The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1881-11-25
NELLIE'S Story.

SIS the bona fide New Yorker ever
tired, or sick, or sorry? Does he even
siop?"
SO used to ask my sister Alice, day
after day, as we took our drive to the
park, or sat at our window in the hotel,
where, in truth, spent the greater part
OF my time, idly watching that busy
restless, ever-increasing, ever-changin9
crowd, that surges through the great
city like mighty wave, seeming to en-
gulf end hurry all before it.
They tire me so, these people.
Where do they come from, and where
can they all be going? And don't you
suppose that among them all there
must be few we should like to know ?"
Every probably" replied Alice,
laughing, "but how are we to impress
those few with wish to know us? Are
we to send an advertisement to the
daily papers stating that 1.-Two ladies,
possessing many agreeable qualities, but
very few acquaintance, would like to
enlarge their circle, and will receive APP
plicants (who must bring undoubted
references as to character and position)
at such and such q time p No, Nellie,
that would hardly do. How shall we
accomplish it? l am quite ready; to
tell the truth, this hermit life begins tc
worry me just little. 1 have yielded
to your wish to be in perfect seclusion
but can see that the inspiriting atmos-
phere of New York has done you good,
Nellie, dear, in spite of yourself, and
now the sooner we come out of our shell
the better. Let us look around the
hotel though we should never have the
courage to make any advances to strang-
ers, even if attracted by their appear
ance, and on the whole, think the
matter will regulate itself. We have
been alone in crowd long enough,
now, and | want to see my Nellie in her
proper sphere once more.
And then we wandered off into q dis
cussion, or rather long rambling chat,
about the kind of people we should
really like to have.
The daylight died away. and we
looked out at the beautiful city "under
the gaslight," and speculated afresh on
the probable destinies of the crowd still
tramping under our windows, and with
the evening papers and our many be-
loved books we ended the day.
Ours was a strange position. We were
both comparatively young. Alice was
now 20, and | two years younger. With
out being by any means regular beauties,
we were sufficiently good looking to
have been known in our native town.
away down among the Hampshire hills,
as 1.-THE pretty Langdon girls" We
lxr II, IT
more money than we knew what to do
with, and were absolutely alone in the
world-our parents and only brother had
died some years before the time of which
am writing, and Alice was a widow.
Poor child Her story is brief and sad
enough. The man she loved and married
at Is, proved in every way unworthy,
and for three miserable years her young
life was burden to herself and cause
OF ceaseless sorrow to me who watched
her lovingly, but who was powerless to
hell, or comfort in such grief as this.
at the end of three years she was re-
leased. A fall from his horse. while rid
ing home In state of intoxication
caused the almost instant death, of her
husband.
After this Alice was anxious to leave
the old house, where there were SO MANY
sad associations where we had been
happy children, and desolate orphans.
and where my darling Alice had tasted a
bitterness worse than orphanage. But
where should we go? 1t was at the
close of our short New England summer,
that we held many consultation as to
where we should pitch our tent. To
1t was matter of utter indifference. for.
at that time, all places were alike to me.
we knew something of Boston, and nv
chief pleasure during the memorable
winter l spent there, was the recollec-
ton OF that first day in the Music Hall.
1t was, In more senses than one a
marked day, for from it dated nv init
mate friendship with Henry West We
had met at several parties each had
recognized in the other a kindred spirit.
and, as he was an habitue Of the house
In which | was visiting, it became =
matter Of course that he should escort
me to the various places of amusement