The Camden journal. [volume] (Camden, S.C.) 1866-1891, 1890-07-03
THE BLUE BUTTERFLY.
By HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.
Backward, turn backward, oh, Time,
in thy fight" gayly sang Marcus OAley.
1.-The wiseacres say that this is an i'm
possibility; but l have this day proved
them all wrong. The last ten years of
my life are nothing but dream, and /
am racketing schoolboy again, with my
bag Of books slung over my shoulder and
a tish-llne hid away in my pocket.
There's the very closet Aunt Zillah used to
lock nc up in when she caught me steal
ing blackberry jam-the same window,
with the same mended pane of glass in
the left hand corner, under which l list
ened, nights, when the bachelor school
teacher used to come and see her, and
reproduce him at the breakfast table
next morning, to Gran 'ther Biggins's
great delight New York is the figment
of a nights sleep. I haven't grown a
day older-and-"
''It's shame" cried Rebecca, gnash-
ing her small white teeth together.
"You've had every chance, and I've Just
stood still. You've worked your way
up in that great newspaper office, and
I've done housework and been to weekly
singing school! Why is it that a man
has so much better opportunities than q
woman, I'd like to know2 Listen,
Marcus. Aunt Zillah isa'; even willing
to let NE take lessons of the new pro-
fessor, who is coming to establish con-
servatory at Dingford. She says it costs
so much. And I've got voice-I know
I've got a voice-aud, if only I had a
chance to cultivate it, l might earn a
hundred dollars year singing in the
choir, as we'll as Emily Elmer"
f:Not bad idea," said Marcus,
thoughtfully regarding her.
How she had shot up in his absence,
like one of the tall, red lilies in the gar
den, or the fower-deluces under the
window-:this solemn-eyed, olive.skinned
young cousin of his. Rather pretty, too
though in that outlandish, calico dress,
no one could tell what there was of her.
"Sing sometimes for me, Beck. Let's
hear what you can do"
Rebccca Higgins leaned back against
the rude wooden column of the portico,
trail of creamy honeysuckle flowers al
most touching her braids of ink-black
hlir as she stood, and burst out into one
Of the triumphant hymns which, in theil
church music, had most struck hel
fancy
Awake, my soul, stretch every nervem
And sang it through to the last word Of
the last verse.
"Well," said she, as the perfumed
summer silence succeeded her lay-and
she spoke as if the vocal organ belonged
to some one else, "what do you think oi
it2"
Gas clear as a flute" said Marcus
"and as sweet as thrush! l heard Mis-!
Floretta Foliati sing solo at St. Fury
dice's last Easter Sunday-when / wen
there to report for the Daily Omnium-
that wasn't so much better than that, al
though, of course, there was no end o.
trills and fourishes and that sort of voca
gymnastics about it.
Rebecca's eyes glistened.
''Do you really think so, Mark? Then
if"
At that moment Aunt Zillah's voice
was heard calling loudly:
'Marcus! Marcus! come in to your
dinner! Rebecca, why aren't you here
to dish up the stewed chicken and green
peas2"
"Hello!" said Mr. Offiey, as he passed
through the stuffy little parlor, elbows
the chronological collection2 Oh, you
have beauty herel 1 say, Aunt Zillah,
can l have that blue fellow for my
friend, Professor Rapparee3 He's fairly
cracked on bulterhies!"
"Certainly you cap" said Aunt Zil-
lah, with emphasis. "That blue butter
fly is worth ten dollars, the parson says.
"Ten dollars would just pay the price
of ten lessons at Mr.. Meriam's new con-
servatory,' murmured Rebecca.
"Mr. Meriam's conservatory, indeed y
snapped Aunt Zillah. II wonder il
you'd be so anxious to go tagging to a
conservatory where they taught weaving
rag-carpets and darning stockings2 Go
and look after the dinner at once, while
I show your Cousin Marcus my collection
of moths and butterflies. But the blue
winged one is the gem of the lot. You
are right there. There amt a dozen
specimens like it in the country, the par
son tells me. There's collector in Bos-
ton would be willing to pay most any
sum for it. I'm credibly informed. But, "
and she chuckled gleefully, "poor as
am, there's some things money cant buy
from me"
'.Well, if it was mine, l should sell it
quicker than hgltnlng!" observed Mr..
Ofley, standing iu front of the glass case,
with mis- hands in his pockets. Il can't
understand the spell that has bewitchsd
Rapparec and all those other bug mani
acs, A live butterfly, now, flying ap?ls