The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1885-10-24
A LITTLE OLD HUT IN THE WOODS.
What Wing" Reporter Saw on His
Recent Rambles.

Asa WING writer pushed his way through
the tangled underbrrSh at the foot of Gray's
Hill on Saturday last, his ears were start
led by the sounds of an axe proceeding from
an uninhabited looking portion of the
woods a feeling of timidity stole over him
for Il few minutes, for little did he know bat
that some Sancho Panza might be encamp-
ed there with his men, or the bold robber
bands terrifying the residents of Cecil coun-
ty the past few weeks be building them
selves den in the unfrequented recesses of
the woods. The bravery to which a news
paper mans work inureS him came to the
scribc's aid, however, and he plunged
braveiy forward, pocket knife in hand, to
ferret out the mystery. AS he presently APP
preached slightly open space in the depth
of the woods Il sight was revealed that
would have touched far harder hearts than
a wicked reporters and babe the pitiful
tears to flow in far sterner eyes than those
of one who, having necessarily witnessed
so many such scenes, had his feelings NOV
ed by such n sight. The mellow tenderness
ofthe day seemed to penetrate every ave-
nue. of the dim old forest and the mild,
sweet sunlight fell in gracious folds over
the crimson cheeks of the trees, crimson
with the autumn frosts and awaiting the
gusty breath of winter to relieve them of
their beautiful robings and to leave them
as pitiful and destitute and desolate as the
appearance of the dingy little hut that oc-
cupied the open space and the poor old
gray-haired woman who stood by the rick
ETY. old fence surrounding the house en-
deavoring to knock a few Palngs from it
with which to kindle her fire. 1t seemed
more like dream than thing laden with
the life blood of reality. The quiet pastoral
beauty of everything about the scene exert
ed calm and peaceful influence over every
animate and inanimate object in view. 1t
was too beautiful to be place of sorrow
and suffering and the EXTREMIST poverty.
But poetic contemplation of what was re-
vealed to his eyes when he emerged startled
from the woods was not the reporters OBJ
ject in his visit to the spot, and so he ap-
preached the forlorn looking Old creature
and attempted to address some words of
cheer to her. In the first place, however,
he relieved her of the axe fixed her up with
a generous pile of palings and piled them up
beside her little stove in the place she called
"home.' Mrs. Geo. Fulker, the old lady's
name, is woman of almost eighty years OF
age. When her thin snow-whte locks float
backward in Il dishevelled mesh from her
brow E, of uaI emf. TO-
vealed a face SCARED with the pitiful lines
of sadness and sorrow and despair that mark
a woman's couptenance who has seen all
the bright hopes and fancies of girlhood
days fleet by, and experienced nothing but
the stale and Improbable hardship of toll
and misfortune. There are no marks of
beauty in this face which the reporter saw
before him when the poor old soul sat down
i'll the doorway of her little hut and crooned
some old snatches of song that she has
luckily remembered from other days and
that serve, with a spectral like dog and Il
ghoStly kitten, as her only company. For
fifteen years has she led this life of lonesome
poverty and suffering in the little old forest
hut. When the sun rises over the beautiful
old hill in the east it brings her no daily
tokens of some dreams that will be
realized ere the day sinks to rest again in
the glowing west. She never hears the
sound of the falling waters that ramble
through the woods nor the songs of the
birds, nor the music of the tongueless leaves
as they rustic to the ground, her ears have
T.
of her own heart these many years; one eye
has long been robbed of sight anu the other
sees but dimly the objects that come before
it. Her form is bowed with decrepitude
and the limbs and arms are weak indeed to
perform the duties of her little house and
carry her to the doors of those friends who
occasionally furnish her food and raiment
The little room in which she lives did not
present very inviting appearance when
the reporter, his arms laden with wood,
climbed through the narrow door AID
glanced about the apartment. On Il chair be-
fore the fire slept the widows little yellow
kitten, the dog was barking away off in
distant portion of the woods, and no other
living creature except the old woman and
the scribe were in sight or sound. That
wasn't very comfortable looking bed the
reporter saw back in dingy corner of the
dingy little room. 1t had been glorious
old-fashioned high post arrangement in its
palmy days, Elade up doubtless with its
warm soft feather mattresses and downy
coversts and soothing pillows, but it now
serves thp old laHV'S with fau,
blackened quilts spread over the ropes that
constitute the bottom and hard mean pill
low far from suggestive of restful sleep
and dreamful SAUNDERS. Several rickety
chairs, Il table and numerous pots and pans
and a few shattered dishes were all the con-
tents of these apartments, with two old
hats on nails upon the wall, half dozen
tomatoes on the mantle strip above the fire
place and jar of preserved fruit some
kind heart had been prompted to bestow
upon the destitute creature. 81 don't
know how old am, she replied to the re-
porter's query, ''the Bible was lost when
George and me moved to this yere place,
and | never knowed what it were without
the Bible" There were volumes of mean
ing in the weak old voice that uttered the
above words. 81 never knowed what it were
without the Bible" No, indeed, old lady!
you never knew peace or comfort OF joy
after it departed, and its tender councils
and hopeful promises still haunt your mem
DRY as the wind, like ghost, forever abides
about those chinks and crannies of your
little Int when tho blasts of winta ar dascApI
on the hills. But it cansot be long before
death will ride to your door on the wings
of the wntery blast, the gentle and sooth.
ing death, and take you to the very doors
"knowed' again all your life once held so
dear. After ascertaining the extent of the
old lady's larder and her facilities for COM
fort the reporter turned from the door
of the little hut, babe the little old woman
good-day and sought once more the beauti-
full avenues of the grove. ooh, charity. If
you ever lack for opportunity to spread
your white wings of peace and shower the
contents of you horn o'plenty over one who
truly needs them, visit this old woman in
her cherries woodland home. Day by day
goes by, the bright sweet sunlight comes
over the hills at morning and sinks in the
valley at night, but she never knows all
that it brings to the selfish people out in the
stern old world that lays SO far from her
humble doorway. Hers is a life of little
meaning. 1t would be sinful to question
why it is lived, for the all-wi Providence