Rensselaer Union, Volume 10, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 May 1878 — A FIERY STEED. [ARTICLE]

A FIERY STEED.

For once May gave promise of being a May worthy of the many beautiful songs which havo been sung in her praise. She came dancing along after her sister April—who had just loft in a shower of tears—with a bright smile upon her lips, and a wondrous rainbow halo about her head. The young maples began to blush in happy consciousness oi her approach, and the delicate pink and white blossoms on the orchard trees opened their dainty leaves and shyly flung a welcoming fragrance on the soft clear air. All through the fields and meadows, the vales and woodlands, and over the hills, ran the viol its and 1 trailing arbutus and May-buds and daisies and their sister flowers, telling the glad tidings of sunny days and moon-lit nights and lovely butterflies and sparkling raindrops, and busy humming bees; and the birds, swinging on slender green boughs, sang in sweet tittering notes to eaoh other, “ Neighbor, soon we shall see theToses.’’ Along a pleasant, winding, lonely country road, with splendid apple and pear trees standing on either Side, and the spring flowers dotting the green carpet so thickly that the green is almost hidden, comes slowly, on this poet’s May-day, adiminutive, old, oddlooking white horse, drawing a small market-wagon 'filled with household furniture, accompanied by an enormous shaggy New Foundland dog and as pretty a country maid as ever milked a cow or made a pat of golden butter. The brd ad-brimmed straw hat she wears shades a low brow to which clings babyish rings of hair the color of the glossy, satin-smooth buttercups, a pair of innocently roguish eyes, cheeks brown with an underlying tinge of rose, a charming red-lipped moutn, and a firm, round chin. Across the brow, however, at this moment flits the shadow of a frown, and a look of comic perplexity comes into the sweet young face. The oddlooking horse has stopped in the middle of the road, and remains perfectly motionless, staring directly before him, save when he bends his head to a nibble at the flower-thick grass, as though suddenly oblivious of everything under the sun except the tranquillity of the June-like May afternoon. “On,*Charley! Charley! go on— do! —that’s a dear!” coaxes the young girl, coming to his side and gently patting his head with her little brown ungloved hand; but Charley merely whisks a toofamiiiar fly away with his forlorn old tail, and makes no further sign. “Charley, good horse, Charley—oh! why didn’t X bring some carrots with

me?—Charley, you bad, bad fellow, Jf you don't go on, I'll whin you u sure ae you stand there.- Come, be a darling.” And thus she alternately begs ana threatens, Lion assisting in dog language, with an occasional (lash at the neels of his obstinate equine friend; but Charley refuses to “ bo a darling,” plants his feet more firmly than ever, and never stirs; and at last, with an air of resignation, she goes bank to the Eath, seats herself on a rude seat formed V Mature of the gnarled roots of a misshapen old tree, and waits patiently for at least ten minutes. t ,At the end of this time Charley looks about with a just-waked-up expression in his eves, as who should say, “ Dear! dear! I quite forgot there was work to be done,” and starts off with quick steps that gradually become slower and slower. With a sigh of relief the young girl arises and follows—Lion, bounding back from the wood, where he has been making hasty explorations, having it in his mind that his mistress is not to be left without his protection for more than two minutes at a time, takes his place at her side—and the perplexed look fades away into a smile that brings to light two rows of pearl-white teeth.

But, alas! the smile is premature. In another ten minute!, again overcome by the beauty and peacefulness of tho i day, Charley falls into a reverie, stops once more, and onco more refuses decidedly to "go on.” And in this manner does that dreadful horse behave for a whole ho dr ma k„ ing short progresses and V' p ’ außeß> until finalfy coming to t^ e c^Jußioll that there had been qui^ enoughof this aort of thing, he de)^ oerate jy drags the wagon to the side ' <ls the his station hen^ jat j, a w ide-spreading oak, and pror jee( j 8 munc h the young grass at hiSj f u<) t, with a look in his eyes tnat pj a j n jy as words, "From r. B >t move me if you can.” Oh, Charley! Charley! how can \ ouP” begins the young girl, loudly and Indignantly, following mm with small brown hands clasped beseechingly. " Oh, you wicaed, wicked Charley!” "Did you call me?” asks a masculine voice, to her great astonishment; and as with'a slight start she turns in the direction of tho voice she sees a young man walking rapidly toward her, the sound of his approaching footsteps having been completely lost in the inquiring bow-wows of her canine guardian. “Didyou call meP” he repeats. “No, sir," she replies, blushing prettily, and looking at nim with frank, child-like eyes. “I was speaking to the horse. Be still, Lioa.” “Beg pardon. I thought for an instant you were speaking-to me. It seems I have the honor of being a namesake of your fiery steed. Ilut you arc in trouble. What is tho matter? Can I help you in any way?” “There’s nothing very serious the matter,” she says, with a smile. “We are moving to-day, and father went on ahead a long while ago, having some business to settle with our new landhe must be at this very moment waiting for me at the new house, and wondering what in the world has become of me. You see, we have no boys in our family, and the other girls are younger than myself, and father and mother both thought —this being a very quiet road—that Lion and 1 could look after Charley and the furniture; but Charley, who generally behaves very well, has been awfully contrary, and has stopped every few moments, and the oonsequence is we have been already two hours on a Journey that should have taken us but one, and there’s just as long a distance to go yet; and with Charley—oh, you wicked horse!—standing under that tree, I don’t know how we are ever to get to Grasstown . 1 ? i_V

“It’s almost as bad a plight as the old woman was in with her pig, when he wouldn't go under the stile, and she was afraid she couldn’t get home that night,” laughs the young man—a nicelooking fellow he is, with gentleman stamped on every feature of his handsome face. “But suppose I cut you a switch? Perhaps that, used with discretion, might nave some influence on the fiery steed.” “Oh no, th'U would never do!” she says, shaking her head emphatically. “Charley was never whipped in his life. He’d be so scared at the very sight of a switch that I believe he’d run away.” “ Wouldn’t that bo a desirable thing under the circumstances P” asked the young man, with a broad smile, the idea of the old - horse, whose principal desire appeared to be not to move at all, running away, striking him as inexpressibly comic, ana thinking, “ Bless her kind little heart!” he continues: “Well, since you refuse the switch, I will try how a'command in a masculine voico will aflect him;” and he commanded, “G’long, Charley!” Charley started, turned his head toward the speaker, recognized a master, backed away from the oak, and went off on a quick walk. “Well, the ids*!” exclaimed his young mistress. “ And now, with your permission, I’ll walk with you to the end of your journey, for I’m sure if I leave you Charley will note my absence immediately, and stop under the next tree.” “Oh, no, Indeed! you must not,” says the pretty country maid. “ You were going in an entirely different direction. T could not think of taking you so far out of your way. Many thanks for your kind oner, but indeed, sir, I couldn’t. Charley will behave well now. Won’t you, Charley?”

“ Good heavens! I never knew my name was so musical before,” thinks the young man, and then explains: “I was going in an entirely different direction because I missed my train at the last station, and, if I had waited, would have had to wait two hours for another; but being rather impatient by nature, and tempted by the fine day, I set out to walk, my destination being the next village. And now if I return with you I shall have a much pleasanter walk, catch the next train, and lose no , time after all. Lion approves of my plan. Don’t you. Lion?” And Lion, usually very suspicious of strangers, comes ana lays his startlingly cold nose in his new friend's hand. And so the two young people walk along jide by side, crushing tne pretty flowers under their feet as they go, and Charley, looking back every now and then out of the corner of his right eye to see if the masculine voice is still there, never falters, but keeps steadily on his winding way. After a few moments’ silende the innocent little maid raises her blue eyes—they have been hidden by the long lashes—and says, in a shy voice: * “ You said you were going to DaisyvUle. I have lived there all my life.” “Not a very long time,” says the young man, with a smile. “Seventeen years. I was born and my three sisters were born in the same little farm-house we are leaving new.’.’

And a tear trembles on the long lashes and rolls down the round rosy cheek. The young man looks st the tear with pitying wonder. “And wore you very happy there?” he asks. “So happy," replies the girl, “that we fear we never will be half as happy , anywhere else. And”—a sudden light breaking over her face—“l believe that is what ails Charley. He knows it isn’t right that we should be going to a strange place, and does his best, poor fellow, to prevent our going.” “ Undoubtedly,” gravely assents her companion. “ But why, if you will permit me to ask, are you bidding farewell to DaisyvilleP—G’long, Charley,” as Charley evinces a desire to listen to the conversation.

“Father didn’t own the place. He had it on a long lease, which ran out the very week (a month & go) our old landlady died, and hor heir—a nephew —and his mother o,re coming to take possession of the Ostate, and they want our farm-house for their gardener. When Mrs. was alive ner gardener had rr jomß over the stables, and very comf' jr t a ble rooms they were, too, ana the Kitchen-garden was just back of the big bouse. But I suppose the new people are more stylish than the pi'll ones, and want <Ae*> kitchen-garden larger and farther away than Mrs. Marks’ was, and so they take from us our home, and we are obliged to move to Grasstown.” “ And are your father and mother as much attached to Daisyville as you and your sisters are?” he asks. “Even more attached to it,” she answers, “if that be possible. It almost breaks my heart to see mother’s sad face. But I must try to make the new home as bright for them as 1 can—that is, if ever I get there. Oh dear! how very unfortunate that Charley should have taken it into his head to be so naughty this day of all others!” “On the contrary, I think, Miss Gray”—it has transpired that her name is Bessie Gray—“ that it is the most fortunate thing that could have happened.” Her bine eyes and red mouth open in wonder.

“ Because”—answering tho look—“if Charley had behaved well instead of badly, you would have been at Grasstown long before this, and I should not have haa tne pleasure of meeting you. And now I am about proposing something which will seem extremely absurd to you, although in reality the wisest thing that could be dope under the circumstances. Suppose we turn Charley’s head in the direction of his old home, and see what speed he will make thonP” “ But.” looking at him half frightened, asLion bounds forward with a loud, joyful bark to meet a stalwart old man who comes suddenly around a corner, his hat in one hand and a red silk handkerchief in the other, and who shouts tho moment he catches sight of her—- “ Why, girl, where have you been? What on earth’s the matter?” Bessie leaves unfinished the “But”begun speech, and runs laughingly to him, ana taking the hat from his hand fans him energetically while she explains, “Chancy was the matter, father. You can’t think how aggravating he’s been. Ho wouldn’t go until this gentlemah”—with another pretty blush—“ was kind enough to make him go." The old man looked keenly at the young one. “ And pray where did you come from, and who may you be?” he asked, sharply. “ I will tell you where I came from, and how I happened to meet your daughter, at some future time. Meanwhile you will learn from this who I am”—handing a card to the old farmer, on which was engraved, “Charles Marks, Jun.” “Our old landlady’s nephew and heir?” “The same, at your service; and having no desire, in spite of my agent’s arrangements to the contrary, to Degin my life in Daisyville by turning so worthy a tenant (in his heart he added, ‘ with so pretty a daughter’) out of the house he has occupied so many years, I was just proposing to Miss Gray as you made your appearance that Charley should be stopped in his mad career, and once and for all be turned toward his old home.” “ Are you quite in earnest, sir?” “ Never moro so in my life. Whoa, Charley, poor old boy!" and around went horse and wagon, and off started the fiery steed so fast that they could no longer follow him, Lion, “leaping a yard in air” in the exuberance of his delight, galloping by his side. “He’s all right,” said the old man, his face beaming with happiness. “And won’t mother Took wonderfully surprised when she sees him coming up the lane. I don’t know how to tnank you, sir.” “ Don't thank mo. 1 deserve no thanks,” says Charles Marks, holding aside a low-hanging tree branch that Bessie might pass under. “ And tne new gardener?” asks Bessie, looking back at him. “ Will have the rooms over the stable. You know you said they were ‘very comfortable.’ ” “ But your trainP” persists Bessie, with the first gleam of coquetry that ever sparkled in her blue eyes. “I’d much rather walk," says Mr. Marks.

When next the blossoms are on the orchard trees and the spring flowers are running wild through the grass, there is a new mistress at the big bouse In Daisy ville—a pretty little thing, with lovely blue eyes, bright golden hair and a sweet cheerful voice. Her name is Bessie, and she is the idol of her husband, and, strange as it may appear, the beloved of her mother-in-law. And in the stable, as well, nay, better oared for than the handsome ponies and the splendid chestnut, is an old, white, odd-looking horse, called Charley, his days of toll all over, and all his ways ways of pleasantness and all bis paths paths of peace.— Harper's Weekly. ■ <4> As showing the cost of labor in Europe, the rate of wages paid on certain railroad works of the same class, was : In Portugal, 91.45 a week; in Ireland, $2.20; In France, 92.90, and in England, 95.30. Nevertheless, it was found that over the whole works the same amount of earth had been moved for the same amohnt of money.

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