The Pickens sentinel. [volume] (Pickens, S.C.) 1871-1903, 1881-09-15
DIED OF A BROKEN HEART.
A Story which May be Read with ProRt
by Rparen1a.

STORY Whkch May be ReRd with PrOht
by Parents.
Johnny Bouquet In Now York Tribune1 e..
A father in New England town had
son-a little, large headed boy of ner-
Vous intensity, with eyes of startling
wonder, and long curling eyelashes,
which started, like his fawn-lke eyes,
with quick apprehension and timidity-a
boy who played with all intensity, kept
doing something all the day long, with
out the power to rest walked off alono
and even when alone spoke with himself,
chased the geese with little legs as lean
and swift, and at the table eating his
meals could not sit very still, nor bear
to eli all the morning in church because
his heart was too rapid in his little mar
row chest, where every rib could be
counted against his tender flesh and skin.
In the morning he was awake at earliest
light; at evening his tired nature yielded
to the deep sleep of exhaustion. His
mother feared she could never raise him
to be man. His father thought he was
too long becoming man in gravity, So
briefly and formal obedience.
"What oils my son p the father sternlv
asked. "He Is rattle-headed and with
out stability. I fear for HIM. Do you
chastiso him enough? Spare not the rod
lest he grow beyond you and your rule"
Alas !" exclaimed the mother, "he
has his little world, we cannot see, per-
haps. He is growing and sensitive. The
doctor says we must not push him at his
studies, but let him play all he can, till
his frame is equal to his brain.
Tho father shook his head and spoke
sternly to the boy, and feared he was 60
ing to give them all trouble growing up
so seldom moulded and unrestrained.
ALI day the little boy was doing some.
thing, carrying the cat by the tail, carry
ing the dog under his arm, making pic
lures on paper, Of engines and steam
boats, and bellows.
"He will be an artist, said his mother
hopefully.
che will spoil the library" exclaimed
the father suspiciously.
Antago.-'m grew up between the
father and the boy, born, on the boys
part, of fear on the fathers, of criticism
and severity. The boy ran to his mother
and asked her protection from his fathers
suspecting eye. The father feared his
wife was spelling the son with mistaken
generosity and allowance. At times the
fathers habitual suspicion broke away
like the clouds above hard, human
Britain, and he laid his rigorous books of
theology down to take his boy walking,
and they grew little nearer. Then
again the father observed some voluptu-
Gus tendency in the son which started his
fears anew; some taste for worldly,
passing modes and joys.
"Wife, he said, "do you ever give
our boy money!"
ga little," she said ga few pennies
to buy drawing materials and colors he
will be an artist I think"
"Money," exclaimed the sire, "is the
root of every evil. You had better give
him fire or poison. He will become a
wild, ruined spendthrift.
The idea that his wife gave the child
money operated in the fathers head like
jealousy or revenge; it tinted everything
about his sons conduct, and he believed
his wife had set deliberately to work to
indulge her child at the expense of his
soul .s
One morning, thinking of such things
the father lay awake in bed, and gen
tie noise disturbed him. The sun was
up, though it was scarcely o'clock, and
the light and air striking through the
chamber curtains showed the little boy
in his night gown stealing tow4.d his
fathers bed, He glanced sharply to.
ward his father to see If he was quite
asleep, and then swiftly, like little bird,
hoped upon chair and ran his lean
white fingers into his fathers vest
pocket.
"Ha /" thought the father. "My son
in my pockets by stealth, before I am
awake, and initiating the bad example of
my wife, who often, perhaps, searches
unauthorized therep
AS he said this o dreadful idea crossed
his mind. That son, spoiled by the
mothers indulgence, already corrupted
by spending money, was thief--a thief
while yet child He rose III bed and
spoke in o voice of thunder:
Robert, you are stealingm money"
Horror froze the boy; he dropped from
the chair like cat, and was into his own
bed in the next room and covered his face
with his sheets. Anguish and stern re-
solve possessed at once the fathers
stricken heart. He had delayed too long
to chastise his wayward son, now gliding
into ruin. 1t must be done, hard though
it should be. He awoke his wife, and,
suppressing her replies with an iron will,
related the story OF her deprayed child,