The Penn's Grove record., 1886-06-19

I den spring his feet have eomein contact
with a treacherous tuft that ts barely
hanging to the cliffs edge. AS they
press against it, it gives way, and the
next moment he goes headlong over
the ledge.
Up at the hotel all is confusion and
excitement, for he has been missed, and
the mother-aunt, in her agony of ter
ror, is beseeching landlord, clerk,
guide, walters, all to go In search Of
her darling boy.
Only too well she surmises that in
his usual fearlessness, and alive with
the desire to hunt out things for him
self, he is straying along the dizzy
edges of the dangerous chasm.
1t is tw~enty-four hours before they
find him, and at least q fourth as many
more, ere by the aid of ropes and lad
ders, he is rescued.
He is conscious and able to tell his
story, though, when he if first lifted
he cries out with pain in spite of him.
self. One arm lies doubled up under
him and shattered, yet with this excep-
ton there Is no other outward sign Of
hurt.
Ills utSCtlU lids DCtll DlOhCu ny buO
various clumps of verdure, and finally
when he has reached the ledge below
it is to fall upon a bed of ferns and
MOSES. For a time the shock has
completely stunned him. When he
returns to consciousness it is to find
that he is unable to move his body.
But he manages to reach his handker-
chief, which he dips from time to time
In the cascade 9 and thus Stacks
his thirst, and also with its damp folds
protects his face from the suns rays.
1t is the chill of the long dark night
that strikes the greater terror to bis
heart and a death-like numbneSs to his
cramped limbs.
This is the story he tells to those who
rescue him, but he says naught of these
dreadful things, when p~assionately
clasped against the throbbing heart,
that all day and all night long
watched and waited in an agony of
mingled hope and fear on the verandah
of the hotel.
There, in the presence of all, yet
seemingly unmindful, overcome at last
by the sight of the agitated loving face,
with its passionate eyes raining hot
tears down upon his own, he sobs out
the whole story of his hopes and long
ings for her, the ardent desires that
cling so fondly about the dear, dear
book.
Clutched tightly in the palm of his
uninjured hand he still holds the pre-
| clous, sparkling thing, which, now that
he is safe within her sheltering arms,
| ha diqaIacaa RI fhn Uipw Af all
Not till the next day, however, when
the brave, loyal fellow is struggling in
| the delirium of fever, is the value of
his find discovered. 1t is an emerald,
unusually large and clear.
81 will give him one thousand dollars
for it, uncut as it isl' declared a young
jeweler from New Orleans, who, to do
him credit, is much more touched by
the pathetic story sobbed out on the
mo%ther-aunt's bosom than he is taken
by the probable value or the exquisite
beauty of the gem.
81 lost just $3.50, hard cash, by the
investment" he says to the same
friend a year later; ''but | assure you l
have never regretted it."
Aunt Tina's book is out, and a sue
cess. AS to Aunt Tina herself, where
she made pleasure trips of a week be-
fore, she now makes them of months,
| and she is never seen anywhere with
| out her attendant, Swain.
AS to this same Swain, he is a hand
some, active fellow indeed. in spite of
| the fact that one arm hangs stiff and
almost helpless-an ever-present remin-
der of the time when he went down
| Turner's Pointl