Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1879-08-17
THE "UNFORTINITS."

from the Ashuckum express. ''The Bos.
ton train has gone. It's the new range
ment made to accommodate the tunnel
line at Grecnville, and there's been some
body left over here every dav since it
took effect; it amt goin' ter do" he went
on in voice of chagrin, as if he was
personally responsible for the company's
miscalculations.
"Now you've got tour mortal hours ter
wait, and it's terrible dull place for a
stranger ter wait in. This ere havin'
passengers left over at South Verony is
new business-but." with little start of
recollection and in deprecatory tone,
"There's swamp honey-suckles out here
just leettle way, lots on em Ladies
come up here from the city on purpose ter
pick 'em-but perhaps you don't care
Iothin' about EN-, eh?"
40 thank you for speaking of them," 1
said, "they are my especial delight. Do
you think you can direct me so that can
find where they grsw2"
Oil send that leettle unfortinit along
with you; she'll be glad ter 60 Where
is the child? She's ginerally som'ers
round in sight er hearin'. Hlllow there,
! untortinit,," he shouted i'll y voice which
was Iaughabe imitation of q low pitched
locomotive whistle.
Directly in response to the call, a vel
low, bushy head, followed by plump,
square little body, appeared from half
open doorway of neighborlng shantv,
and, in IL moment, a noldescript, wee
creature stood beside us, nodding her
round head shrewdly in eager confrma-
ton OF the directions the good natured
station agent gave me.
"What is your name?" asked looking
down into the square little girls face and
shy blue eyes, as we went out of the sta
ton together along the edge of the shad-
ed bank.
'Och! sure an don't you know l be
Brlslin's girl?' she answered III a dialect
which was II curious mixture of Irish and
Yankee. 81 be the wun what was left
when Brislins house was burnt up-last
year twas now-an' all the Brislins,
'cept me, was burnt up in it. crawled
out the windy; don't ye know? 1t tole
all about it in the papers. I hain't any
home since that day; but they all be
good to me in the shanty village, an
get enough to eat mostly. l stays ANY,
where where there bees ch1lder to look
after | Was used to that; but our Chill
dren - there was a load of 'em-was
burnt in the fire, an Uncle Sammy's
wife took to CALM me the unfortinit an
now that bees what I'm called mostly,
though some of them says. kinder soft
like: 1T be Brislin's girl Uncle Sam
my, 1t was he that stint me with ye--l.is
wife and all of 'em calls him Uncle Sam
my-he says it's dreffel strange how so
many o. the unfortinit sort happens round
here. There be tree O. them up here in
t1e Willcrs, or four, countin the baby"
pointing with the short forefinger of Der
brown, fat, grlmy hand. ugh" as the
long, 1.-THE, swaying branches of the tall
willow tree near by whipped about in the
treshening breeze, turning the white un-
dersldes of their tender leaves to the
light: Ugh! do you believe that to be
ghost2
"Why should 1t be?' asked SILVER
ing IN spite OF myself at such sepulchral
tone coming from the deminut;ve bodv
Of my guide.
'Why: bekase there be graves in the
little yard that The little willows fence in.
The big willow be the shady tree. Uncle
Sammy knows all about it. He'll tell We
the tree stories If We ask him, and they be
curis stories I mcsef reminder when
the ole man lay in the freight house yon-
der, dead as hammer. lake, the look
over, said he was, and Freeman's wife
said the ghosts O. the young man an
the young woman an the baby watched
wild the body all night. went wild Bris-
I'm, that was my father and looked in a
windy, but we couldn't see nothin'. But
Freeman's wife, she lives nigh the freight
house, she seed them there, an she sees
them now every little while, an they've
seen in her very bed room, but not lately.
She has ghost-seein' ewes, Uncle Sammy
says. The very rcddest o. the sweet pinks
grows just beyond the Willers over there,
but we cllider be afeared to STAY there
an pick EN-. will be after COIN with
you, though if We don't mind nv takin'
hold o. your dress"
| reached down and clasped the little
tat fingers, feeling we'll paid for the slight
act OF protection by the eloquent look of
surprise midgIed with gratitude cast up
in my face from the sky-blue eyes.
1--WE Chi der, to keep 'em quiet nut
little punches Of flowers on the graves
most every day in the warm weather.
We runs an throws 'em over an wheels
an runs back wild our eyes shut for fear
we snail see uthin',-ugh!' as another
gust of wind sewpt the long slender
branches of the willows, disclosing their
shimmering CLEANS of white, ''do you see
en-, lady! If they be ghosts, an they
may be, they be lovely ones"
After our hands were filled with the
wonderful wild, sweet azalea blossoms, I
went up and looked through the hedges
at the three lonely, grass grown graves,
over which were scattered nosegays of
wild flowers in various stages of decay.
offered by the simple children of the
''shanty village" for the quietlng of the
supposed restless spirits.
u guess, as long as I be here now, I'll
trow over few" said the little girl II
shouldn't want 'em to feel sighted, for
they be strangers in a strange land-not
as know ghosts would feel SIGHTED. y
she added, naively, as she walked away.
but 1T seems to me I should if were IN
their places, an had as few ferns as thew
has-whlch you can't count many, don't
you see--only Uncle sammy as planted
the willows an knows the stories about
'em, an the childer as carries em flowers
cos they's afearcd O EN-, an me as like
wise shivers when the willows blow white.
but feels trenly, bein' likewise an unfor-
tunatc."
questioned "Uncle Sammy" after nv
return as sat upon the shady side of the
sta5lon platform arranging my flowers,
and he told me the three sscuris" stories,