The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1882-06-17
WARREN HAWTHORNE.

A True story.
In quiet little village, surrounded by
n succession of green hills, whose usual
stiffness was disturbed only by the ambi-
tious little river that danced and sparkled
onward over sharp and barren rocks in
its eager haste, there, where all nature
seemed in harmony, lived Warren Haw-
thorne.
Wherever a messy knoll lay warm and
green beneath the clear sky, within the
rivers beauteous arbor of vines and
flowers, beneath each gnarled tree whose
branches swept the stream, where the
birds sang sweetest and with the most
joyous freedom, one might have looked
for him nor failed to find him in one of
these-his favorite haunts.
Perhaps he might have been seen with
hands idle, his book near, and his face
intent upon the clouds; or bending Gas
if he sought its souD over some delicate
wild blossom with strange rapture in
his eyes at its mysterious and wonderful
beauty. But of all beautiful places
the ''river's arbor" was one he most fire.
quented. There he studied and read
alone. In turning suddenly the stream
was separated by small ;slet in the
centre, which being overrun with vines
and dotted with small trees formed quite
retreat. By training the vines into an
arbor, and extending them across the
narrow channel between the islet and
river bank, Warren had constructed the
''river's arbor.'' The birds sought the
place at once and built their nests over
head, and sang their sweetest songs to
the happy listener.
Most of the village lads, on being
questioned, gave his name with slight
ly perceptible sheer as "Ren Haw-
thorne."
''Ren Hawthorne was to the vii
lage folks, GALAXY fellow" as the boys
tauntingly called him.
He had few friends except the old pas
tor and the schoolmistress, who under
stood the lads dreamy nature, his
exquisite sensibilities, his tender heart,
and delicate health. 'He will never
live," many said, but the old pastor
always replied: may, you are wrong, 1
believe he will. This is Just the life he
needs now. Let him grow strong in
this beautiful country land and he will
one day astonishus all"
The villagers smiled among them
selves at the idea of "Ren's ever being
anybody"
1t was noticed that he rarely smiled.
He was ''queer" not at all companion
able with those of his own age; so that
ere long he wholly avoided them.
Left to himself he became studios and
thoughtful, finding beauty in the most
common things, something that spoke of
God in the very atmosphere about him.
Often he told his mother, when she
asked him why he remained so long
alone in the woods, that he was happier
there, watching the fiuttering leaves and
singing birds than elsewhere.
Well did the mother understand his
reserve, his longings to be away from
his friends, though she seldom spoke of
the great sorrow of her life which had
left its traces with her son.
All through his babyhood and until he
was nearly ten years of age, Warren had
known little of the joyous freedom of
childhood. His young heart weighed
with the atmosphere of that sorrow he
could not understand; suppressed in all
his childish enthusiasm by fear of the
grave, saddened face of his mother; held
StIool from Her Oy IndI unseen veil be-
tween them even when he Law clasped in
her arms, he became gradually silent
and learned to seek for himself the hap
piness of which home and friends de-
prived him.
Strange stories were whispered of a
terrible night when mad with wine the
boys father had attempted fearful
crime, and how, when he became con-
scious of his mania, the unhappy man
wandered through the place, day after
day, as if in search of something, but
was never thereafter seen to raise his
eyes from the ground.
One day the rude but kindly villagers
bore him in silence to the old church
yard-dead-de from his terrible habit,
its slave even to the last.
What wonder then that this sorrow
became stern and terrible reality and
made the boy timid, reticept child! A
sorrow which each year more thoroughly
imbued his delicate, sensitive nature
with a weirdness he was unable to
dispel.
In early life he displayed a great love
for flowers, and they were SO sacred to
him that he could not quietly endure to
see rude hands grasp them. On sum-
mer evenings he wandered through the
grounds with his mother, occasionally