, the
might happen TO come on them for that
3 their only chance. They'll never wake
r them tonight with all their horns an
t bells and shouts. Children sleep so SCUM
when they're tired. Dear me-but il
dreadful to think of. If stray wolf shoul
= happen 10 catch them, or a rattlesnake or
r blue racer bite them, or If they should hav
9 to starve. Bless me, but 1t would near ki
3 her! And they was such pretty children
= so loving always-but what's thatH"
: She listened eagerly. Then exclaimln
; joyfully: "They're coming-Ill hurry an
, get them something 10 eai," she ran in an
kindled the fire, and ere the horses ha
fairly reached the door, had smoking HI
= supper ready for the table.
r With outstrelched hands she waited
A. loo, AIag thara tuaro M liiila chi