Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1879-09-04
NO. 213.
Gales ano skttebes.
THE "UNfORTINITS."

I'm sorry enough said the red
checked, gray-bear,ed old station agent
at South Verona junction, rs I alighted
from the Asbunkum express. THE Bos-
ton train has gone. It's the new range
ment made to accommodate the tunnel line
at Greenville, and there's been somebody
left over here every day since it took ef-
feet it amt goin ter do he went on in
a voice of chagrin. rs if he was personally
responsible for the company's miscalula-
| tions.
"Now you've got four mortal hours ter
wait and its terrible dull place for
stranger to wait in. This ere havin
passengers left over at South Verony is
new busness-but. with little start of
recollection and in "A deprecatory tone,
''there's swamp honey suekles out there
just leetle ways. lots of 'em. Ladies
come up from the city on purpose to pick
em-but perhaps yon don't care nothin'
about 'cm, eh ~
"Oh, thank you for speaking of theni,'
| said, ''they are my especial delight. Do
You think you can direct me so that can
find where they grow?"
"Il send that little unfortinite along
with you; shell be glad ter go. Where
is the child? She's ginerally som'ers
round in sight or hearin' IIillow there,
untortinite!n he shouted in a voice which
was laughable imitation of low-pitched
locomotive whistle.
Directly in response to the call yellow,
bushy head, followed by plump, square
little body. appeared from half-open
doorway of neighboring shanty, and, in
II moment, nondescript, wee creature
stood beside us. nodding her round head
shrewdly in eager confirmation of the di-
rections 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 shaded
bank.
Och sure an don't We know be Brs-
Inns girl ?" she answered, in a dialect
which was curious mixture of Irish and
Yankee. Il be the wun what was lett when
Breslin's 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 We know" 1t told all about
il in the papers. hain't any home since
that day but they be all good to me in
the shanty village, an get enough to eat
| Iio>tlN SHY > any NIltIt tItN Decs tullu>
er to look after. was used to that but
our children-there was IA load of EN-
was burnt in the fire. an uncle Sammy's
wife took to calm me unfortinit. an now
that bees what | called mostly, though
some of them says, kinder soft like. it be
Breslin's girl Uncle Sammy, it was he
that sint me with ye-his wife and all OF
'em calls him uncle Sammy-he says its
drefful strange how so many o. the unfor-
TINT sort happens round here. There be
tree % them up here in the Willers, or four
countin' the babby,'' pointing with the
forefingers of her brown, fat grimy hand.
ugh :" as the long, little, swaying
branches of the tall willow tree near us
whipped about in the freshening breeze,
turning the white undersides OF their ten
der leaves to the light. Ugh! do You be-
lieve that be a ghost -
"Why should it be ?'' ! asked, shiver-
ing in spite of myself at such a sepulchral
tone coming from the diminutiye body 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. | mese'f reminder when
the ole man lay in the freight house yon-
der, dead as hammer. Jake, the locker
over, aid he was, and Freeman's wife
said the ghosts O the young man an the
Young woman an the babby watched with
the body all night. l went wild Brislin, that
was nv father, an looked in windy, but
we couldn't see nothin' But Freeman's
wife, she lives nigh the freight-house. she
seed them there. and she sees them now
every little vile, an they've been in her
very bedroom. but not lately. She has
ghost-seein' eyes, Uncle Sammy says.
The very reddest of the sweet pinks grows
Just beyond the Willers over there, but we
chlder be afeared to stay there an pick
'em. | will be after going with you,
though. if We don't mind my taking hold
O your dress.
reached down and clasped the little fat
fingers. feeling well paid for the slight act
of protection by the eloquent look of sur
prise mingled with gratitude cast up in
my face from the sky-blue eyes.
I'VE childer. to keep 'em quiet, put
little punches o. flowers on the graves
most ev'ry day in the warm weather. We
runs an throws 'em over an wheels an
runs back wild our eyes shut for fear WE
shall see suthin'-ugh ~ as another gust
of wind swept the long slender branches
of the great willow disclosing their shim-
mering CLEANS of white, do you see 'em
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. l
went up and looked through the willow
hedges at the three lonely grass-grown
graves. over which were scattered nose
gays of wild flowers in various stages of
decay, offered by the simple children of
the ''shanty village for the quieting of
the supposed restless spirits.
II guess, as long as | be here now, I'll
t'row over few said the square little
girl. II shouldn't want 'em to feel slight
ed, tor they be strangers in strange
land-not as | know ghosts would feel
sighted" " she added naively as we walked
away, ..but it seems to me should il
were in their places, an had Us few trien's
as they has-which YOU can'tcoun't many,
don't you see--only Uncle Sammy rs
planted the willows an knows the stories