The Ottawa free trader. [volume] (Ottawa, Ill.) 1843-1916, 1888-01-28
said them, but my heart was Dustin with
fear and misery. and what was said went
a-shootin' up that stone side right to the great

fear and misery, and what was said went
a,shootin' up that stone side right to the great
high throne.
II begun to hope and sot in ter prayin'
harder and harder, fer she'd give up lookin
over the edge and was a-dragin' Of her feet
onsartin like away us if she'd changed her
mind. never felt SIGH a feeling Of conf
dence in prayer in my life, and begun
| thankin' of the Lord.
"Al ut once she stopped still agin, and
began a-gazng pint blank at Chattanooga
she was a etening at something with her
hand held close TO her ear, | heered it, too;
sound comes mighty easy long way on the
river when it's STILL | knowed what it was
no sooner'n I'd heard it.
at was the ding-dong ding-dong, of a bell
in the biggest church in town, a-ringin'
fast and glad like they do arter a body's
married.
my heart stopped its beatin' every lick
seemed ter me was pushin her higher and
higher the edge The bell told her that he
was married.
"She turned around a-facin' this way; she
was aholdin of her hands to her ears as if to
Shut out the sound of the bell, and come on
back slow to the edge.
"My eyes felt like they was n Dustin out
of my head with fear of what | knowed |
couldn't stop tried to holler, but might
as well have tried to reach the moon. The
shine had left the rock with jump, and was
paintin' white cloud in the blue sky red
and gold away up higher on its way to the
promised land, where God and the angels
have light day an night.
81 tried ter close my eyes-she was a-get-
tin ready fer ter jump. Directly seed Their
pore little frail thing hop oT'n the rock like
u bird.
II fell on my all tours, my face agin Their
cool groun'; / tried ter stan, but l couldn't.
/ heerd her fall with dull thud on the
groun' in ther bushes nigh me. l crawled,
feelin' like was dead, through Their briers
an underground ter her side. She was dead.
l sot thar a-holdin' up her pore yaller head
in my hands, not a-knowin' what / was
about.
'"Soon Their folks up thar on ther hillside
tibet he'd heard me a-shoutin', came an tuck
us both home.
"Thet night wus a-ravin' clean 'stracted
out'n my senses. All Their time / was in a
trance like; it seemed tibet rs a-foatin aroun',
fust up Their side of Their cliff in deep fog
a-tryin' my best ter reach a bright spot
above me. Then floated over Their noun
tain, across the river. above Chattanooga,
an then went down right through Their top
ov ther big stone church. Directly l heerd
the big organ a-playin' like lively war
chune, an | seed Their house packed an
jammed with the fine dressed folks up town.
Then l seed a man an a oman a-standin'
fore ther parson a-bein' married; al's as
still as grave. Then Their chune struck up
louder an gladder n ever, and they walked
out ov ther church. | cotch a-sight O. his
face; it wus Their young Teller with Their OF
Nick's face I'd seed afore with pore little
Stella. Then ther big painted winders with
ther Saviour a-walkin' bare foot on 'em went
out of my dream, an the people, the benches
an all
~ amt got much more ter tell ye;.two
days arter her death, she was buried. 1t
wasn't a gran funeral, but it wus the sad
deSt one | ever seed.
"a OF man an oman sot beside one
anuther on Their fust row; Their mans head
was winter n snow, an his face was wrinkled
with sorrar; Their oman was bent over an
kivered from head ter foot with a black
veil. She WIS a-sobbin' like her heart would
break Betwixt them an Their parsons stan
wus a coffin a-restin' on two chairs, an Their
people WIS a-singin Ersleep in Jesus as
soft an low as Their wind a-moanin' in Their
trees on ther mountain"
left the good old countryman wiping his
eyes, and turned to wend my way back to
the city, passing the spot, now overgrown
with wild shrubbery and luxuriant mountain
weeds and flowers where poor Stella fell.
The trees and huge powders seemed to
shudder in the deepening shadows, and the
grass beneath my feet shed tears of newly
born dew, as if weeping for the tragedy of
nearly twenty years before-W. N. Harden
in Waverley Magazine.