The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1900-04-12
Letter FrBih FlofIaa.

whole country. Now we can say, 10!
the winter is past, the flowers appear
Oh the earth, the time of singing of
birds has come and the voice of the
turtle is heard in the land" The
incompatible knocking bird is with
us, and few nights ago, down in the
magnolia grove, a whip-poor-will
crowed its plaintiff song, filling me
with sadness and a longing for home.
No matter how fair the scene or de-
lightful the climate, | can eXclaim
with the poet, There's no place like
homen
There are any number of red birds
here, and any one who has read AL
lan's Kentucky CARDINAL will be
doubly interested in this bird. They
are great pets here and become quite
tame without being Gagged. There is
a legend among the people that when
the corn is being planted the red bird
perches near and calls out, sometimes
beseechingly, again imperatively,
peter, plant two, Peter, plant two;
one grain for the bird and another to
grow"
Pleasure boats are continually go
ing out on picnics to gather shells.
The shells are the most beautiful l
ever saw and very curious. Northern
visitors gather or buy them to take
home as curiosities. Hurricane Island
affords the finest, yet many beautiful
ones are gathered here. A lady makes
a good living by constructing birds,
trees, houses, etc, out of shells, which
bring a good price. Two philanthropy
ic lady visitors have been instrument
tai in a donation of two excellent
libraries to our Sunday school from
friends at home Qllinois), large bound
volumes. The church is in a tile
grove few yards from our home, and
| spend many pleasant hours in the
cool, big building looking over and
reading its treasures. We also have
a church circulating library of news
papers, magazines, etc, of religious
stamp. They are on stand near the
church door. and each is inscribed,
Read and Return" no other rules or
regulations.
In former letter l promised to tell
of the lovely home | noticed as l came
down the bay from Wetappe to St.
Andrews, and its sad history. l have
since met and know them personally.
OF course | suppress their real names.
There are only two occupants-moth-
er and son-'the only child of his
mother and she widow" 1t is said
truth is stranger than fiction, and it
seems so in this case. Many years
ago in an eastern state lived a father,
mother and an only child, a son,
idolized by his parents. Possessed of
great wealth their principal object in
life was to secure every advantage for
him. They travelled in foreign lands.
The boy was handsome, talented,
ambitious. He threw himself with
ardor into philosophical and scientific
studies. His health began to give
way and the physician warned him of
physical and mental prostitution. Still
he kept on. The prediction was rati
fed. The father sank beneath the
blow; the mothers surprising love
bore her up. The physician informed
her the only hope for her son was to
take him to some quiet, secluded
place for years. She renowned the
world and friends, and on the shores
of st. Andrews Bay they had built a
lovely home, furnished with paint
ings, books, etc, gathered from this
and foreign lands, and u grand piano
for music was the solace and delight
of the young man. Amid such seclu
sion, surrounded by all the beauties
of nature he improved physically, but
alas! the mental trouble no human
power could reach. Daily the moth
er's loving heart beheld the shadows
grow deeper. She would not realize
the sad truth. Night after night she
heard his step pacing his room, for
sleep was banished from his eyes.
Again he would hurry out in the
black night and walk for hours, or the
wierd, sweet notes of the piano would
break upon the air as he improvised
grand, martial strains or low notes
throbbing with pain and sorrow.
Never violent, yet such was his NAL
ady it might 80 develop any day.
Friends warned her in vain; she
would not leave him. Moody, silent
he would sit by his writing desk
heaped with his favorite authors,
never reading word, never speaking,
dreading the doom of madness he felt
His own hand dealt the
fatal blow. One day he said to his
Mother, you must go!"
go? Leave my lovely home, my
suffering son? Never! 1t is impossi-
ble." But he only repeated, "You
must go. l will be alone. No one
must darken my doors nor cross my
grounds. Alone l will struggle and
battle. Col"
Weepingly she obeyed, moving to a
near neighbors almost in sight of her
old home. l was visiting the same
house and there met her. A lovely,
refined lody, true Christian woman,
the marks of an indellible sorrow
stamped on her countenance, seeming
to me like the old Bible cry, Behold,
and see if there be any sorrow like
unto my sorrow" Truly death is
preferable. With sobs and tears the
told me most of what l here
relate. Clasping her thin, white
hands she would exclaim, "Oh! can
not give him up. God is good. My
son will recover" From the window
l could sometimes see him moodily
pacing the long stretch of beach. The
mother was taken i'll; then the son
seemed aroused from his melancholy,
visited her and entreated her to
return home. She did so as soon as
she was convalescent, and his anxiety
for her was over (for he is q loving,
dutiful son when in his mind) he is
gradually relapsing.
This is the home that viewed from
Aha boat on An1rauc Row think