Sharp County record., 1885-05-14

ETC., when, upon opening a little drawer,
| discovered a lead-pencil and sheet
of paper half COY cred with writing.
Now, understand, it was not secret
drawer, nor was the paper yellow with
age. 1t was modern Irish linen writing
paper, which h ad probably been
evolved during the last year from flax
seed.
am not superstitious, but l confess
the Thompson Wave, which orna,.
ments my head, nearly stood on end
with fright, when, remembering the
mysterious scratching of the night be-
fore, read the following:
THE TRUE STORY OF MARGERY DAw.
"See, Saw! Margery Daw
Sold her bed and lay on straw"
7. Margery Daw. died one hundred and fifty
years ago, and had lived just twehty-IWo
years. This little wrting-tabie was gwen 10
me on my fifteenth birthday, by the dear aHnt,
who had been Father, Mother, everything 10
me, since l could remember.
Dear as she was TO me, the time came when
| | had to choose between her and one dearer
| still And on February fourteenth, IN the
| year 1734, left my aunt's house and was mar;
| RED 10 Will CleeveS. After that, she refused
| to see or communicate with me; but sent
| everything of mine to the address we had LETT
for her; with the rest, this little writing desk
| We were very poor, even while Will was aOle
to work; but, in few months, his health failed,
and soon, anxiety and poverty broke me down.
| also.
One by one, our possessions were sold, and,
| at the end of year, when my husband d.ed,
| there was left onlS this desk, few chairs, ana
| nv bed Then the desk and chairs went, ana,
| finally, literally and truly, l sold my bed, ana
| lay on straw; and on that straw, died OF
! starvation, on st. Valentine 5 Day, IN my
| twenty-second year.
| write this, that you, my descendant, may
no longer blush to hear my name.
Ihave said that am not SuperStitouS,
nor am | spiritualist, nor clairvoy-
ant, nor any of that ilk; but l believed
as firmly as that there will be Day OF
Judgment, that the spirit of Margery
Daw, who died a hundred and fifty
years ago, wrote that communication to
me on the night of February fourteenth,
eighteen hundred and eighty-five.
And, hard-hearted and cruel though
had been, recognized the fact that it
was a warning from another world
which might not be disregarded.
l thought perhaps my own Margery
was starving to death, while |, like that
other wicked aunt, was living luXurl-
ously. Indeed, was dreadfully worked
up, when, answering my ring, Plotemy
the old colored butler, who antedated
me in the house, appeared.
"Ptolemy," said, 81 want you to 60
in search of little Miss Margery, Mrs.
Glenn, rather, and do not rest until you
find her. We have been parted long
enough, and, Oh! Plotemy how do we
know that she is not starving?" l cried,
bursting into tears. =,
1t was the first time her name had
passed my lips since she kissed me
goodbye.
Ptolemv seemed overwhelmed for a
few minutes. Then collecting himself,
exclaimed:
"Oh! Miss Margery, bress de Lord!
If you please, Miss Margery, l begs
pardon for de sufrafuge; but you knows
Ise lub dat chile sence she was bawni
and, OH! Mis- Mafsory. iss you please, l
sees her ebery day, and tells her how
you is, and she's jest a-longin' to see
you, and show
"Ptolemy," 1 said, sternly, ''you
have been deceitful servant; but | for.
give you. Go, bring her here, and the
| (proprieties presenting their claims
even then) invite Mr.. Glenn to dinner =
In an hour 1 was holding my Margery
in the arms that were so hungry fol
her; and-mercv on me!--what do you
think she was holding in her arms?
Why, yet another Margery, which, re.
spectacle spinster though l was, was
soon being hugged and kissed by me,
and bade to smile for grand-mamma.
A little later, after the reconciliation
was all effected, and the excitement in.
cident thereto had died out, Margery
suddenly exclaimed: "Why, Paul, isn't
that your little writing-table? Did you
buy that at Sighfor's, Auntie? lwon-
der if our romance is there yet. May
look?" And, with my permission she
opened the drawer, which was not Sc
cret drawer, and took out The True
Story of Margery Daw."
"Auntie," she said, 1--WE are rather
poor, and wanted a cradle for baby; so
we sold this writing-table, and forgot,
until too late, to take out the story that
Paul wrote, in fun, of that other Mar
gerry Daw, who, like myself, sold her
furniture. - Virginia B. Harrison, in NJ
Y. independent.