The Superior times. [volume] (Superior, Wis.) 1870-1912, 1881-11-26

although the old furnishing remained
III other rooms, the small family lived
chiefly in the narrow quarters of two,
opening into one another. Neighbors
were scarce IN that hill country.
Children did not exist at all. The only
person IN reach Was the man round the
side OF the mountain, who managed An
stlce's little farm for her. There was no
school, of course (the nearest was down
III the valley, ten miles away; no church
any nearer; wayfarers did not fare that
way; no soldiers marching through ban
nered streets with music; no streets; no
other torchlight procession than that of
the eternal stars; nothing to break the
calm monotony but the mailcoach, that
once day could be seen, mere speck,
winding down the distant highway. But
all made no odds to the children. The
day was not long enough for their
pleasure. They knew nothing of any
world outside of their kites and balls and
gardens and birds'-nests in the lovely,
swift summers; their snow forts aud
snow-shoes and sleds in their long
winters. If it had not been for their
perpetual longing and yearning for what
was not, Greta and Anstice might have
felt something like reflection of their
happiness in looking at them.
"Do other little boys have fathers ?"
asked Ash, one day.
Only when they don't have broth
ers, answered Ben.
But fathers are nice to have" rea-
soned Ash. "Don't you remember the
tart the minister over at Bareback
brought us? And he said his little boy
had one"
eyes. It had raisins in it. Raisins
are SO good p
"But l think I'd rather have a
brother" urged Ash. 1.-The brothers.
there next day, and the raisin isn't"
"Hear the darlings," said Austice.
"They will be father and brother both
to each other. Oh! and they will have
need of it."
For poor Anstice's age was even more
troubledtha her youth had been. Then
she had seen, piece by piece, the sub
stance of the old estate depart, farm by
farm, field by field. For two genera
tions, except to SOW and reap the few
acres left the home-place, her people
did nothing but to sell their patrimony,
till, at length, it had reached a point
where all the fertile glebe was gone and
there was nothing left to sell. The Por-
ter place had kept them alive SC many
years, the Green property SO many more.
When her father went to college, the
sale of the Rye farm paid the bills
big bills, too. When he was buried, the
great funeral cost the barley-fel S.
The long acres down in the valley had
furnished her and John with food end
clothes, after her own husbands death
from mountain fever. And then there
was no remnant of it at all, but the
home place, that any one would not take
so much as mortgage on: and it was
when she mortgaged that that John, in
desperation, went away to sea.
Anstice had depended on the rent of
two or three little outlying spots to pay
the interest on the mortgage; and now,
this cruel year, they had been deserted
by their tenants, who had left the sterile
heaps of stones and moss for the rich
western lands. and there were no other
tenants to take them. She had no
money, and, come to the last part of
November, the mortgage would be fore
closed, and she and Greta and the BOYS
hOiINl ttLluCu 1OOSC uDOH IlIt NOIIu
without a dollar. Greta could work.
may be; but she herself and the little
lads-there was not even the poor-house
before them. Up in that hill country
the abject poor were so few that they
were farmed out and boarded from place
to place. And that was the end Of all
the Purcell wealth and Purcell hope.
Death wOnld have been kind thing to
Old Anstice in comparison.
She used to lay awake in the nights
thinking over the possibilities. The hor-
ror of them grew upon her. She would
start up and pace the floor, and, hinging
something on, would run out, as if to
get help from all outdoors-the stars,
the wind, the sky-and end by wonder
ing, as she leaned over the parapet of
the old stone wall, if it would not be
best to put an end to themselves at once
down the precipice below her.
"When [ think of it." said she, as
Greta came once to fetch her in" when
| think that, as far as the eye could see
an object and tell what it was, so far the
land was the land of my family, yield
ing revenue, and now bare two days
and their children viii not own a foot of
their inheritance or have a roof over
their heads, l doubt Providence and it
drives me wild -
"No, mother, dear, said Greta's gen
tie voice, as, with her arms around An
stice, she led her back TO the house
''no, mother, dear, if we doubt Provi-
dence, then all is gone, indeed"
TO think of it 7" cried Anstice,
again. "You! old Parson Mildredge's
daughter and my sons wife, adrift on
the world, to earn your bread or starve
And the little lads-the last of the Pur
cells-with no future before them, no
clothes to their backs Think OF the
Thanksgiving dinner all this country
over, and not tart will my lads have.
Other boys"
"But, indeed, mother, SO long as they
have bread and milk, and ask for no
more, we need not fret at that. Such
happy little rogues-"
"Happy they'll be in the state aims
housed"
cit will never come to that l have
pair of hands"
"Much you can do with your hands,
you as fragile as reed?"
II can work for you and the children
with them. Don't fear"
eff you can get work -
81 shall see We will go down to one
of the great mill towns; and it will go
hard but"
eco down to a mill town. Down in
a dark, sitting alley of town Away
from all the light and freedom here-the
hills, the glory of them, the strength of
them /! Oh! l Will die first. I had rather
die -
"But we can't die, you see. And if