Weekly Chillicothe crisis. (Chillicothe, Livingston Co., Mo.) 1878-19??, 1881-05-19

/ uh" pGtditDGidtJL nitt lHy t,iu hi,,u
policemen i'll attendance. However, It's
10 laughing malter-Only Il wise pre-.
caution. Outside on the terrace under
the drawimg-rOOm window, another p0-
lceman marches mp and down. 1t
seems incredible that this should he
necessary in the year eighteen hundred
and cighty-Onc, but SO it is, and Dolly
is getting accustomed to being guarded
and watched. She goes out, too. and
walks about with the children, protect
Ell by their escort. They sec nothing,
hear nothing UNUSUAL. 1t is Il soft,
lovely day, with II gray sky, and Il
touch Of spring in the air; but Dolly
can take no pleasure in anything till
her husband is safe home. She gathers
Il bunch of violets and comes in again,
With tlit vague uneasiness that has
made her 50 restless whenever Jack is
out of her sight.
The newspapers are full of agrarian
Outragcs, land meetings and threatening
notices. Dolly glances over them, but
the subjects are not cheerful, 50 the
papers are laid aside, and she writes u
long letter to an old schoolgirl friend
in England. After beating about the
bush for some time, Dolly scribbles out
of the fulness Of her heart.
# dare say In England you
have not the faintest idea of the awful
state we are in here, actually living
In terror of our lives. Jack is out
hunting to-day, the first time lie has
venturcd out without the police for
three weeks. did not like his going
at all, and shall not be happy until he
is home again. foOr follJwl lie feels
it dreadfully, being almost prisoner,
or driving out with an armed guard,
Fancy! the children have police armed
AT all points to protect them when they
are out even in the place, 1t makes me
very miserable, and the wrctched
government will do nothing. The
dreadful Land League held meeting
here last Sunday, and we expect that
something terrible will follow. am
trying to persude Jack to leave the
country, but he says he won't be
frightened away, and in the mean time
there is nothing but ruin before us.
We have got no rents, and l see no
prospect of getting any, but do not
care for that; | only mind the awful
fear that isperpetually before me-that
they will do something to Jack. be-
lieve it is regular system, and they
have hired and paid assassins. Is it
not terrible to think of? hardly ever
let Jack so out without me, and l can
not tell you how wretched feel to-day,
knowing that he is in danger and how
long is this dreadful state of affairs to
last, how many more widows must be
made before it is put stop to? = +"
So Dolly writes, her pen flying over
the paper and her thoughts with Jack
in the hllnting-feld. But the long
weary day fades into darkness only too
soon. She sees the crows flying home
far up in the quiet sky-sees the faint
sunset die out in the west, and the blue,
deep shadows creeping up fold after
fold. Dolly comes back with a sigh
from the window, where, with her face
against the glass, she has been watch
ing for Jack, peering out till it is too
dark to see the avenue and the rows of
ghostly trees under which he rode that
morning. She can only see the reaec-
ton of her own face now, and the
leaping, Pickering freight, dancing up
ard down, so she comes in from be-
hind the curtains and sends for the
children.
1t is past six and still no papa! The
children have long ago gone up to the
nursery, and Dolly sits alone by the fire,
trying not to be frightened, persuading
herself that she is not a bit anxious
that Jack couldn't be home yet il there
lhad been anything like q run, Yet al