Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1882-02-15
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THE PIECE THAT WAS LOST
ny EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLkR,

There was n promise ofa capital hay
day so Silas Rogers decided as hc stood
in the back porch after milking, polish
ing his face with u coarse towel and
noting the weathcr-signs between the
rubs. A capital hay-day; but II
"spell Of weather" might be expected
soon; for did not the almanac say,
"About this time look out for storms?"
So all hands were warned to be in
readiness to NOW the lower intervale in
the morning, and lose no time in get
ting at it, for the lower intervale was
swampy after rain.
The chores were done, the supper
eaten Sias, with his chair tilted
against the wall, was sleeping the sleep
of the just, while his good wife pattcred
about the kitchen. setting her sponge,
beating up some "riz" griddlc cakes
for breakfast, grinding the coffee, and,
in dozen provident ways, squeezing
out OF the tired day little help tor the
morrow. Reuben went to the store for
new scythe snath; Abner. the hired
man, hung over the barn-yard gate
with II beloved pipe that tried the house,
wife's soul, and pretty Mistress Hetty
wrinkled her forehead and pricked her
fingers over the new dress she was try
ing to make in few leisure moments
snatched from housework. She made
a charming picture in the frame of the
vine-wreathed window, her sleeves still
rolled above her plump elbows, the
bright hair drawn back from the rosy
face which was turned full to the lamp
as she threaded her needle, or paused
to firt some deluded moth away from
the dangerous flame that fascinated him.
A charming picture, but no one to look
at it; for the great Norway pine held
up a solid screen of blackness between
the window and the road, even if any
belated traveller had CHANGED to walk
that way, and only Hetty's white cat
crept stealthily along the top ofthe gar
den fence with murderous designs upon
an untimely brood of chirpiug birds in
the current bushes. Only this-ah,
beware, Mistress Hetty Evil eyes are
looking at you; eyes from which q
heathen mother would cover your face
with her hands, and breathe a prayer
to break the unholy spell they might
cast npon you-a woman's eyes peer
ing through the jungle Of lilacs and
syringas so near it seems as if Hetty
must feel them. But Hetty feels moth
ing, sees nothing but the troublesome
dress; and, as the perplexing ruffles
are conquered one by one, her heart
grows light, and the little frown
smooths away, and Hetty begins to
sing. What sweet voice she has 1t
reaches the tired mother and lightens
her heart too. 1t wakens her father,
and then lulls him pleasantly to sleep
again. Now Abner hears it and draws
his hickory shirt sleeves across his
eyes and that watcher in the green
tangle-who can guess what she thinks
or feels as she sinks down with her
chin upon her hands, and her face quite
in the dark, and listens to the pathetic
story of "The Ninety and Miner"
Hetty herself is not half conscious Of
the pathos with which she bewails the
lost one,
Away on the mountains bleak and bare.
Away from the Shepherds tender care"
and goes on through the tender story to
the final rejoicing when the Shepherd
brings back his own. She is still hum.
ming it ftfully over and over, when