Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1882-07-28

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would leave her. The weeks went by, how
ever and she grew neither in stature nor in
health.
Another spring came, and she no longer
followed her father to the fields. She would
sit listlessly in his lap till bedtime, with her
yellow hair against his shoulder, occasionally
lifting her pathetic eyes to his, as il about to
speak, but still remaining silent. His talk Of
the BIRDS the clover, and the friendly oxen,
did not rouse her interest as Of old. Her par
ents became silent too, waiting in dumb dis
tress, hoping against hope, and doing the lit
tie that lay in their power to entertain and
strengthen her. From the day her hair was
placed in the willow, she never visited the
tree. When her father, ignorant Of what had
taken place there, spoke Of her sudden aban-
donment of the favorite resort, he drew from
her only troubled look. A white owl, that
had never ventured so near the house before,
haunted the tree from the day Marcy ceased
to visit it.
The day came in June. The woods were
resonant with music. The meadow was sweet
with clover and bright with buttercups. Tho
blue heavens were hecked with soft clouds.
The sprays of the willow, as bright and grace
ful as il they had been woven Of the cleaning
tress imprisoned in its heart, swung daintily
in the breeze. The oxen waited patiently at
the bars but no master came to yoke them.
She who loved them most was leaving all
these forever. One strange, sickly child dy-
ing in the country--a child Of the obscure and
poor-a little, shattered, drifting flower pass
ing out Of sight on the great river of life.
She was entering alone, with her tender feet,
the dark valley that appals the world. In her
short life she had loved every beautiful thing
had played with the flowers, made friends
of the birds, and confided in the trees. What
sympathy bad they with her now?
A cluster Of white clover blossoms was laid
on her breast. Her rich hair enyeloped her
to the waist. Her face was still at last. The
curious, coarse kind women might talk about
it now; she would not hear.
The cheap coffin was placed on two chairs.
The women found improvised benches inside
the house. Most of the men stood outside
the door. All within hearing waited with un-
covered heads. An iiinerant preacher, faith
fully following the light he possessed, added
all he could TO the general discomfort, and did
his best to put out such poor hopes of hRppi-
ness Ms the sad parents had. Four sunburnt
youths laying their straw hats reverently on
the coffin, bore it out. Several farm wagons
were slowly filed with stolid but sorrowing
friends, and Marcy went down the damp road
among the yellow butterflies for the last time.
In the evening the Hardwicks found their
chores attended to by kind neighbors. They
made no reply when these tried the standing
| consolation that MARCY was better of" At
ter setting the rude table, the friends retired
to their own homes. There was no plate at
| Marcy's place. The two sat down mechani-
cally at the board. Mrs. Hardwick, after
pouring the tea, buried her face in her apron
and sobbed aloud Mr. Hardwick bowed his
| head on the table, and wept es a strong man
| may, in hovel or mansion when the first night
comes on after he has buried his only child
He could not stay in the silent cabin: there
stood her chair, her cap, her shoes. He went
out into the darkness, on some trihing pre-
text, and wandered up and down between the
cabin and spring. He leaned his burning
forehead against the willow, never hearing the
owl that rusted out of the branches as he
came near. Its whispering sprays but added
| to his unrest. He had done the best he could
for his suffering sensitive Marcy, yet now it
seemed as if her brief life might have been
made little happier. He wondered if sne
could be looking down on him so soon from
the stars. A hundred trivial things relating
to her filed his mind, and suddenly came the
recollection that in their grief they had neg
leoted to save even thread of her beautiful
hair, How wicked and objectionable it SEEM
ed
The golden tress, as he leaned against the
tree, was almost touching his heart at that
| moment.
Mr.. Helburger and his toothless dame yield
ed no jot Of their faith. The folklore of the
country beyond the mountains was discussed
with Mrs. Hardwick, but no instance could be
found where the cure had failed if all the con-
ditions had been properly observed.
81 allow" persisted Mr. Helburger, IAN
seen 1t yet Already when twas too late, that
the tree must be an oak-not an ellum nor a
willer."
There was one other vital condition the
trial must be profound secret If only one
person besides those participating obtains any
| knowledge of it, the charm fails This they
all knew. The unfavorGble result in Marcy s
case was sufficiently accounted for. If the
ringlet had been put into an oak, all would
have turned out as they expected. Aud pos
sibly Marcy had told her father. Her mother
thought not but no one kneto.
Thirty years ago the mysterious Rochester
rappings, echoing westward, combined with
the feeling for the supernatural already strong,
and stimulated the love of the marvellous in
lonely settlements. Mr.. Hardwck dismissed
the stories with the opinion that the whole
thing was 'nothin' but a speculation. But
the Helburgers and others about him believed
more than ever in overlooking" and spooks
aud hocus-pocus, as the strange tales from
Rochester were told about the country Some
who never believed before now became con-
vinced, and were quite prepared for mani
festations" and ghosts.
One Of the Helburger boys was the first to
whisper that Jack Kendyke had seen ghost
in the willow over Hardwick's spring. The
rumor found congenial soil it grew, it gath.
cred strength. II became q settled conviction
that the tree was haunted. The spring was
close by the roadside and one and another
passing it at night had seen the apparition un
til it was idle to doubt. In the very spot
among the branches where Marcy was wont
sit, there it crouched. Once or twice. when
two were passing together, they had summon
cd sufficient courage to approach it where
upon it silently vanished, floating softly away
in the darkness towards the woods. The
graveya ard lay that way
Mr.. Hardwick, in his bereavement, wa.
more than ever interested in his fayorite tree
which grew for several years after Marcy
death with great rapidity. The golden heaC
of his lost darling no longer lighted up it
shade but in fancy he saw her there NOR
vividy than elsewhere. Many an evening h,
t he fingered under the swaying branches, think
. ing of her, aud feeling that he would give hi
r life TO clasp her once again. 1t was there sh
5 seemed nearest to him, aud it gave him a sal
t pleasure to remember that the willow he haC
cherished so tenderly had been her favorite
( too. If it were possible for her to visit tn
earth in ghostly form, there was where b
/ might expect 10 meet her.
Mrs. Hardwiok's self reproaoh for havini
4 forgotten to save lock Of Maroy's hair wa
+. deep, and increased as time went on. Whel
Q Mr.. Hardwiok expressed sorrow and wonde
g that they had not done so, she was i'll at ease
, She had never before kept anything from hin
: that he would care to know. Often had sh
/ pictured TO herself the triumphant pleasur
L with which she would tell him all when Marc
r was entirely cured but now, when all ha
2, ended so sadly, she dared not confess it. Sh
g could not get rid of tire feeling that she wa
Il in measure responsible for her darling
i death. The superstition imbibed in her chile
o hood was still so strong that at times she b,
r leved the child would have recovered had Il
Il oak tree been selected. She longed tc pleas
r her husband by securing for him the severe
trapg but IL could not now ba obtained will