Rensselaer Union, Volume 6, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 January 1874 — HOW MILLY SAW THE OLD YEAR OUT. [ARTICLE]

HOW MILLY SAW THE OLD YEAR OUT.

BY SUSAN COLLIDGE.

The ink-black clouds have discharged their burden and fled, giving place to a sunset clear and pink as any which shone on last June’s roses or the lush fruitage of August. But what a different world it lights it. Where once was grass and flowers, winding wheel-track, and meadowfence, lies now one smooth, glittering surface of unbroken snow. The first great storm of the season has fallen, and when such comes early in winter to Kennebec Hollow it is once for all. Not till April rains and May suns conspire to undermine the drifts will the white mantle be rent apart and the imprisoned things below find light and egress. Faint sounds of shoveling come from afar as the sunset deepens. All the Tong afternoon the farmers have been busy chiseling out the paths which are to serve for so many months to come—long, straight avenues from door to gate; narrow tracks from house to barn. As for the road way, the runners will take care of that, and even as we listen a faint jingle comes from an invisible somewhere, and further yet another springs un responsive. In fact, the young people of the neighborhood are collecting for their first sleighing frolic—one of the old-fash-ioned kind—beginning with a little lovemaking under a buffalo-robe, to crisp sound of bells, and ending with a dance and supper. What a cheery tinkle it is; although to little Milly Ives, sitting disconsolate in her father’s kitchen, it seems just the most teasing, aggravating, vexatious noise she ever heard. You see the ear mus* be in tune to enjoy it! Poor Milly. It is not pleasant at any age to sit by and hear the signal for faroff gayeties which you long to share and cannot; at seventeen it is intolerable. And when once in your life have you been allowed to taste of the cup of pleasure; and when every looking-glass and running brook that comes your way shows a face —well, to say the least, not bad looking, the case becomes worse and worse. It borders on the tragic! And such was Milly’s position. She sits near the fire, between her father and her step-mother. She always sits there in the evening. Everything in that house has its place, including the human occupants. The hatchet would be as likely to desert its post and “strike” for a different nail to hang upon as Milly to venture upon another chair than the accustomed one. How she hates it all in her soul—the spare, prosaic neatness, the ugly chintzy pattern of the cushions, the blue yam In her lap which she is pretending to fashion into a stocking; the monotonous ticking of the clock. It is a “comfortable home,” as people say. There is no stint of food or firing, but for anything to nourish the heart or refresh the imagination it is Vacant as Sahara. And Milly is only seventeen, and her nature is grasping and thirsting after something better, as a plant grapples with delicate rootlets in a hard and barren soil. She is what farming folk call a “slip of a girl”—slight and fair, with a face whose wistful blue eyes are strangely pathetic when contrasted with its extreme youthfulness. The look was born in them, gentle reader- Some girls have it—perhaps a token from some long-ago ancestress, wnose history included a broken heart. If by no means denotes any special personal suffering in its possessor; but women with - those eyes generally have things pretty much their own way as Tong as they continue youDg and pretty. One day Milly would find her’s useful; but, you see—step-mothers are not young men, and the time is not yet. The step-mother in question, tilting to and fro in her rocking-chair, marked the unshed tears behind the lashes, and the mutinous mouth, and made her mental comments thereon. They were somewhat withering in their nature, but all she said was: “Mildred, you are not gettin’ on at all with that stockin’.” For be it known our heroine’s baptismal name was Mildred—Mildred Annabella! It is one of the economical indulgences of bur New England people to give fine appellations to their children. Just as cheap for the money; so why not! Human patience, however, and the duration of mortal time do not permit the everyday use of these gorgeous titles; so they are reserved for high days and holidays, and some easy nickname invented to take their place. There are occasions, however, when the indulgence of a familiar address is too much to be expected; and this Mrs. Ives considered one of them. , “I know it, ma’am. But I can’t knit tonight," was Milly’s reply, with the accompaniment of a half-sob. “What’s the matter with the girl!" asked her father, looking up from Thin newspaper. “The matter is,” responded his wife, “that she’s behaving in what I call aa unreasonable manner. I told her I wasn’t agoln’ to have her paradin’ off with a lot of cackling girls and light young fellows on a sleigh-ride. And she’s been in the snlks ever since. I know you’ll take the same voo I did, Mr. Ives. We want her to grow up shamefaced and modest, and not with braided hair apd costly apparel, and

fiddling and dancing, which ia not convenient” As Milly’a hair curled naturally, It would have been less than “convenient” to braid it This, however, was not intentionally a part of her step-mother’s syllogism. She went on i “As for sleighridin’ and the assembling ofyoung folks together, I find no warrant for it in Scriptur’. ‘Let the younger women be keepers at home,’ Paul says. And so long as I have any influence in this house so it shall be. There’s a great deal too much of this junketing and gaddin* goin’ on in the neighborhood now. I said to Miss Pratt, the other day: ‘l’m sure, I can’t see where you expect Barah Matilda to go to, with her hair frizzed, and dancin’ and flirtin’ and the like: but I call such doings the way to the Pit. She says: *Oh! Mrs. Ives. It seems to me young people really need some little amusement.’ But I told her that such sportin’ on the brink of everlastin’ woe I considered both sinful and shameful. She hadn’t a word to say in reply, and no wonder. And now, Mr, Ives, since we are on this subject, we may as well have it settled once for all. I’m only Milly’s step-mother. My word is nothin’, of course, and everything I do is a hardship. But you’re her own father, and I wish Milly goin’ on in this foolish way, or not?” “ But, father,” interposed Milly, in a timid voice, “I never did go on in any way. I can’t think what mother means. I never did go anywhere—not to any parties or sleigh-rides or anything—and I wanted to go just this once very much; but mother said—” here her lips quivered, and as a sudden peal of sleigh-bells rang down the valley, she fairly burst into tears. “Mildred, I’m ashamed of yon,” said Mrs. Ives, in an acid voice, while “Tut tut-tut!” was the only protest poor Mr. Ives could think of. r ~ “And now,” went on his wife, sanguine of victory, “just say, once for all, is Milly to conform to my views, or is she not?” Poor Mr. Ives. The embarrassment of deciding between wife and daughter was not a new one. Some natural relentings there were for his child, but the other scale was too heavily weighted to allow of hesitation. “Of course, my dear; of course. Milly, you hear what your mother says,” and then he retreated again into the shadow of his newspaper. Milly’s sobs grew louder. This was dreadful. Pretty soon she got up, still sobbing, lighted a candle, aid, mumbling an almost inarticulate “good night,” departed to the little room she called her own. The world looked forlorn enough as she put her pretty cheek on the pillow; but sleep came speedily—as it does to the young—and her woes were forgotten. She woke with that blessed oblivion which slumber brings, refreshed and brightened with the hopefulness of the new day. It was a sparkling morning—dawning on tip.toe, as it were, and full of life. The air was like wine. For all her heaviness of heart, she could not keep dancing as she went about her work. “We had sUch a splendid time,” said Sarah Matilda Pratt (the young lady aforesaid»?vho sported on the “edge of the Pit”), catching Milljr as she was loading her slender arm with sticks at the woof pile. “We went to Steadman’s, you know. They do make the most elegant egg-nog! We danced till we were just as warm as toast—such fun! And Jim Allen came home with me, and once we got almost spilled out. I had my month full of snow when we bounced up against a big drift; and we laughed till it seemed as if • we should go off. It was such a pity you wasn’t there.” “Oh! I did want to go. I did want to so much,” said Milly. “W e’re going to have a dance: ourselvea New Year’s Eve,” went on Sarah Matilda. “To see the Old Year out, you know. Ido wish you could come, Milly. Can’t you, possibly ? It’s such a shame not to dance the Old Year out. And it’s bad luck, too, people say. Wouldn’t your mother let you, if you’d ask her, don’t you think?” “Oh! no,” said Milly, with her lips trembling. “I have asked her again and again, and father, too; and they both say—” and here she sat down on a log and began to cry. “Don’t Milly, Oh! don’t,” cried the other, almost in tears herself, from sympathy. “It is too bad. I declare it is. You’re the only girl anywhere about that is kept so strict I vow, I wouldn’t stand it if I were you. I say,” (a sudden bright plan striking her,) “I’ve thought of something, Milly. I’ve got it! You can come. And you shall, if you’ll only do as I tell you.” “What do you mean?” wonderingly. “Why, come without asking leave—that’s all! Nothing’s easier. Your ma goes to bed early, don’t she?” “Yes.” „ “Well, you just slip up stairs a little before her, and fix yourself; and, as soon as she’s asleep and the house is quiet creep down again and out by the sheddoor. You would get to us by half past nine, and Jack’ll see you home. None of the doors are ever locked at night are they ?” “ Hardly ever. Sometimes they are;but not often. But Sarah, I shouldn't dare—” “ Nonsense! Not dare! There’s nothing to be afraid of. If your own ma was alive, she’d let you come in a minute; for they say she was the greatest favorite anywhere about, and went to everything that was going on. And you’ve a" perfect right to come, if you want to. You’re of age, you know.” “ No,” said truthful Milly, “ Not quite. My birthday isn’t till April.” “It’s just the same thing,” her irrepressible friend. “ You call crane, if you like. Oh! Milly, promise you will. Do, darling; do. 1 shall think you don’t love us if you don’t.” And so on, in the midst of which appeal Mrs. Ives was heard calling, “ Milly, Milly f” and,-gath-ering up her wood, Milly flew with guilty haste toward the house. “ The woman who deliberates is lost” Milly deliberated. She resolved and re-resolved, and at the end of all, New Year’s Eve saw her before her glass, putting the finishing touches to her drew. It was an Ugly, old-fashioned gown, of light green merino,‘and the white roses in her hair looked queer enough with it; but, somehow, they set off the fair head and daisy-white skin as well as £ more conventional garb could have done. She saw that she was pretty,* and it was impossible to help enjoying it Noiseless and tremollag Bhe crept down stairs, shawl in hand. Fortune smiled. The shed was reached, the door opened, gently closed. Bhe waa outdoors, alone the atari. The aaow

A happy New Year unto all. Wool lined boots at J. I. Purcupile * Oo.’s for only $4. Buck mits and gloves at net cost, at J. I. Purcupile A Co.'s. Rensselaer public schools resume operations next Monday; Mr Cyrus Ball has our thanks for a basket of fine black walnuts. J. f. Purcupile A Co. hnve ladies' fine shoe* at greatly reduced rates, for cash only. The weather here this morning is quite mild for tlie time of year. Wind bloVe from the south. Harry, youngest son of H. C. and Harriet Bruce, died December 27th, 1873, aged ryears, 2 months, 7 days. Men’s uuderwearatJ f. Purcupile & Co.’s at nrlces reduced 25 per cent. Men’s good undershirts 75 cents each. The second montldy Institute of the teachers of Marion township wili be held at the School House in Rensselaer, on Saturday, January 10th, 1874. Married, at the residence of the bride’s father Mr. Asa Porter, December 24th, 1873, by Rev. D. J. Huston, Mr. John Kxcsler to Miss L. Ella Porter. Physicians have stated that the wines now produced and offered for sale by Mr. Alfred Speer, ot New Jersey, are wines that can be* safely used for medicinal purposes, being pure and free from medication.—Advt. Persons knowing themselves indebted to J. B. A J. F. Hemphill will please call and settle by the sth day <fJanuary, as on that day all unsettled accouuts will be given toChilcote A Yeoman for collection. Mr. George Sigler, the efficient post master at this place, and iiis estimable wife, celebrated the tenth anniversary of tieir wedding last cveniug. ' They were the victims of a . surprise visit from a few friends, who left appropriate presents of tin ware. In consequence o; a strike among railroad engineer's, no trains have run overihePan Handle route since last Thursday, and no maiis have been received at this place from beyond Remington during the time. However daily communication is had with the world by wav of Bradford, on tire Louisville, Slew Albany and Chicago ■ road. ' The Remington Journal of last Week reports that an infant daughter of G. B. and D. A. Chappell's died on the 19th of December. Mr. S. E. Deforest, founder of the Journal, recently gave birth to a weekly paper at Walton, Indiana, which was named The Enterprise. Mr. U. It. Niesz, principal of the Remington school, went to Ada, Ohio, to spend holiday vacation. At the regular meeting of Iroquois Lodge No. 143, I. O. O. F., held Tuesday night last, an election was he’d to select officers fdr the cusuing term of six months, which resulted in the choice of Ira W. Yeoman, Noble Grand; Moses B. Alter, Vice Grand; N. W. Reeve, Permanent and Recording Secretary; G. W. Terhune, Treasurer; and C. O. Starr, R. 8. Dwlggins and L. \V. Henkle, Trustees for one year. Private installation next Tuesday night. Marion Grange No. 39, P. of 11., at a regular meeting last Saturday night held an election for otlicers for 1574, which resulted in the choice of the following:—Worthy Mastes, James Welsh; Overseer, L. K. Yeoman; Lecturer, John Jacks; Steward, Harrison Warren; Assistant Steward, Erast us Peacock; Chaplain, E. T. Harding; Treasurer, Samson Erwin; Gate Keeper, Eli Yeoman; Secretary, Joshua Healey; Ceres, Mrs. Ada \ ates; Pomona, Mrs. James Welsh; Flora, Miss Frances Smith; Lady Assistant Steward, Miss Sarah Norton. _ During the mouth of December, 18Z3, marriage licenses were issued by the Clerk of Jasper county, Indiana, to Thomas J. Richardson and Maria L. Day witt, James it. Adams and Useley J. King, Benjamin Davidson and Mary F. Lucas, Hiram D. Riddle and Emiua Parker, Henry W. Savage and Sarah E. Weathers, John Kresler and J. Elia Porter. Simon P. Leatherinan and Mary L. Pettit, Resin P Simmers and Elvira Jane Carnes, James C. Parsons and Sarah E. King, Joseph F. Smith and Catherine A. Eck.

crunched under her light tread, aa the sped down the road, to where the lights in the windows of Farmer Pratt's big red dwelling threw a broad beam out into the night 1 \ Within there was warmth enough and candles enough to enliven a mausoleum. Over the roaring fire hung wreaths of Christmas green. Smoking “flip” was on the table. Above the door a branch of mistletoe, or what did duty as such; and much kissing and laughter going on beneath it There was a fiddle ana dancing. Everybody seemed jolly and lighthearted—everybody except Milly; who, in spite of the gay welcome she received, began to feel unaccountably depressed ana unhappy, now that she had attained the summit of her wishes. She had plenty of admiration, and joined in the dance and games with the rest; bnt somehow over all there seemed to hang a shadow—the shadow, as it were, of a suspended sword. Unused to merry-mak-ißgs, the noisy freedoms of the occasion contused and stunned her. She grew more and more uncomfortable. The cup she had so longed to taste was not at all what she had fancied. By eleven o’clock she had drawn Sarah Matilda into a corner turd was begging to be allowed to go home at once. “Whatl without seeing the Old Year out?" said that hospitable damsel. “Oh 1 you mustn’t do that. There’s no fun at all if you do.” .

“Oh! please. I would so much rather,” pleaded poor Milly. “I keep thinking, if mother should wake up. I would so much rather go now, if Jack don’t mind.” So the unwilling Jack was summoned; and, with many lamentations and promises that nobody would say a word of her being there, they were suffered to depart Milly drew a long breath as the aoor closed behind them. “Oh! if only I am once at home and in my own bed, I’ll never, never ask to go to a party again,” was the comment of her secret soul. “Don’t come any further,” she whispered to Jack, at the gate. “The snow makes so much noise, and father’ll hear your boots.” The house was dark and still, she noted, as she stole round the comer; and it comforted her a little. She had gained the door. It was only to lift the latch and pass the Scylla of the floor and Charybdis of the creaking stairs, and all would be safe. But how was this? Oh, horror! The latch wouldn’t lift, the bolt was down. She was locked out This was what had happened. Milly’s unsteady fingers had not closed the door firmly; and, when the wind rose, an hour later, it began to swing to and fro on its hinges. The noise reached the alert ears of Mrs. Ives. “What is that banging?" she said,starting up. “Dear, dear! that tiresome shed. Milly must have left the door unlatcned. Father, I wish you’d get up and fasten it.” Shivering, but obedient, Mr. Ives went. Creeping to the chilly shed, he bolted the latch; and then, to avert the likelihood of another nocturnal promenade, he pro--ceeded -ficom.-one—door- to— another and fastened all the rest. So, when Milly, aghast and helpless, tried in turn frontdoor, kitchen-door, and side-door, behold they were all fast. The house was inaccessible. What could she do? Go back to the Pratts? Oh! no; that was not to be thought of for a moment. Feverish with anxiety, she went her weary round again. She even tried to raise a window; but its weight resisted her, and the dreadful noise it would make ..was another objection. The only hope, she thought, was to get in somehow in the morning, without being seen. -Morning! bnt that was so far off. And, as she thought—the consequences of her fault presenting themselves to her mind with colors growing more lurid each moment—suddenly all strength seemed to die from her limbs. She sank down on the doorstep, and began to cry.

It was just then that the sound of a faroff bell reached her ears. The clock of the Methodist meeting-house in the Hoi low was striking twelve. The Old Year was dead. “I am seeing it out," thought ililly, “just as Sarah said;” and, as the slow strokes died away, her tears broke forth afresh. With such an ending to one year, how was the next likely to begin? The wind had died away. It was not a I very severe night; but she shivered strongly. The tears died on her glazed cheeks. Only a l.ow sob broke forth now and then, like a ripple from the misery within. And so Milly began her New Year. It was one of these sobs which caught the attention of Tom Russell, as, making a short cut “cross-lots" toward his home, he chanced to pass near the door where our luckless little maid was sitting. He hadn’t been at the party. He didn’t care much for such things, and, besides, had a sick horse to look after; and the night so far had gone in blanketing, fomenting, and medicating the equine invalid. He was going home now, a spare blanket on his arm, and in his pocket his phials, drenching-horn, flask, and so on. Cupid takes on strange disguises sometimes. That Milly’s fate should be nearing her at this critical moment, in cowhide boots and top-coat, with a brandybottle in his pocket, seems funny enough. But so it was. Tom was a big, sturdy fellow, middle-aged to eyes of seventeen; but with the sweetest good temper in the world and a heart as tender as any worn ante. No sound of distress ever reached his ear unheeded. He thought this the plaint of some little animal—a kitten or a dog; nevertheless, true to his instinct, he went out of his way to see. And great was his bewilderment when the cowering figure on the doorstep met his eyes. "Milly Ives! Why, what on earth—” “Oh 1 Mr. Russel 1, don’t speak out loud; please don’t,” cried poor Milly, desperately. Father and mother will be sure to hear you.” •‘And just what they ought to do,” responded Tom; "if they’ve locked you out, as I suppose they have. Here iet’me knock.l’ll engage to wake them up.” and suiting {.he action to the word and the word to the action, he was about to discharge a ponderous blow at the door, when Milly caught his hand in both hers. “Please listen!” she said. "They don’t know I'm out.” “Don’t know 1” Language would fail to express the astonishment in Tom’s voice. - “No, they don’t know, And oh! Mr. Russell, I’m in such a dreadful scrape. Please don’t knock nor make a noise o ; but just go quietly away again.” Tom had known Milly since her babyhood; hut the idea that she could grow up never had fairly occurred to him till this moment, when he stood gazing at the pale face, so pathetic in the aim light. “Tell me all about it, won’t you?” he said, and sat down by her on the step. So she told him all—how she never had any fun, like other girls; and how she longed after it; and Sarah proposed this. But oh! it hadn’t been pleasant at all, and now she was to unhappy; and, if it was found out she should never hold up her head again. “So if you’ll just go away,” she pleaded, in conclusion, “and let me sit here till morning, I would thank you so much. Father always comes down first, and go» down to the bam; so perhaps I may slip in, and not meet any one. I’m not coW at aIL really—that is, not very.” Not cold! Tom touched the little hand him, and almost whistled with dismay.' What should he dot Take her home with him he oould pot Waging a

neighbor would be tantamount to exposing the whole story. “ I’ll tell you what," he said, at last. “As for leaving you alone .here, that’s out of the question. I must stay by and see that nobody hurts you; but, if you will be good, and do just as I sav, I’ll promise not to make a noise or 'alarm the family—though I must say, except for your feeling so dreadfully about it, it would be by far the most sensible way. 80, first of all, Milly, you must drink this.” “This” was a hastily compounded dose of brandy and melted snow. How lucky that he had it about him, he thought; and it was lucky. It checked the chill which had begun to creep over Milly’s limbs; and after she had swallowed It he took her into the road and made her walk briskly up and down leaning on jiis arm. Later, when circulation was quite restored, he let her go back to the step; but with the blanket over her lap and his. own coat across her shoulders. Bless his kind heart 1 Ha was warm enough, he said; and he cared for the poor child as tenderly in all respects as if she had been his little sister. The night wore on, the stars glinting more brightly and the firmament deepening in hue as ihe hours passed. They talked and talked. There was something in the situation which begat confidence. Milly had never so opened her thoughts to any one before. She told,him all her discontent and restlessness, as if it had been a shrift and he a father confessor; and, guessing at far more than she could explain even to herself, he felt himself grow soft over the lonely girl. He spoke brave, kind words of advice and warning —words which sank deep into her gratefhl heart; but&ll the time his own was opening its gates for the entrance of Pity, Pity, that dangerous sentiment, so akin to love that when once it finds admission it leaves the door open through which its distinguished relative shall thereafter march triumphant. Once Tom made her laugh by saying that, except for the horse and the bells, they-might be supposed to be taking a sleigh-ride, one of those bewitching sleighrides she had so longed to share. He was glad tq. hear.the laugh, though it was faint and instantly checked. Day dawned at last, with a dim pink tinge in the East. The cattle lowed in the barn. A cock crowed; then another. By-and-by a stir began in the house. Mr. Ives descended. He lighted the fire and unbolted a door—luckily not the door of the shed! Tom Russell confronted him as he stepped forth. “Good day, neighbor,” he said. You are up betimes and your cows sound as if they were ready for you. I'll step in, if I may, and Jget a drink of water in your well-room. I don’t know any water better than yours.” “How’s your horse, Tom?” “Better, thank you.” “Hold on,” said Mr. Ives, “I’ll get the dipper. I don’t believe you know where it is.” “Yes, I do,” shouted Tom from the depths of the kitchen. “I know all about it. You just go ahead with what you were doing.” So the unsuspicious parent' went “ahead”; and, as he took the path to the barn, the bolt behind him shot back, and Milly stood once more beneath her parental roof, cold, stiff, pallid, but inside at last. “Now’s your time,” whispered Tom, as he seized the pump-handle. Bhe paused only long enough to give him a look. Pale ana ghastly as her face was, that gleam of shy gratitude and recognition lighted it into . absolute beauty. It was but an instant. The next she was halfway up-stairs, with noiseless feet; and just in time, for, by the heavy creaking of the floor above, Mrs. Ives was evidently awake and stirring."' And so our story ends. Not Milly’s story; that had but just begun. Mrs. Ives never could “ imagine ” where the long feverish cold was taken which followed this eventful night; but she was good to Milly, on the whole, and either the unsparing boneset she administered or certain evening visits which Tom. took to paying about that time made the illness more than, endurable—almost pleasant. The New Year belied its opening, anyhow. Month after month, each happier than the last, passed by; and before its closing day Milly, fair and maidenly in her white muslin, had stood up in the old kitchen and promised to be Tom’s true and loving wife. Nothing less than that vigil on the door steps, perhaps, could have given her the experience and security in his goodness which irradiated her face with such peace; and to buy that look Tom would have counted as nothing twenty nights spent in the open air. In her own home—her husband beside her —she saw the Old Year out, and felt in depths of a grateful heart that all was well.— New York Independent.