Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1878-02-28

hand and placing the loaf on the gate
post. "She's one of the town poor-or
rather one of the Lords poor, [ think,
for she doesn't belong TO this township.
Poor old Betsey?"
One might have imagined that old
Ware gave a sort of start just now, as if
an invisible electric shock had struck
him. He was rot used to hearing SYM
pathetic talk of any kind. It tried his
nerves, probably.
One of the wretched Migrants that
are pauperizing the community, wan
dering hither and yon," growled limo
thy.
"Ay, ay, neighbor," says Rebecca,
softly and wistfully; "a hard time they
have Of it, poor things And this many
a year has she been a wanderer and a
vagabond on the face of the earth, has
poor old Betsey." She takes the white
covered loaf absently with her large
shapely hand, looks up and down the
road with thoughtful gray eye, signs
softly, and goes her way, leaving loaf
and napkin Gaping the gate post. And
there yOu might have seen it at night
fall, if you had CHANGED that way; for
hadn't Timothy told the woman he
didn't want it? and was he the man to
demean himself by removing it after
that? And your specializing on the sim
gular stubbornness of the human heart
would not have been lessened had you
caught sight of him, by the Pickering
candle in his upper window, sitting there
mOtlonless with an eye on the gate be-
low. Perhaps he expected Rebecca
back after her gift. / do not know.
She's one of the town poor, is old
Betsey," said Rebecca. meekly, and had
said it meekly year after year, striving
to allure the vagrant old woman into
feeling at home on the charity list of tt e
good towns-folk, and to rest her aching
old bones in the town poor-house. But
old Betsey was not to be trapped.
If one must be poor and ragged, at
least let one have plenty of fresh-air
leisure, says old Betsey. To be pau
per and drudge beth is little 30
much. And to be preached to and
prayed over and hedged in right and
left, and to scrub work-house floors and
scOur work-house knives, all for bit of
bread-bah that is all unbearable,
says old Betsy, Struggling her bony
shoulders under her ragged shawl, and
setting out warily on her everlasting
tramp. She is an incorrigible vagrant,
utterly irreclaimable. Perhaps Rebecca
thinks half-fedged thought like this
when she finds her prey has escaped
her and is fairly on the road again.
On the road again, untamable, rag
ged, hungry, and free. She walks at a
rapid, uneven pace, her thin shawl fut-
tering in the wind, her untidy slippers
Tapping at her heels. 1t grows dusk
as she steals along; the road is dreary
with cloud and shadow, and with a
knocking moon that CLEANS out now
and then, lodging viciously after this
gray old ghost Of woman fitting be-
low. There is white object there
ahead of her-something tall and queer,
with a round white head. The vagrant
swerves q minute out of her way, sur
veying it furtively. Then she puts
forth her clawlike hand and clutches
greedily Rebecca's sweet, dainty loaf.
Aha! what a good providence is here!
All can it be that Fate should come,
for once in a way, with sweetness and
luxury in her hand for an old pauper,
and night and darkness to devour it in
Bewildered with pleasure, old Betsy
hugs the dainty under her faded shawl
There is a crash then, as if the heav-
ems were falling; shout that curdles
her thievish blood; a rough hand is laid
upon her with vise-like grasp. Law
and justice seems to have come down
bodily upon the marauder; but it is
only old Ware, who mas been watching
from his window. His hand is raised to
and vagabond written all over her; in
her vulpine eyes, her long blue nose,
her skinny, clawlike hand. The woman
shrinks back, covering, against the gate
post, with wheezy cough; the old
shawl falls away from her face. Out
comes the moon, and sails along with a
sinister ray pointing right down on the
shivering, crouching figure and on the
countenance that for one instant up
turns toward the assailant.
My God !" cries Timothy. And that
is all. His hand falls at his side, he
turns and walks back to the house, leay-
ing the wretch to her plumber.
The wretch is a mere animal, after
ala hunted animal, it is true, with all
the greed and cunning of such. She
makes her way somewhere with her
prize-it doesn't much matter where
But there comes up q storm at midnight,
Il binding, blood-chilling storm, that
might make veriest tramp thankful for
shelter. Old Ware, sitting motionless
in his upper chamber, hears the rafters
shake overhead. He listens; perhaps
he is afraid the old house will come
down over his head. The wind raves
and shrieks about window and doorway
He gets up by-and-by, and lifting the
dripping sash, looks out into the road.
He sees nothing; no boys will rob his
melon patch tonight, and no beggar
come whining to his gate. Afar off,
where the road circles toward the south
land, old Betsey has crawled into the
shelter Of a way-side barn. No, there
is nothing to be seen any where about.
Timothy shuts the window with shud-
der, and crawls to bed.
\ week after this, Rebecca, sweet and
tintlesS as a new snow drop, stops at
the gate once more.
"Old Betsey, my poor old vagrant,
left us last night, neighbour" she says.
" The blankets and pillows thee sent
were a very great charity, but she
needeth our charity no more"
" No more !" repeated old Ware,
vacantly.
"She died last night" answers Re-
becca, and her lip trembles little.
There is no reply. Rebecca does not
break the long, long pause. She is
used to the old mans moods. Finally
she sets her face to the road again; it is
getting late,
"Rebecca," says the old man, alb
r,,,,+l, ,,I,o;po his how l,ord ,,oo,