Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 6, Number 21, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 31 December 1875 — Page 2

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TH MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TKRRK IIAl'TK, DEC. 31, 1875.

(A'rittrn for The ifall.] THE IVY.

Clinging so trustingly, climUoK so fondly. Hold tax

Weak, tender tendril*, oi.ee strong and Itrveii, How sadly I ga/eon thy withering beauty

How ctoarly remember what one*? you have bti n. How »lowly, but surely, thy beauty i* fa din*.

FroiH primitive color and rich hup,

bright

And prim and formal asaijuaker. One ''av ile tutor went nbnwl, \i» ini,»i Caty sadly mU^wl him Wh»*n h- returned behind her lonl

Mh»"Oyiv *t ili', and fondly kbea-d hltu. The ImstiHrid'* nni« ni«a. and ml And v»lilt- bin f.ioe alternateKrew,

L»jm fitt dom, ma'um!' Kate slghwl, and hoJII. "Oh, dear! I di in know 'twas you!"

in ix

The great six fiKt lop* had burnt down to bod of glowing coals the woodmen ware saloon in tbeir tiers of berths at the far end or the shanty and eleven hours had struck—late ho'nn for tho liuntxT camp, where the gangs must lw astir and abroad an hour or two before the slow iwn lighted up the snowcovered I timHr country lying north and west of Saginaw Bay.

Two men sat by the lire smoking clay pipes «no was a visitor, the other the owner of the camp. Ha id the visitor •'Oh, I know something of hardship King. Uke many Hoy, I thought I must se» border life and, as soon as I

fnow

it through college I started. don't what I expected—a little of everything, I suppo«i»—httlTalo hunting, a few gold nuggets, ami any amount of adventure. What I got was a boll in my shoulder, which has troubled me ever since, and a knowledge of what Is meant by tha terms fn «ing to death, starving to death, and. worse than all. being frightened to death. Tho Ajwiches carry lha last art to perfection. Joing acroMs) the plalo* wm not at that time what It la now that was in l.N55—tho year I left colloce."

What college, may

You Who, thou, are you King Log went to the end of the room, and, unlocking a chert, li/led oat an old Tali**, haltered and yellow. Bringing this to the Are, he took fmsn It a book wrapped in *cveral layers of paper. and handed it to the vial tor, who opened it and read on the title-page:

Frederick Holoouih, Yalo College, 1&4&" Htrnngnly enough, the book was a collection of religious poetry, mostly of the weakly-pretty style which such coHo-eM-m# g*tb*T la.

Pnd*Mv ni don't rcmetntxr the name." said tbe iaatbennan, taking back Uto book, and looking at the writ lag with dnsutiiag eve*.

Bat I do mAeoitMHT it," replied M»e visitor. "Ilo .-ooiba i*aiw» well known f«»r the wiideni pranks of the do%tds. He we* sgood ecltolar, too, *«y «aid. Friend of youmf

Rtng t«i« a«i ilhit a momwt, wll {noting at Ute faded name then be foW* t*d the paper* earefnily aroaod the vol aax, ir 'k op his pipe, knocked out the (.vbm, mi I said, quietly:

rtt

tlnnly by mot aud by *|nt\\

Breathing sweet fragrance, thou beautiful, Ivy, How gladly 1 hie thy bower* away. TUcre p-w awl re*t which all men arc

Aro*founf from the drear, busy world come away Come, en? thy a cart It* pur. innocence breathing

Kan-ver shnli lose It* sweet brightness and day. Beautiful vy. of IVpendence au emblem.

Beaut Iful. flutterl ng, pin ion-1 fce U-aves, Now gently they sway to and fro in the Mpbyrs,

Now rusUing, subside, in the turret* and eav»«. H*w sadly the spirit within thte Is sighing,

Kor the sofs, warm mnshln* of Snmmer now cone, Theoool winds of Autumn may gently care** th*\

But all tli« pure freshness and brightness ha* Sown. Perishing Ivv—drooping find dying,

hike tlx-birth of a day,with It* clearsuuny morning, Follow, by noontide and gloom of the night. YM, th" durk, cold night, which has come to the Ivy,

Await* usas truly and surely some day Hut the morning, the glorious break of-tit.-dawnlm

Will com-" when the darkness,dlspelbd. And iwr souK then shall revel like the beautiful Ivy, float* away.

And float with the zephyrs that roam thro* the sky. Forever nnd \vr, to revel In sunshine.

And not like the Ivy, to perish and dip. IiKIXA S. I'I.A »•:. Marshall, UK. V'••••

my ijaj:y.

I ktvow a baby, such a baby, !Vwv! blue eyes and cheeks of pink, Hu' anelbow furrowed with dimples,

Huch a waist where creases sink. "iridic and love mir.cnddlpand love me," 'row* ii»? mouth of coral pink. Oh, tin* bUd hi ad, aud oh, tliesweet lips,

A sd oli, the sleepy eyes that wink —(Si n«-*iong.

THE DIHA VI'Oiy TMEXT. Old Birch, who taught a village school

Wedded maid of homespun habit, He wit* a* a mule. Ami

Hasstubborn

ta pinyful ns a rn libit.

I'oor Kat-J bid scarce becomt a wife, B*!for»» her liu.sband sought to male*- hor The pink of country Iff.-.

ixiir. Yalo, of

ask said King

course.

That is thfl only

college worth mentioning," said tho graduate, with that air or calm superiority which thp New Haven ntma mntrr known h« to l*»low upon her children. At the same time he looked curiously at the lumberman. What could he know of colleniwf

Then vou wer? of the class of said Klngtxig, laving down his wipe and clasping his hand- behind hi* head. From the mturn bis enrly beard and hair, the oo*rse working olotbee he wore, from the txxigh air of the whole roan, tbern yot peeped out for tbo moment a something which struck tho eye of th« visitor, like thus© strange ghoattom teen on the little, wrinkled window panes of a common tavern, although rwwon knows there is nothing Uters. He lokcd, and aibBtly wondered. wns In the c)a«* of '50," said the lamtarman, at length.

I vn Fmlerick llolemnhr." "Claw*of '»r »(lUK of 'M,M "But I thought Fred. ilaksQMlbe was thought baling

"So he ia. King Isnj h**intf

hi*

•til

a male driver out on the Sacramento rirer bat lie'd «unk so low there wan no comfort in hi on. Somehow it carries me back to old times to think that poor Fred. Holcombe is remembered. But first, stranger, when and where are you goingT" "For when, at daylight to-morrow. For where, across the plains to San Francisco, and then on to Japan."

I'm safe, then. It isn't the "world I care for—you'll laugh—but it's this camp 1 shouldn't like to hare the story pet back here. Yon

HOC,

I've settled

down iu this tract, and I've triod hard to make myself and it known and liked throughout the length and breadth of the Saginaw country it's my one ambi tion, now."

You've succeeded, Ilolcombe. 1 uey told me down below that this was tho crack camp of the lumber-region, twd you the king of the lumber-men. They call you 'King,' you know." •'How strange to hear my fathers name again! I scarcely realize that it is mine. Well, if you csro to hear niv Htorv—you do? iiraw nearer, then. I think I shall feel better myself lor telling it. I left colloce «t TH), and went homo to Ilrenton. Father was there as usual—astern, unkind man, as I thought then a hard-working, rare-worn man, its 1 know now, straining every power he had to support In luxury his three motherless, children—my two gay, extravagant sisters and my wild, extravagant self. We did not understand him, anv of us bo had grown apart from his family. Weighed down by the heavy euros of an intricate business, he had "no time to study us, no time to make himself understood and we had come to regard him as our purxe-boarcr, and nothing more. A mother might have stood as interpreter between us, but our mother died when we were little more than children. So much for our home. As I look back upon It now, I am overcome with pity to tiiink ol poor, silont father working on and on alone, growing old alone, and, with all his strainine exortions, never able to see a wav out for, as fast as he made the monev, we took it, almost without asking. At last there came a pinch in the money market father made superhuman exertions, but tbo world was against him, and he failed. Then, his occupation gone, worn out with hard work, he died. I see it now, but I did not then.

We were not bad-hearted, but we did not understand. Father seldom spoke to us we supposed he was mndc of monev. and so we all went on our way rejoicing, until suddenly, one morning, our purso bearer failed, and the next he died.

two

I went West. But I knew nothing ol work—nothing of anything, in fact, save what niv

careless

A vear had passed since left Brenlon. was sitting one evening by the light of a tallow candle in the loft over tho store where I served during the daytime, forlornly rending a week old county paper, when a little chap who in some way attached himself to me (children almost always take to me, I don't know why, I'm sure) brought me a letter. It was from Brenton, from the girl to whom I was engaged, for whom I was working, to whom I was clinging as a drowning man clings to a straw and in it sho discarded mo, coldly, briefly, and without any explanation.

From tfiat moment I went down rapidly I grow utterly reckless. From oueeiulof the country to tho other I wandered, nor eared where I went now a canal driver, now a bar tender, now a deck hand on a Mississippi stcamlwat, and for several years a miner in California—'everything by turns and nothing long.' It seems Co me that when an educated man goes to the bad, he goes over more completely, and gets farther down, than a man brought up to it—it was so with me. 1 know. As for my sisters, they could not help inc. I'oor little I,utie wos in her grave—I was fond of I.title, after a fashion—and Amelia had married a closo listed man, old enough to bo her father, who kept all ids money in his own hands, ana for

ba«lo her even to write to hor good-for-nothing brother ho was not far from the truth, oltber, I was good for nothing. But a man never sinks out of trod aight, and I really Iwliovo it is Ho who sends chance, ovcry now and then, to the worst of his creatures. Nonoof us can deny that such chances do oomo, whether we take them or not and this waa mine. I was tending bar In a saloon out beyond St. I/nils, when, happening to take up an Intern paper, I saw a sensational account of the dent^of my old love's father, shot in hisownT»a!I by a burglar in tbe courae of tho atory Lucy was mentioned, and I learned, not only that ahe was still unmarried, but also that ahe was poor, living in an obscure street I well rrmemlered, end now, bv her father's death, loft alone In the world. I fell into a fltof muslnirt the flashy aaloon vanished, and in Its place I aeeincd to sec Lucy, not in the rich drew I used to admire, not with the proud, fastidious air that I admired when I, too, was prond and ftotfidiona but I.ucy—poor Lucy—in I'ingy street friendless Lucy, probably working for her bread. While I thought that she. proud, rich, and happy, had discarded me because I was poor and worthless. I hated her: at least, I thought 1 did for love and twite are nearer than we believe. (And yet, with love's incongruity, 1 had all' the time kept that book I ahowed you, a thing In itself valueless, but her gift the poar little relic has been In queer company, considering its character.) As said before, I thought I hated her but when suddenly learned thst she wft* as bad of! a* I was, saving th" wlekednesa, my whole heart went out to her. Perhaps she 1 k-v?d me: perhaps some oot*Me iuiJi'tiw had nuuloVr write tha: Mt^r w?.i. I had scorned to answer. At ally rate, a hope grew an far the tin* time In years my Uft aawi Ua surrounds gr*w rile In in M, fet I hated wywlf und it, and, .ii np everything as a snskn drops t. «ttTi, bed habits, bad associates, and tMkd idean, I UJrned tay far* tnurtward I had jast enough tnonev to take in to Drvnu-r, ami not a cent to spare: what I emdddo when I got there I aid not i-rtw, bnt bad alwine a mighty h^e. IVrhaps vou do not koew what it Is to Ure without hope in the wor d.

Dot evan )ning *aa harder than I thought having off drinkl«^anm»k

n.y rw»t 1 frH alck, ami,

w'w-iwi. ail, nitftti. In

akin, tbottgh." c«»ech, all my little wore of n.. ney was Tb» vtaitor stared. *. 7% I stolen, save a fiow dollars 1 happerd ^tow then, man. whaidoyou mtihl" tM*" In my poritel. I su ha aakl at iMt, flndinvt that sUriaf dii ttdnk It strange thai a ve«* not wolve tbe «»yi4efy. ah-

-OHM- UIr- aadlt. I ha* 's t. a ut But I a »«d nofcttt.' £T.eeu Utiha »»'crj ml}

»U|re-

ipf*

aeabftHl like

ha*«-

ir''

V^-V, t-v «.* J?1'!

starved too, to tell the truth, lor I would scarcely allow myself enough to eat. At tho "end of that stage route I struck tho railroad, and went on oa far as I could, traveling in the caboose car of freight trains, or among tho freight itself, If I was lucky enough to get a chance eating as little as possible, and buoved up by my one hope. How 1 watched my forlorn old purse I Hew 1 counted every cent I But in spite of all my efforts tbe end came, nnd I found uiysell in Pittsburg, unable to go farther, ragged, perinileas, and starving.

It was a dark, bleak afternoon ill Novemler, ami I dragged myself from place to place in search of employment but my npiearance was against me. 1 had

loiind

tin? house and rang the lell the servant hesitated about admitting me, and I waited on the step until Mrs. Ix?c came. 'You do not remember me, Mrs. Ix'e,' I said. 'lani Frederick Holcombe, of Brenton nnd 1 have como to bog a few dollars, for I am starving.' poor boy! poor boy!' exclaimed the old lady, recognizing me at once, changed as I was. 'Como in. my dear como in.' And, taking my band, sho led me into tho lighted Warm parlor. Then 1 broke down, and the tears came. "That was a crisis in tuy life. They fed mo, they soothed me, they pitird me with heavenly pity they asked no questions, they made no comments. 1 would not stay in their beautiful home, outcast that 1 was but I took their money and went 'to a lodging house, wht?re I slept, and, the next morning, with their monev, I Innight niyselt

some

sister* went to an aunt, and

I went, I might almost say, to the devil. 1 did make one or two efforts to get a situation in llrenton, but could not stand the malicious pity, the e«ld shoulder, and the kick down hill, which the world gives to the rich man turned poor. So

college and Kooiety life

had taiitfht me. I was ordered nbwut by rough Western storekeepers, and bullied bv their under-clerks and yet a subordinate position urder such men was more than 1 could (ill. I sunk lower and lower ni money was all gone, and I grow dispirited, but still struggled on sw 1 had an inward hope to buoy me up.

decent clothes. Then I went, up to say good-bv. Tlnstlnio I told my storv in a few words, and asked lor news from Bienton. 'I am going there, I said, with a rush of contidenee, 'to sec Lucy Durrel.' The ladies looked at each other, and hesitated. 'She is still Lucy Barrel 1, 1 know,' I said, almost savagely for this wn my one hope on earth. "'She is still Lucy Darrell, but she will not bo so long,' answered Mary Lee, at last 'I feel that you ought to know that sho is to be married this weok.' And the young girls voice trembled as sho spoke I suppese I looked deathly. Well, I ought to have known as much, starting across the country on such a fool's chance! I don't defend myself at all I don't say I deserved anything better but this murder of my one ln.pe was cruel.

The Lees helped me to weather the storm I don't think I should have got through alone. But they couldn't unmake and make over the work of years in a week, ami at the end ot that time, I started back westward with a little ot their money (I would not take much,) and a faint resolve to do better. I did not go south again, but turned northward, and then it was that I lirst wandered up into this Lake Huron lumber country something in tho solitariness of tho region suited me, and I engaged myself for the winter in this very camp. Queer fellows get Into these camps sometimes. I sHppose you think I am queer enough, but there was one queerer than j_so queer he was called Luny—Lunv Jack. No one knew his real name I don't believe he knew it himself, lie had been about tho camp for several years, and, being a fair hand to work and steadv in his habits, had como to be considered a fixture there, as" well as his little boy Oi—short for (iiant, the men said. This child, brought there by Luny the previous year, was a delicate little fellow of four years, bright as a sqirrel, and lull of fun—the plaything of the camp. Well, I lived

'.' "i V. mmmi

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

retcrences, and, indeed, I was in

no state to work, as any one could see. Night came, and I stood in an alley leaning against a wall, sick, shivering bot, worse than all. gnawed by hunger. Oh, it is a dreadful fato to IH» homeless and destitute iu a city! There seems to bo no charity in the crowd,

young,

shelter in the

closely-built streets, no mercy iu the patches of sky. Tho open country is kinder t« tho poor than tho richest city. If I lived in a city, I would never refue an alms to any ofio asking at night and in winter. But, after all, tbe saddest cases are those who do not ask. Hun ger at last conquered-all. I was still

and youth has not the self-con

trol to starve to death. I knew one family In l'ittsburg—a Mrs. Ix'O who had often been in Brenton with hor daughter, a gentle girl, who had known mv lister Lutie fii the old days. I

along

there,

and worked away in a dull, steady routine up at

four,

"breaklast, and out into

the woods before daylight, sawing, skidding and hauling among tho groat pines all daj*, and early to bed to sleen without a break or dream. I got back my strength, and some spirits, too, for youth cannot always des|air. I wrote to my sister Amelia, giving a guarded account of nivself—the first she had had for years and I wroto to the l^ees once in a while, and so the weeks passed. From tho vory first, Luny .lack attach od himself to me. I could not shake him off any more than I could shake off an affectionato dog. He did not talk much, but ho would only work In my companv, always managing to get jobs with me, and in tho evening he would patiently take his plaee tiear me, and nothing short of force would move him. At first everybody laughed, but after a while it got'to be a mattorof eour*3. and Luny was allowed to follow around niter '»ld Log' as much as he pleased. •I/g' was the name I hsd given at random, in a kind of ijrini humor, when I first Joined the camp, and 'Old' was soon added, since on the frontier every name mu*t have a prefix, and mine was as com pi I mew tar and appropriate as most of them, did not mind Luny Jack, although I c»uld never make him out exactlv. Certainly be was no fool, and yet he*could not have possessed a fall share of cotnthon sense. He was, as I said before, more like an affectionate dog thau anything elwc. Why hp took such a fancy to mo I never could find

dogt such .... •nt, either but don't yon know that a dog will sometimea take a fancy to a man, stranger though he lie, and tollow him with such pertinacity that, If be has any fowling, h® will end by taking the beggar In, whether or no? "Houiatlroos I would get vexed with Lunv, and speak sharply to hi at arid then, without a word, be i' off little wayuid stand looking Bh those faded eyes of his, unui. half angrv. half sorrv. would t»ii the fool b*ck. Ho was sn odd little man, bent ami I, looking like a cruas between an iudian and Scotchman out his ere* were almost pathetic at time*, and I uld not help thinking that he knew waa quwr, and felt a dial »orrt.w about iu Utile Ol, however, was as bright a* a child cuiid be, and soon became the Jov of my life H« ata at oneo, aud many a story I t"ld him bat of the Greek mythology—the only good the old stuff did me, by the way~ snd I nseti to teach him a little at odd time*, especially on Kundaya. I^uny wstcbed all this with silent s*ti*fa. ti. HP attended to what the boy st« and hat he wora, and l«ft the nwt t*» roe* They ware aa odd pair. Tbe child railed bis father Luny, from any want of respect, bat be -auae be heard tbe men use tbe lettn. Hut th# two were very fr*od or «ad utber, after their odd fashion. Thing* went on la tbi* way ii! ivbrosry. On tbn #»eiil» **f ij, (be date la !i*ed my o.wl in inters of lire—i r-* lv«-*i letter from stater in an**** to mine—a long

loiter, full of her own troubles. Amelia and I never bad much in oommon in the old days, but time had changed ua both, and she seemed glad to have some one to whom she could write freely. Her husband was a tyrant 1 knew that already. He treated her badly I knew that also. The rest followed as a matter of coursc* Bat, when she had finished her own atory, she took up ine, and I read on through her comments quietly enough until I came to this passage: 'Lucy Darrell, your old friend, has escapetl my fate at least, although slion ay fitll Into a worse one. It seems Mr. larrell has been on the verge of failure for some years, as long ago even as our father's death but you remembor what a proud man he was, and with inilinite pains he managed to bring about an engagement between Lucy and old Peter

Kminons, the rich paper maker. The memory of her father's sad death kept Luev from breaking tho engagement, utterly distasteful to her, I am told, until within a week or hei wedding day. Then, suddenly, a horrer seemed to come o\er her she wroto to Mr. Km mons, freeing herself fruui tho engage ment, and lied to New York alone. TLere she hoped to find employment in adieus maker's shop, but, poor child! her delicate health cannot long endure the confinement. Most people here condemn her, and no one is disposed to heip her. I, however, understand and sympathize with the poor girl, but what can I do?' "Then followed moro of Amelia's moralizings, but I could pay no further attention to them. "Thero It came again, the chance to see my old love. And thero with it again stood the bitter obstacle of poverty. I sat alone by tho fire lato into the night, thinking." Several times Luny .Jack stole out of his bunk and crept to my side, looking up mutely into my face, as if searching lor the reason of my night watch. At last I motioned him away so angrily that ho did not dare come agatn, but lay looking at me until, impatient and wretched, I, too, crept into my berth to get rid of his sentinel eyes. "Money I had none, According to tho custom of the lumber region, we received our board and clothes during the winter, but our wages were not paid until spring, when the logs had been safely ratted down the swollen stream to the mill.

No one in the camp had the amount of money needed, even it 1 had been abli to borrow such a sum and in all tho world there was no one to whom I could apply. 1 thought of the Lees but, heavily indebted as 1 already was to their kiiid charity, 1 shrank from weighing down tho scales still farther. It was, too, a mere chance ami yet thatchanco was my all. To find Lucy in great New York was almost an impossibility and vet I knew I could succeed.

Whv did she write that letter? I

did not know, but I knew that I loved her—loved her with all my heart and 1 fe.

Thus I debated with myself through all that sleepless night. Money money money! that was my ono thought, my one desire. It haunted mo—bags oi go'ld, heaps of silver, rolls of bank bills, and even copper pennies. I mado elaborate calculations as to how small a suui would answer my purpose, but at the lowest it was l'ar beyond possibility. How bitterly I regretted my wasted, squandered years! If I had kept on, even in that miserable store, by this time I could have made a home, small and humble, but still a hom

for my

darling. Then cntno tho thought that that, was what I was trying to do, working to do, hoping to do, ami would have done, bad it not been for that cruel letter and dashing the thought away, I would begin over again to make calculations, while tho piles of gold danced in tho darkness before my eyes. I know now that I had a fe'ver bat 1 did not notice it then.

In the morning I was sent off to saw logs with Lunv Jack. It was a wild, remote part of tne forest, and I noticed that Lunylooked unusually wide awake as Vie followed mo, and seemed to bo in a state ol excitement as 1 pointed to the tree upon which wo were to begin. But I was too unhappy to think of his vagaries, or, indeed, of anything but mysell, and we had sawed through one tree and begun on another, when I was roused by hearing liini crooning a low chant. It was 'Old Hundred' the little man was trying to sing, and tho words were these: 'Monkeys laugh behind my back,

And all the ciimp-boys laugh at me But they don't know l.uny Jack, ili1'*G wiiat they'd like ub

KC—

and tho verso ended in a kind of break-

down, which stopped tho sawing, ill. Lu you Hold still, "fiunv! what are howling about?' I said, roughly. •"I'll show It to you, if you like, Old

'Show what?' 'Luny's kettle.' "'What's a kottle?" "'Butthis one's got something 1h it, Old Log.' "'What? Moonshine, I guess. Oo on sawing.'

But Luny dropped his end of tbe saw, and, coming round to my sido, rose on t'iptoo'and whiapercd in my car: 'Money, Old Ix»g, money! Ten, twentv hundred dollar* I

I started back it was as though something had touched tbo sore spot In inv heart. •"You have money, Luny!' I exclaimed, trembling. Then recovering myself:

don't believe a word of it. Oo on sawing or 1 shall report you.' But, for answer, the quoer little man went round behind tho very log we were sawing, and after digging far some minutes under juniper bush, he dragged out an old tin tea-kettle half full of money, silver, roils of bills, and a great quantity of copper pennies, with few gold-pieces mixed among thcui.

I was speechless. Here was a treaa urr sent tome Luny Jack should be mv banker I should find Loey, and lite would not be all a failure. "•Shall I count It. Luny?' I said, after I hail got mv voice back again. "He assented, and. sitting down In tii »ow togatbor,hes!»wly t«« |«li after piece from %hm kettle and held it up, vrhilo I kept ta'Iy. "I remember I got Impatjei.t with him twvttM be was so long sismt tbe coppers: but at last It waa all told, fi»r hundred and eight dollars and thirty cent*, nearly thr*«! hundred being In bi As I jr.:)"-'-!, Loin bad put the monev. niece by piece, Into a long, nar» fvrw |«*ioer bag, made like a b*?i' and, when it waa all u»id, h» b-gan to fsMcn it around bis waist Ui 1 his blotta*. 'Luny,* 1 began, '«ill yon l*nd »e yotir money fcr a month or two?* "1 hardly especUfd any oppoaJUon, fur tbe fellow was ao devoted to me I had not the slightest Idea of wronging bim. I should pair him back In time, wltb interest, Uw anil waa It not better th*'- 1 "ix uld -i -e tl mooer to save j,, mid itu* than bai it sh«u!d U« thera useless in that old kettle under the aoowf

But. to my sort. i«a, Luay dn»w bii.-k. Aitd a li* .t ca*n-| Into hi* fad*-d ftvea. •••No!* he •»-!, savac^jr. *N« *,o«.•half n! No one steall touehit! It'»OJJ uwuf'

I know it's your own. Luny. I only want to borrow it for a little while, ana I will pav it all back, every cent, and more, too.'

But he only repeated, 'No one shall have it! No one shall touch it!' and, going back to the saw, took up bis end as if to put a stop to the discussion.

I tried every possible argument and persuasion. I oven poured my storv into his dull mind I promised to Gring back treasures for little Ol I offered to take them both with me to see the great cisv—but all was in vain. "The little man stood obstinately silent, with -an ugly look upon his face which I had never seen there before. I never worked so hard in my life as I did that morning,' although I did not once touch the saw. The very trees were witnesses to my eloquence,"but not Luny the t«ars stood in my own eyes as I Lalkod, but his were liartl and tlry. It did seeru too cruel that uiv wholo life should be ruined by a madam's whim, and at last I found myself measuring him with my eye, an«l comparing the muscles of his arms with mine.. The temptation came upon mo like a whilwind, to overpower tbe man, take the money and flee. But while I was nerving myself up to this, niv lirst real crime, Luny started down tho track toward the shanty, lor It wan dinner time, and, as it hap|»e*ned. he had not gone far liefore I beard voices, and one of the sledges came into view from a crowroad in front. The opportunity had passed, and, strangely enough, I "felt relieved, as though 1 had gained a respite nothing could

I threw down my lever snd went toward him. I could not help myself now. I began gently cuough. 'Luny, will vou lend me that monsv, or part of It?' *1 said quietly 'I only want to borrow It, and I will bringit all back to vou before long.' 'Nobody shall have it nobody shall touch It,' ho repeated, iu his moootoa

With one push tl.rew him down an the soft snow, snd, holding him with one knee, I l""gau to unlaaten tbo bait, when I beard a child's voice In the forest, It was little Oi coming up tbe p«tb. The teams had returned without as, and by a strings chance, if chance it was, the boy bad taken a fancy to come oat ii.' ttho forest after ua—a thing he *d ti ver attempted t*»for«. I released Luny, and, as rose to my Jeet, the otiiM ran toward me.

Old 1 r\£, doer Obi l/r,' he eri'd, *rvae«iine wuy out here to find you A let you glad ain't you glad? And, tapping his bands

done, of course, until

after dinner. "As we came ii. sight of the shanty, I saw little Oi nt the door with Mother Brown, the good-natured houso-kecper of tho camp. Tbe cook (stood wiping a pan in front and one of tho men, who had come in early, was blowing the dinner-horn, with hungry might and main. "Little (ii ran forward to moot us, with a shout of glee, and, by some freak he came first to me. 'Old !/g.' he said, holding my knees —'dear Old Log, take me up aiid carry me. Do, deary!' 'Deary' was one of Mother Brown's names lor him, and now the child a plied it to mo with loving eagerness, affected

1110

Joyously, be laughed

and tried to cliutb into my arms. lUmorw swept over me at his baby touch, «nd, turning, I fled away into tha 1 form* bat it seemed aa though d*vlla v.ere with n*e netead of angcis bard is it to turn from evil to good!

Where ami ow far wandered I do not know, but at last, lust before dark, calmed and tired out, I struck upon the

high roll-way at Mad River, where the logs lay piled at random on and dyer the bank waltln I paused at ed kift wltb my foot, loeling an ldl* Ituputsn to*ct lh* whf !e Iu th»r# wbei* suddenly I btaru «try. It 4% a -ttlld'o voice Main, and looking down oter tha hsnk, Fsaw Utile hand waving In the twilight, and iroopfawl littla Ol penn-

bank waiting for the find spring fhwbrt. used a moment, and struck a pols-

I in thst deep al rl*«» iC tb» serrvofth- i^htest qnlrer. "LMIIV .LWK%

|«*"r wits

"-4

4 ,*

straugcly. 1 took tho little

fellow up in my arms without a word, and ho put his arms aroivod my neck and kissed me. 'Dear Old I/Og,' hi whispered, softly, 'dear Old liOg,' and stroked my rough cheek with his hand. It was but a babj* action, but it brought bick my better self. 'I will let tho fool and his money alone,' I thought. 'It is his, not mine, and no sophistry can make it anything but robbery. I will walk, work, beg my way tp New York, but I will not commit that crime.'

During dinner I kept little (ii by my sido as a safeguard over myself Lunv Jack sat at tho lar end of the table, and never once looked toward us, I could not tell how ho felt, and did not care, now that I had put away the temptation. Only I must keep him and his money out of my way for awhile. It would not bo long. In the morning a sledge was going to tho nearest town for supplies. I would go with the driver and onco on tho line of the railroad 1 would m.'uiago in some way to reach Lucy. I was stronger 1 was more sanguine than before. This time I should succeed. "After dinner I went off with the hauling teams, making some excuse for h'lving the sawing to another hand. Luny was sent to our unfinished work ot the morning, and I thought I was safe. But about hroe o'clock he appeared among tho teams, and began, in silence, to busy himself among tho logs, as though he belonged there, while tlie men laughed to themselves at his obstinate persistence in following me. I took no notice of him. Iti a multitude there is safety, nnd there were twenty of us about the place. But, as Fate would have it., the harness gavo way, some of tho tools required mending, and, for one reafon and another, all the men went Iwek to tho shanty stables nnd smithy except myself. 1 icing a new hand, I was lelt to go on with tbo skidding. At the last moment, when tho teams were starting, I noticed Luny standing on the other side of the end team, as though he too, intended to stay beidnd. 'Oo on with the rest. I don't wan't you here,' I said, roughly, as tho team started and left us face to face. But he did not move. '(Jo on with tho rest, or it will be tho worse for you,' 1 repeated, lining my arm threateningly. But be kept his place. Back came tlie temptation with terrible power. I mado one moro effort. Taking him bv the shoulder, 1 forced him down tho path. 'Ifyou como bnck I won't answer for your life, fool!' I said, close to his ear. Something in my voice—perhaps tho truth in it—frightened the littlo uaan, for ho crept away after tho teams, walking «loso to tho bushes, as if afraid of the broad track. 1 breathed more freely, and, going back to my work, I attacked the great logs with turious strength, although still trembling In-every limb with tho effort at self-control. I labored fiercely the pine-trunks were like so many twigs before me, and alt the while my brain was on fire. That money stared me in the face I saw It beforo me every

*?2At 1

bad in some way wandered out upon the roll-way, and fallen ovefr tib« bank among tbe ponderous logs, where thev lay imprisioned in a chance niche, with a fearful death hanging over tkem, stood paralysed. The logs often moved of themselves we had heard them crashing and .rumbling down the bank in tho middlo of the night, wakened by iho sound, though far away. Any movement I made might serve only to hasten tbe death-crush. I called to little Oi, aud cheered bim with as hearty a voice as I could. He told me that Ijuny was 'asleep,' snd 1 shuddered as I thought the odd little man might bo dead down thero with the poor baby. I had never had muoh belief in prayer, but I prayed then—prayed that I might save th« two ulive. Then I went to work. Oreat drops stood en my forebead as I moved cautiously out, for every *tep might be a murderous ono. The logs were poised helter-skelter over the bank, like a heap of giant jackstraws, and'I could uot tell where and bow they touched each other: vet must go on. Well, it took me half an hour to rcach the nlaco, and all the while little Ol talked merrily on. Ho felt no foar now that Old Log was coming to him, but he little knew that Old

Iog's heart was in bis mouth, and every breath a pain. At la«-t. I get down to tbe level of the crevice I took tho child out first nnd then came another climb, as feariul as the former—a climb down to the frozen river. Leaving the boy there, I went back, and, lifting out Luny. I carried him down also. Ho was not dead, but insensible bis head being injured by tho fall. I tell all this in a few words, but I could not desc.ribo to you the long, fearful :igony of that hour among the log*, wlion every stop mi^ht possibly, aucl ovcu probabl thrro ol us.

stop Uilg v, kill a all

After resting a few moments, I lifted Luny again and, the child running along by my side, I went up tho river to au easier ascent, and started toward camp. Little Oi was far niofe afraid of tho dark forest than of tho cell among the poised, overhanging logs. l.uny died that night but beforo his death, for several hours, bis brain was as clear as mine. He had gained his mind back nt tbe expense of his life. Ho bequeathed tho boy to me and in the presence of all the camp-men now gathered, silent and awo-struck, around him, he gave

HIO

also the lielt of monpy.

'For (51 I said, as I took it. No—for you,' he answered. 'I know you will take care of the bov.'

He told us nothing of himself or his past life but ho gavo me a little, worn Bible, wherein was written, in a woman's handwriting, 'Guy.' And aa be pointed to tho boy, liavo always supposed that 'Guy'—miscalled 'Oi'by poor Luny—was the child's real name, and that bis mother wrote it in the little Bible. But, in reality, I know nothing certalft about it I do not even know whether the boy was or was not poor Luny's child. lie is mine now, bow ever, nnd bears my name. He is at school in Detroit, and perhaps 1 shall bo able to send him to old Yale. He is all the world to me. "Wo buried Lunv .lack under the snow in tho pjr.e-forcst, uul then 1 started eastward with Guy. I cannot, dwell upon this pnrt of my story but I found my darling, and wo were married, although wo both Vnew we could not bo long together. In two months she was dead—consumption. "She bad written tho note at her father's command, and also because sho thought I was weary of tho lie. She never hail much firmness, poor child! But I love'd her.

I came back here. Tho pi no-foreal was moro like a homo to mo than any city, and 1 wanted to bo alone. I kept Guy with me until he was old enough to go to school, and then I sent him down to Detroit. Luny's money is invested lor his u*e, but I am educating him myself,aud, if I live, he shnll bo taught to steer clear, nt least, of I hose rocks upon which I was shipwrecked.

I own the camp now, and havo all that I need in this world. To-morrow, if you stay long enough, I will show yon Luny's grave.and head stone. Lucy i.s there too, and Guy has directions to lay rue by her sido when my limo com"i». But 'Frederick Holcombe, yoii know, died long ago so the inscription will bo simplv, 'King Long.'

ONSTANCK

I'KNIMOIU: WOOI.SON.

"(liprry Time''

ii.

slant and at last I was beginning to fear that 1 was haunted by imps, when, suddenly looking up, there stood Luny before me!

of Field."

We are now giving to every S'-'.f*) yearly subttcrihcr a choice of the nbovo ChrotnoH. They are catalogued and toM In tho aru stores at 1.00 per copy but will lw given to all persons wh« send us their names as subscribers enclosing tUOO the price of the paper for one year. These pictures rut- perfect copies In every delicate tint aud color of magnificent paintings costing hundreds of dollars. All who have any idea of or lov« of art fall la love with them nt first fight.

Look at tho Offer.

To every new yearly subwrllwr to The Mall, snd to crtch old subscriber Who renews. Is gives a magnificent chnrtno, usually sold at 91, and tbe paper, costing tii, making 8 worth In all, for only 12. Tell your friends shout It I Oet the best paper published in the State for one year, aud an expensive picture—all for 92.

An Extra Cliromo Free.. Wo will wnd a copy of eltl.t of our promlum Iimmos to every p-nton sending us the mimes of three new yearly subscribers with the money, six dollars, also giving tho pictures to each of the threo subscriber*. Almost any one can In this way secure this beaut,rid wo-.k of art without it costing them Miiytbuitf-

Oct Both (.'liromos.

Xby wi«'iiii? to are at once both of our new -r mo* can do so by subscribing for Tlie Mail two years in ,-iI *nrp, paying us fi therefor, or v. will send tbe psper for one year aud both Chronics i.iotir,'"! for :b«sum of\ or yp will •end TbeMxil one year snd boi l) j-inures tsoiuely framed In walnut and i,.ltfor

Men who Hare Otht i* Uusiness Am wanted «o add that of canvassing for rh-.-MttL bils ral uoointtasloua. .*iend fbr ctrenlsrof I struct Ion «.

Clergymen

Can earn a few dollars, aud Introduce a flrst-ctiws paptrr, by canvassing for theHatarday Kv.nmg Mydl. I.iberal commissions given. The paper snd'Chrome take on Eight. $b-nd for circular of Instruction*.

^•?$

D.-^-rH-d

Mm Miiir-S »ny lien* »tU« k, and h* and th "bain y—« belpU-as pair—

.4 •?*'.

., Hi

LAILTETAL HUINA

Can earn from JlOto Una week, canvassing tor tbe Saturday Kvenlng Mail and Its charming Chrom-*, Hee pro*p«-e»»is In anotbsi cilutjio, »n I wad tor circular of lu»UM«ttons. Or better still. »«ml Two loiin r«r miiBt sad eoauncuee work Iramedi*