American citizen. [volume] (Canton, Miss.) 1864-1890, 1880-10-16

to go. Whatever happened out there
she never let on, but somethin' went
wrong-an' whatever it be, l allus hold
that little creetur was in the right-an'
in about three years she come back
lookin' awful peaked an thin an kind
o scared like in them big blue eyes o
hern. She went straight to the pastor
an one o the elect he was, an called
if ever a man had promise-an' what
ever Catherine told him he never let on
to no one, but Jest tux her right in. An
tell you, Sarah, it was like offcrin' his
last Goa: when a mans given his cloak,
fur he had seven in the family. an il
want no joke for him to get along
without another mouth to feed. 1t
seemed to me Catherine had grown
powerful old while she was West. She d
got con: iderable larnin', too, in a way,
an matt rally she could turn her hand
to most anything. Mrs. Sherwood.
that's the pastors wife, she used to
say, Catherine worth two grown up
helps
IAN she's been on this Martin place,
too. Well, whilst she was a-workin'
an a-takin' keer of the children fur
Sher woods she was goin' on eddicating
herself, an the pastor didn't seem to
begrudge her nothin', but give her
books an took to her wonderful. But
the Lord called his servant arter a
couple o years. Catherine was Jest
fifteen when this trouble come. an had
filled out, got more color, an was shet
o. that awful scared way o. hern, an
you ought to have seen how she took
hold an helped through the trial O that
poor widow an them fatherless children.
l declare it was techin' to me. An
she grieved herself &c skin an bones
agin over the parson, an when sno get
n mint wandered round like she was
lost without him.
''Of course, the widow had to go to
her relations, cause it ant customary
for church folks in general to put their
hands in their pockets an make the
survivin' ones comfortable when the
worked-to-death pastor can't do it no
longer, an the children were scattered
about an Catherine hadn't nothin' nor
nobody. One day she come straight
over to me-she was stayin' with one
of the neighbors--an' says.
"'Aunt Jane. I'm goin' over to -
that's where Deacon Martins wooden
mill is, an I'll try to get some work to
do there. l can't be idle
1.-The poor child looked so beat out
tried argyin' with her, and says l,
You're welcome to come to me.
an you allus knew it, Catherine
as Yes. Aunt Jane saws she, sew
eral of the neighbors have been kind
enough to offer me homes, but [ owe a
great deal to the Sherwood family, an
| want to try an get situation where
1 can earn enough to put by a bit for
the children's eddication. Besides, L
m L % bat II
myself
~ saw she was called, and so l jest
shet my lips an let her have her way,
an if helped her off a scrap l only
done my duty. Well. after Catherine
went to work in the mill-the deacon
didn't hesitate bout givin' her work
she used to write to me every oncet in
while. 1 KEEP all her letters, they
was SO like her bright an refreshin',
an there's one wouldn't part with for
its weight in gold. l ha'n't never
showed it to no one. It's more n
techin' to me, an as l don't feel my
lights strong enough to show you Jest
how she felt under the trial she met
with in her new field o. duty, I'll read
it to you. May be then, Sarah, you
wont wonder no longer why set such
a store on the little creetur an can't
abide Deacon Martins keerless WAYS
and Indifference that must be awful
tryin' to her."
Aunt Jane arose, and went to a little,
old-fashioned bookcase, unlocked n
drawer, and took therefrom a package
of letters. From these. with much
shifting and wiping of her spectacles,
she sorted out one, bulkier than the
rest, and this she read to me. 1t was
dated from the not-distant mill-town:
"MY DEAR AUNT JANE: AS you
have, of course, heard of the dreadful
accident here, you will not be surprised
to receive letter from me written in
bed. Twas badly bruised in my side
and arm, and am obliged to keep still.
But when 1 realize what might have
happened, so very. very much worse, 1
feel thankful, and can smile at any pain
| may have to endure Of the details
of the explosion 1 cannot write you, for
l was at work in the fourth story of the
factory building, and knew nothing of
what happened elsewhere. and the
surgeon, who attends me, will allow no
one as yet to visit me. But just where
l was, it could not have been more
terrible. There was no warning. The
room was alive with the whirring sound
we are so used to. l was standing at
my work, near an open window, and
the scent from the apple-blossoms
drifted in, with the singing of blue
bird, and now and then a sleepy bee
would hum against the window and
drone along the ceiling.
Suddenly. all the world seemed to
tremble; a CULVER ran through floor and
wall; the windows fell out, the beams
parted, the sky looked in, and, in the
midst of a dreadful noise, l fell down
down into a black pit. But l did not
entirely lose my senses, and while /
was conscious of an agonizing pain, 1
was still more alive to grOans and
prayers and suffering all about me- 1
thought of the gulf of despair we read
of, and then made an effort to move,
so that | might, perhaps, help some one
else. But my arm was pinned fast
under beam. AS l sank back, faint
and sick at heart, L heard voice 1
knew. The others seemed muffied, as
if there were wall between them and
me, but this was near me, and it was
Deacon Martins. He was lying not far
to the dim light, 1 could see that he,
too, was held down by fallen piece of
the building. He called me by name
1 answered, and told him | could not
move my arm, and he replied that he
thought. by an effort, he could reach
and remove the beam that held me.
And so he did, but. in the act, he could
not repress a terrible groan of agony.
His legs were both broken"
''Oh. Aunt Jane, was it not noble in
him?'
"Then he became unconscious. For
moment the pain in my released arm
10