Rensselaer Republican, Volume 15, Number 5, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 October 1882 — A RETROSPECT OF FROGTOWN. [ARTICLE]

A RETROSPECT OF FROGTOWN.

When I was a girl of 18 I lived in a village with the funny name of Frogtown. It seupds very ’ awkward and queer to 5, people thffc know nothing about the pliuie; Jmt really it was the best name in the world, for the frogs were the most numerous, tlio wisest and best of its population. Wandering down by the water in early springtime I quite learned their language, and feel assured that more orderly, sober, kindly, well-disposed creatures did not exist. While picking the wet violets from the boggy banks, stringing meadowgrass into wreaths, and singing to myself in the happy way that country maidens do wheu gruff old winter is gone for good, I often found the funny frogs joining in with my song, affectionately and low, and all in tune. And 1 , one particular night in early June, when the full moon was climbing up into the sky, the clouds swept softly and swiftly by, and one little stafc shone up aloft, I walked through a wide, sweet pasture filled with buttercups' apd daisies, and holding one of these last blossoms in my hand, I began pulling away the leaves, one bv one, repeating these two names—two names that were ever now in my heart and on my tongne, and I could not tell which I repeated oftenest or loved the best—Billy Byles, the builder, Maynard Miles, the miller; Biilv Byles, Maynard Miles; the builder, the miller. One by one the leaves went fluttering down the stream—for I had reached the water now—and at last only one was left. It was Billy Bvles; and I stood with my hands folded, thinking of his dark, eager face, and of all the years since we were children that ho had been fond of me. The frogs began their evening chant—thud, thud, kor-thud, ker-thud; good, good, very good. There they were squatting by the sedgy pools, looking at me with their round goggly eyes, and nodding approvingly. I felt satisfied then that Billy Byles owned every beat of the heart that fluttered under my muslin bodice, and stopped beating once in a while to listen for his tread. He said he would be there in the early evening, and now the moon had climbed high, and prayer-meeting would be over before I could get home; mother would he there before me, and perhaps sister Maria would stop in on her way from church, and then they would scold, and wonder where I had been wandering in the dark and the dew. I began to feel chilled and disappointed; the song of the frogs grew harsh and discordant. I turned sadly homeward, and had scarcely gone a rod when a light foot leaped down from a neighboring bank, and there was Billy at last. Oh, the perverseness of women! Instead of warmly welcoming him, I turned poutingly away, and could find no excuse of his strong enough to warrant his keeping me waiting.

“There are some folks,” I said, “would be glad enough to come at my bidding.” “And who could be gladder than I?” he cried in return. “Come, now, Bess, you don’t mean to say there’s a chap far or near cares as much for you as I do? I’m getting the timber together for onr new house, and was belated in making a bargain about the well—there’s a fellow out of work will do the job cheap; and I was looking after a fine chance of a cow; there’s a trick of Alderney about her, and I know she’ll be a rare milker. You can milk, can’t you, Bess?” I pulled my hand away from him, and turned my head aside. " Had I waited all this time to hear about his timber, and Jiis well, and the milking of the cow ? It was always the way. At home I had nothing but the same dingy round of duties—washing the dishes, scouring the pans, ironing and baking, -while mother did nothing but toil and gossip and scold, and sister Maria, now that she was married, was more trouble than before, for she had threo mischievous children that she was always leaving at our door to be minded, wlulo she went off among the villagers; and here when I had ran away to get rid of it all—here with the. sweet idle flowers, and the river that did nothing but make love to the blossoms on its bank, and the big lazy clouds that skimmed leisurely along, and all the thriftless beauty of nature to coax ns away from the thoughts of work-a-day lionrs—here was Billy talking about' digging wells, and raising timber, and, abovo all tilings, the milking of a cow! rng to learn; it’s tiresome work, and don’t see why the milk can’t be bought.” “That’s not the way for young married folks to begin, Boss,” he said; and I took fire in a minute, for he’d never •sked me out and out to be married,

bnt seemed to take everything for granted. “And what hare young married folks to do with me?” I said. “I am not going to be married. It’s bad enough now, and it would be far worse then.” “Then you’ve been coaxing me on only to fool me at the last,” he said. “You’ve spoken in time. 11l bother no more with anything.” “Oh! don’t let the good bargains go,” I said, scoffingly; “look out for the timber and the well and the cow; as for the wife, she’s easily enough got; she’s the least of all. Only be sure she’s a good milker.” “Stop, Bess,” he said, and stamped his foot. In the half-darkness I saw his face leap into a glow. “Be quiet, girl, and listen to me. I know what’s come over you—it’s else you begin to care for; you’ve been won over by the fair words of Miles the miller; but I warn you, Bess, rather than see you belong to him, I’ll kill you both.” Now, strange as it may seem, I liked this manner of talk far better than the other, and the more he famed and crashed the tender grasses under his heavy boots, the more my heart wanned to him. I had always to make him mad to get him to show how much he cared for me. If I said nothing to vex him, he’d drone along by the hour about all sorts of miserable drudgery in store for us, and I hated the thought of going from one round of toil ut home to another with Billy Byles. But I went a step too far that night. We parted in anger, and I went home sad and heavyhearted enough, but made no sign of sorrow to any one, for I. was proud and unyielding in my way, and would rather have died than conceded an inch to my old lover. And he, alas! was stubborn too, though he suffered sorely. lie became moody and idle, and people began to say bad things of lay*-' His old work-shop was boarded flip, and he spent the most of his time loitering about the banks of the river where we had passed so many happy hours together. Perhaps the mill being close at hand had something to do with Bill’s haunting the water. I don’t think I could be blamed for not putting away from me the scant comfort I took in the young miller’s pleasant words and winning ways. It was a rare relief to me to escape the torment and fear that pursued me day by day. I saw that Bill was unmindful of his work, and took no interest in his old thrifty ways, and Heaven knows I was sorry, but now it was too late. He had got himself an evil name, and in our village to do this one might as well be hanged at once. My mother had forbidden my speaking to Bill, and as for sister Maria, her whole heart was set upon my chances with the miller. These chances were fast verging to promise; the tender green of spring had ripened to the full form of summer, and now the golden-rods and asters began to bloom upon the river banks. I went down that way to gather the gay flowers, and kept them but a day or two, when I must needs go for more. I was seldom alone in my idle straying; the young miller had good help, and could always fling off his dusty coat, and shake the white powder from his hair, and help me to squander an hour or two. There was a certain bank that overhung the stream in easy sight of the mill. There the underbrush was thick about us, and the heat of the sun was tempered by a woaderful wickerwork of leaves and branches; the birds sang there soft and low, and the water went rippling by. The miller was a fine, handsome fePow to look upon, with laughing blue eyes, and a womanish winning mouth that was ever dropping coaxing words of flattery and love. I could almost have been lured to forgetfulness of the past, and drifted on with the delight of the sweet summer days and their fair surroundings, had I not always been driven back again by some evil reminder. It came in the shape of the wild, dark face so familiar to me, that seemed invisible to everything and everybody else. I could see it gleam from the branches of the deepest thicket, and moved away many a time from the miller and trembled till it was gone. And often the gnide boat of Billy Byles would jut out before us in the stream, and, though lie neither looked nor made any sign, it was enough to know that he was watching and waiting for Heaven knew what. I began to wish that whatever he was plotting he -would do and have done with it. The awful suspense and dread poisoned the happiest moments of my life, and, beside, through it all"l ...vs so sorry for him. My heart was all tenderness to him, even though he should murder me, as he had sworn to do. I could not get strength to put away tlxose moments of rest and consolation with the young miller. Mine was a nature that yearned for soft words and caressing, for distraction from homely cares, and, truth to say, for the flattery and adulation that had given me a feverish thirst since ever I had learned I was beautiful. Life was so pitifully short, and beauty so soon on the wane! But a day came, like other days, without warning of any kind. The sun rose in the morning, the cocks were crowing and flapping their wings, the cows chewed their everlasting cud. Breakfast was prepared and eaten and cleared away, and scarce were one set of dishes put aside when another must be brought out. Stewing and baking and all the hot routine of a noonday meal must be pursued, and when at last this was done, a long overhand, seam must be finished. Apd yet this was called an idle day/ when I could hope to reach my down by the water; I thought the time would never ■come. I knew that sweet words and the gentle deference of love awfited-me there; I knew the bank was beautiful with fcirns apd mosses and Tfcilcl flowers;

that the water was stUT and deep, and lovely with tremulous shadows. I was thinking of and yearning for it all. I had taken the last stitch, and had risen to my feet with a sigh of relief, when the door opened, and in came sister Maria with little Phil—yellow-haired, dimpled, mischievous little Phil. He was my favorite among them all—a lovable, warm-hearted little fellow, that had already ran to me with outstretched hands and a cry of delight. But I was cold and sullen, and stood there looking at Maria, waiting for what I knew she would ask. Ask V—demand rather; she was always bringing the children there for me to mind. I didn’t so much dislike the care of little Phil; at any other time it would have been a pleasure to me; bnt that day, that hour, that minute, how could I stay at home? The tears sprang to my eyes, and I began to tremble with grief and disappointment. Then the church bell rang out dolefully, as if tolling my happj23S3 away. Yes, it was poor Mrs. Barlow’s funeral day. I remembered now, and mother was up-stairs getting ready tq go. As for Sister Maria* when did she ever miss a funeral?

She was already taking off Philly’s hat, and putting a gingham apron over his holiday dress. “Be sure and watch Phil,” she said. “Don’t let him out of your sight, Bess. He’s always getting into mischief of some sort. ” Then at last I gasped out an entreaty for her not to go. “Not go to the funei’al!” she echoed. “That’s just your way. You never want to put yourself out the least bit to let mo have any enjoyment.” Enjoyment! I said no more. In truth, the whole village seomed .to be going. Group after group parsed our door, and the bell went clanging on. I sank back in my chair in a stupor of resignation; but no sooner had mother and Maria gone out the door than I burst into a passion of weeping. Little Phil ran over to me, and clasped his chubby hands about my neck. “What make Bessy cry?” he asked. “Oh, Philly dear,” I cried, clasping him close, and rocking to and fro, “Bessie did so want to go somewhere to-day! —down by the water, where the pretty flowers grow, out of the sound of that dreadful bell, and away from those hateful, curious people; down where the frogs are, Philly—the queer speckled frogs that make faces at you and Bing such funny songs.” The little fellow clapped his hands, and then looked pleadingly up in my face.

“Me go, too? Philly go with Bessie to see the funny frogs. Philly be good boy. Please Philly go?” A throb of hope and joy moved my desponding heart. Why shouldn’t little Phil go ? I had already begun to pull off his apron, my hands trembling with eagerness. In less than half an hour we were hastening away as fleetly as our yeanling hearts could desire. Phil was wild to see the funny frogs, and I —well, I scarcely knew what I longed for most. To get rid of the bell, for one thing—it clanged so of death and all that was dreary and miserable. Scarce had we reached the pathway that led through the pasture ground tc the mill when the bell ceased, and a heavenly quiet fell upon everything. It seemed as if poor Mrs. Barlow mnst suddenly have got rid of the gaping crowd, and the gate 3 of paradise had opened to take her within. Phil olutched at the flowers as we went along; he laughed and crowed, and my own heart grew glad. At last through the briers and ferns I saw the shining water, th& trees above, the trees below, and all of it the loveliest and brightest of green. ’ At that moment I did not so much care for the handsome young miller; I only yearned for the rest and shade and lazy happiness of it all; and when I reached the bank and found it all alone with its tangles of turf and wild flowers I was quite content. Indeed, it began to be peopled very quickly with the frogs that at first one could not see, they were so of a color with the rest; but presently we espied them one. by one squatting upon the opposite bank. Philly was wild with delight; he had never seen so many frogs, nor any of so friendly and sociable a mien. But I held his hand tight within my own, for the water was deep tlierp —deep enough to drown a much bigger body than dear little Phil’s. As I held his hands in one of my own, my other one wasrsuddenly caught in a warm, close pressure, and my heart began to beat, my cheeks to glow.

“My w-ild rose, my blossom,” said the melodious voice, “how could you leave me so long? Ah, now the world is sweet again!” Yes, it was wonderfully sweet. The moments flew along on w ings of delight. It was not alono his presence or the dulcet flatteries he poured into my willing ears, but everything was so fraught with the power and fervor of beanfv and youth and all that was adorable in life. The dingy dolor of the village street, with its funeral throng, was hidden and forgotten; the world seemed only made of joy. How gratefully and caressingly the tall trees bent to the water, and mirrored themselves in its shining depth! I nad given my hands to the keeping and caressing of my companion • I had,leaned lazily back upqff’tke trunk or-the big tree; 1 had—God forgive me —long forgotten little Phil. And, gazing idly down upon the stream, I suddenly saw something floating on the tide. The whole grew dark, all black, except that one fluff of yellow hair upon the treacherous water. The young miller saw it as soon as I.

“Great heaven!” he cried, “the child is lost. I can’t swim, Bess, not a stroke.” I got upon my feet. “Oh, where is God?” I said; and, lingering one moment in bewilderment, I sprang after little Phil. It mattered nothing that I had thrown my own life after that of the dear little lad. Life was a thing too hideous to hold. I felt this even as the water poured into my throat and nostrils, and was fast strangling the faint beat of my wicked, weak, reckless heart. Then, as if on the far dim shores of paradise, I saw once more the sad dark face of Billy Byles-—no longer murderous or scowling, but gentle and tender, and bending over mine with an unspeakable strength of pity and love. In his arms was little Phil, the bine eyes closed, and the yellow hair wet and dank. We were all dead, I thought—l hoped. I didn’t care. I had found God, and left all with Him. A shrill whisper awoke me. “And that there child,” it said, “in his blessed ignorance wants to go down and play with them there frogs again. After we’d got him rid of the nasty water, and dried and warmed him, and put him to bed, he opened his blessed eyes and says to me, says he, ‘ Grandma, Philly go see the funny frogs, please?’ But as for Bess, she’s been that wtvy nigh on for twenty-four hours, and tho good Lord knows what’ll come of it. ”

Mother’s whisper cut the air, but it was music to me. Tears of contrition and gratitude rolled one by one from under my closed eyelids. Philly was alive, then, and had suffered no shock in mind or body, since he wanted to go back to the frogs. Who had saved us ? How had we reached the shore? “There’s an all-seein’ eye,” pursued poor dear mother, “that watches everything, and them that don’t believe in the orderin’ of things can just tell me how it was Jlilly Byles was there with his boat just in the nick of time. There’s a leaven o’ good in that there boy, and I believe he’ll do well yet. He’s sold his land, you know, and starts for the West at daylight to-morrow.” “Mother,” I said, suddenly lifting myself up on my elbow, and waiting till she had got over her first .start to hear me speak, and had caressed and scolded me in a breath, and had declared she would call everybody in the next room—sister Maria and John and young Miles, the miller, and half the village, I suppose—“mother,” I said, “I’ll see nobody but the one tb-night; let somebody go for Billy Byles.” Mother stood a minute, then saying, “It’s no more’n fair and right,” she left me alone.

A little later on Bill was bending over me with the same look of pity and love that had met my fainting eyes in that last awful minute of consciousness. I threw my arms about his neck. “Forgive me, Bill,” I whispered; “forgive and love me if you can.” When he could get his voice to speak he said that, as for loving me, he couldn't help that if he tried. “And as for forgiving, Bess, I need forgiveness more than any one. You may as well know, darling, that I planned to murder you for many a day, and it was only the mercy o’ God that led Philly to fall into the water, or you’d ’a been dead, along with yonder sprig in th’ other room, and by my wicked hand; that’s as sure as there’s a God that mended matters the way He did. But I’m cured now, Bess. Many whom you will. I’ll not be here to see. I’m going West to-morrow, Bessie; and now S've me one kiss, for the sake of all that is been between us. ”

Would it be believed that I loved him all the more for his fierce, wild part in the baleful past ? Though he had planned to murder me, my heart went out to him in love and submission. The miller seemed ever so tame beside him. He stooped and put his lips to mine. They lingered long; my weak arms served to bind him. “Oh, Bess! Bess!” he groaned, and I murmured his name with fond caressing. “Stay, Bill,” I said, “and get tho timber together again. I’ll learn to milk eo soon as I get strength.” “I’ll gdt the timber together, Bess, but it will be a thousand miles from here. I won’t risk it again, Bess, unless you are content to go away from all all sorts of beguilings. Chodse here and now; will you go, if I wait for you ? Will you?” Bill’s was a stern sort of wooing, but I liked it the best then, and it’s served me well this many a year. As I sat here to-night on my wide veranda, and, looking far and near, could see nothing but the fields of grain, and the billowy waves of the blue-grass in which the herds plunge and revel, I found it fair to look upon, but something set me to thinking of the past, and I turned to a handsome young fellow at my side. “Phil, wouldn’t you love once more to hear the frogs at dear old Frogtown ?” “Well, no, Aunt Bess. I came to grief once in sporting with those same reptiles, and might never have heard a sound that better suits this glorious part of the country. Listen, Aunt Bess; that’s the sound for me,” said my nephew Phil. • It was the wild cry of the coyote.— Harper’s Weekly.

England has a .blind Postmaster General, who fills the post with unprecedented success, and last year a blind man ascended Mont Blanc. What seems almost as .remarkable is that, according to the Wolverhampton Chronicle for 1792, “one Briscoe, manager of a small theatrical company, though stone blind, playa all the heroes in liis tragedies, and the lovers in all genteel comedies.”