Democratic Northwest. [volume] (Napoleon, Ohio) 1869-1894, 1883-03-15
NOT TONIGHT.

"Gius-Gius! Bother them foreign
names. Go, Beth, yourself, and call
the lad from the meadow lot. When
Silas is well rid of his rheumatics and
can get round again, I'll have no such
trash as him pottering round the farm.
He positively amt worth the salt he
eats. A gentle enough lad, too, but he
amt no spirit-no spirit"
Beth, who has been arranging some
luscious fruit in bowl of yellow delf,
prings up with alacrity and takes down
her broad -brimmed hat from the high
peg where it usually hangs suspended
when not doing duty as q covering for
the bright brown head.
p SNOW, don't loiter." calls Mother
Lawson warningly. "It's longish walk
10 the meadow lot, an you know after
mndown who'll be there"
There comes no added color into
Beths cheek, and she does not drop her
gaze from the long vista of green lanes
down which her feet must presently
pass.
"Do you mean John Masenp" she
queries at length, STOPPING and pluck
ing an innocent white daisy to fasten in
the bosom of her dark-blu gown"
''Surely, an who elsep" responds her
mother sharply. "Do you think some
prince, all spangles and jewels, will
ride up to the door on a milk-white
horse to claim your royal favor? The
high notions of girls nowadays is
caution. Never prince had q kinder
heart than John, an some day you'll
learn to value such 'cording to their
worth"
A bright-eyed robin, hopping on the
door-stone in search of stray crumbs,
and. the purple butterflies ritling sweets
from the hearts of the crimson roses,
are the only listeners to the irate lady's
last words, for Beth is already on her
way down the lane, crushing the short
crisp grass under her hurrying feet,
and many pretty yellow buttercup
that grows between.
'Giuseppe! Giuseppen'
The dun cows lift their heads from
their feast of clover rs the fresh young
voice rings out on the sleepy mir, and
comes to the bars to gaze at her with
loving eyes as she goes by. Another
time Beth would have stopped to pat
their glossy coats, but tonight she
passes them by UNDECIDED and keeps
straight on her way.
Giuseppe! Giusepper'
The pillow stands motionless in the
meadow lot, and the patient grey horse
pricks his ears and listens in vain for
the voice that usually summons him to
resume his weary round. Close by,
prone on the brown earth. lies slim
form whose face is hidden from view
by tatteretl straw hat drawn partially
over it.
AS the wind bears TO his ears the
sound of his own name, a SILVER runs
through the thin frame, and he lifts his
head only to let it fall back moment
later on the damp monM.
Beth, clearing the five-bar gate with
. bound that brings every nerve of her
1.-THE graceful figure into action, sees the
grey horse standing between the hill-
rolled furrows. and marvels exceedingly.
The next moment her keen eyes de-
tect also the Lads recumbent form, and
the face which he vainIy strives to hide
from view by the hats tattered brim.
"Are you i'll, Giuseppe9'
A petulant voice il had often been
when its owner was crossed or thwarted.
A coaxing, laughing voice when ad-
dressing the grey-haired father whose
ideal she is A saney mocking voice
that stirred strangely the slow pulses of
Holm Mansen's hOneat heart
1t is none of these now. Only very
soft. pitful tone that asks half-fearfully
in the gloom of the meadow-lot:
'.Are you i'll, Giuseppep"
The lad lifts the taltered hat from his
face with one long, brown hand and
lays the other over his eyes as if to
hide them from sight. But Beth puts
her own soft fingers quietly over it and
draws it away again. There are actual
tears in the great dark eyes; eyes look
ing so longingly up into her face.
SIS it the old hunger Giuseppe?'
A half smile crosses the lads dusky
face. 1t pleases him to hear her use
his own quaint foreign mode of ex-
Pression.
.'Yes it is the old hunger" The
English words fall brokenly from his
Hips. After the iiowingmusical accents
Of his own Southern tongue, it is diff
oult to form the harsher syllables of our
colder and more formal language.
Beth has evidently forgotten to re-
move her hand from his, and when he
rises to his feet--a tall. delicate, over
grown lad. whose shoulders are already
Beginning to bend beneath their weight
of unaccustomed toil-he still holds il
in close clasp.
II hate it-this hfe," he says-not
angrily or passionately; there is too sad
q longing In bis heart for that. "And
vet it is better than the life fled from
/ think must be living in dream. AL
day long, as I follow the plough. my
fingers seem TO press the magic strings,
and the music that surges through my
brain fills all the silence around .sne.
Bot Mt nighfall the vision fees, and the
old weariness comes back.
.'Come.' says Beth shortly looking
round with half-shivey, ''the dew Is
falling and it grows Late. Why, Gins.
eppe. how bright your eyes are. and
yOur cheeks glow like roses! For shame.
fn.telk Of weariness, when"