E

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ Vol. IV.

E.,F,. Beadle, )
wuuam Adams.,>PUBLIBHEP.s.
Davrd Adams,

One copy, four months, $l.
TERMS IN ADVANCE One copy, one year . . . 
Two copies, one your . 5.

No. 187.

 

THE OLD BEECH-TREE.

BY FRANK M. IMBRIE-

I amthmking tomight of the old beech-tree
With its spreading emerald boushs,
How the stars peered through to our trystiug-place
As we pledged our mutual vows.
How grandly rose the fair young moon,
To light love’s natal hour!
’Twas ’neath the sheltering beech-tree, love,
When first I owned its power.

I am thinking to-night of the old beech‘tree,
Where you deeply carved our names——

Far in the long. Weird memory aisles
Thatj/ision bright remains.

The shimmering moonlight lit your face
With softened beauty rare,

As ’ncaih the spreading beech-tree, love,
We Sipped love’s light and air.

I am thinking to—night of the old beech-tree
And Ohio’s limpid stream,

That decks its pebbled, shining bed
With robes ol silvery sheen.

How the river sobbed its hap y joy
As it caught our eyes’ love-light!

It murmured back our whispered tone,
Pure. as the waters bright.

I am thinking to-night of the old beech-tree—
When seated by your side,

My heart yearns for the olden home
That in its flower-time died ;

And I wonder, can we really be
The lovers glad and gay.

That told their love ’neath the dear old tree
In that home so far away. .

Ytol:

lost, Wedded, Widiwed and Reward.

A STORY OF TRIALS AND BALHS.

BY A. P. MORRIS, JR..

AUTHOR or “srnxnmo A HEART." “ BLACK HAND,”
“IRON AND GOLD,” “mm scoamon," “PEARL or
PEARLS," “HERCULES, THE EUNOHBACK," “CAT
mo arena," “ FLAKING TALISMLN.“ nrc.

CHAPTER I.
YTOL AND WHARLE.

, " Fled now the sullen murmurs of the North,
The splendid rainient of the Spring peeps forth."
~BLoomrIELD.
“ I thank thee, God, for weal and woe;
And, whatsoe‘er the trial he,
'Twill serve to wean me from below, ,
And bring my spirit nigher Thee."
_ ~Coon.

WINTER, with its deep snows, had gone.

The last of the dreary months had passed
away ; - the bright days were at hand—beautiful
above, and the bosom of the earth seemingly
glowing with joy.

Far along the rippling Chesapeake skimmed
innumerable white-winged yachts. The woody
banks on either side appeared to be striving to
burst more rapidlyThe tender leaf-buds of the
half-seared branches locked in naked domes;
and the new spring carols of the birds echoed
merrily out over the gilded waters. -

No matter where exactly-—but somewhere
near the historic ground of the Bay, there stood:
a tall farm-house. It was the same familiar-
picture of the old-time country home; plain
and comfortable, combining the livelier spirit
of the North, with the don’t-care leisure look
of the Southern farmstead. 3 '

There was the great monster of a barn, with
its wind-mill weathervanc ; healthy cows in‘
the broad pen; poultry fluttering everywhere;
utensils neatly shedded ; horses stamping in
their clean stalls; the unused winding path
that led down to the crystal spring; the spec-
tral trees bordering the smooth lane, up to the
well—sweptporch ; and all around a strange air
of quietude',.only broken by the creaky squeak-
ing of the pump—handle and the mysterious
murmurs of such surroundings. '

It was Sabbath morning. V

In the long sitting-room sat farmer Lyn,‘
dressed in his tidy best, with gold Spectacles
carefully adjusted over his fat nose—partly en—
gaged with reading the paper'he had brought.
home the day before, and partwith wondering
what kept Mother Lyn so much longer than
usual in getting ready for church.

Close to the Lyn farm was a thriving little
place, which we will call Bud Villa; and the
bell of its chapel was already pealing forth,
penetrating to the cozy sitting-room, and add-
ing to Herbert Lyn’s uneasiness.

He was held in high esteem by the villagers,
and, unlike his neighbor Dufour, of the adjoin—
ing farm, was noted for his open, friendly na-
ture.

Presently his wife entered, scrupulously at‘
tired, and looking exceedingly meek.

“ Hunh i” be granted. “ Ready at last.”

“ Couldn’t come sooner 2” she snapped, in a
voice that betrayed a disposition widely at va~
riance with the mildness of her face.

He glanced at her over his spectacles.

“ The bell has been ringing this long While."

“ I heard it,” short again; adding: '“ It was
that vixen’s fault l”

“ What did Ytol do i”

“ Stole one of my shoestrings—the vixen l”

“ Ytol wouldn’t steal, mother Lyn—”

“ She would i”

“ I say she wouldn’t.”

“Father Lyn I—how dare you contradict
me ‘3"

“ Ytol asked for a shoe-string early this morn-
ing, and I‘heard you tell her to get one wherever
she could find it.”

“ She’s a vixen, I say!” persisted mother
Lyn, rowing angry. “ Oh i you needn’t begin
to do end her——I’m used to that. You always
takryafiher part. But she’s a vixen, and a thief,
too . .

“ N o, she’s not. Ytol is a good girl. You’ll
13c scary for your treatment of her one of these

a 8.

20h! I suppose you think so,” with a ghast-
l -ironical smile. “ Never i~do you hear that?

lilzltte’hcrl I always did hate her! I always
wr ——

“ Silence!” he growled, with a stamp of his

 

 

 

“There, there, now,” suddenly, and waving
his hand. “That ’11 do. I’ve heard allv‘that
too often.”

“ And you’ll hear it again, whenever you de-
fend her—the brat! I tell you I always did
hate—3’ I _

“ Silence, I say i" . ,

Rebecca Lyn shut her teethwith a snap, and

said nothing further, and followed her husband

mg. >
As they emerged from the house they were
met by ayoung girl, of not much more than
sixteen years, who was carrying a pail full of
white, fresh milk. . .
She was a lovely being, with long, golden-

gelic face. For one of her age she was exqui-
sitely developed; and there was a timid, coyful
mien about her that made her seem more
charming.

At sight of her, mother Lyn’s face reddencd.

“ You vixen 1” she screamed, darting for-
ward. .

But the strong arm of farmer Lyn held her
back.

“ Here—get in,” he said, sternly, pushing her
toward the wagon.

She yielded with some struggling; and Her-
bert Lyn, with a kind glance at the startled
girl, drove off.

“ I’ll thrash her when I get back i” vowed
Mrs. Lyn, spitefully.

“You’ve ‘ thrashed’ that child too much,
mother Lyn.” ‘

“ And why shouldn’t I? Haven’t I had the
care and bother of her ever since she was an
imp of a baby ? If it hadn’t been for me, she’d

 

be good for nothing.” »

Farmer Lyn looked sideways at his wife in a
manner that plainly said:

“ If you had dealt more kindly with her, and
taught her to love and not fear you, she would
be twice as valuable to us as she is.”

And Rebecca Lyn, in her own mind :

“ Wait till I get hold of her! I’ll skin her
alive—the vixen i"

This pretty little fairy, this shy creature
upon whom mother Lyn heaped her hate, was
Ytol~gentle, suffering Ytol—whose existence
was void of all those sweets which have made
the childhood days of others dearest in the pic-
tures of memory. .

She was not their child. A helpless waif
that one night came to the cheery fireplace, in
baby garments, and with large, wondrous eyes,
that stared at them bewilderedly.

The farmer and his wife had lost three chil-
dren. Loneliness had settled in their home ;
there was a vacuum that each felt; keenly.
When the tiny cherub crossed the threshold——
nameless and in rags—~Herbert Lyn’s great
heart went out to it in a warm affection, and he

 

  
 
  

her little gray eyes glittered fierily. But she'

out to the door, where the wagon was in- wait— _

wavy hair, deep, soulful eyes of blue, and an»

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at once by acauseless dislike; and ever since it
could bear a. whipping, she had not spared it,
even for the most trivial offense.

Ytol received her name from Herbert Lyn.

Every thing—what little of it there was—that
could lighten her torturesome lot was of his be-
stowing; and his kindness toward the friend-
:less one served to incense his wife still further
in her malignant tre‘atment of the child.
_ Poor Ytol ! She worked hard, early and
late, on the farm ; she did all in her power to
win just one softly-uttered word from her per-
secutor; but the years and years went on, from
her eighth birthday, with the same routine of
wearying labor, and the some harsh, unmerited
censures and abuses from Rebecca Lyn}?

After the wagon turned out at the gate, Ytol
set her pail of milk on the ground; then she
sunk to her knees, and hid her face in her
apron. '

She was feeling more than ever sad on that
Sabbath morn. She had been weeping while
milking in the stall; and now she bowed there,
in utter dcjcction, wondering—for the first

time, perhaps—if this was to be her life al-:

ways.
i “ Ytol l Ytol !”

Patteriug footsteps sounded on the award be-
hind her. Some one was running up.

“ Ytol ! Ytol i”

It was a boyish voice that called ; Ytol's
heart gave a bound as she sprung to her feet.

For a second the sad look vanished, and there
was a sweet, glad smile instead.

“ Wharle ! is it you 2?” she cried.

He was a boy about three years older than
she. His face was handsome and manly ; his
hair long, and curling in dark rings back over
his ears, and his eyes of brown were full of life,
fun and tenderness, twinkling beneath the
rim of his broad-brimmed soft but.

In a moment she was in his arms.

“ Yes, Ytol ; you know I said I was coming
as soon as the folks were out of the way, and——
why, you’ve been crying l”

“ Oh, Wharle! I feel so unhappy.”

“ Has mother Lyn been tormenting you
again ‘3”

“ No more than usual. But, Wharle, I nev—
er felt so miserable as I feel to-day; I'm so glad
to see you.”

“ Never mind,” he said, kissing her red lips
heartily; “we’ll run to our nook for a while,
and have a good talk. Hey? Come. I’ve got
leave of absence from home this morning, and
we’llqhave a gay time.”

“ I can’t ; there’s all the things to fix.”

“Then I’ll help you. Let’s be quick.” And
into the house they went, where Yiol‘s duties
were so many to perform.

With the assistance of her boy-lover, Ytol
was soon free. Then they started off toward
their favorite trystiug-place, leaving old Carlo,
the shaggy Newfoundland, to guard the

 

I

“Youvixen !” she screamed, darting forward. But the strong arm of farmer Lyn held her back.

with the spice of ‘wild flowers, and vocal with
songs of birds. r

Here they sat down, and Wharle Dufour
drew close to her side.

“ Come, cheer up, Ytol, and talk to me.”

“ I can’t,” she said, in a mournful voice ; “ I
feel so sad.”

“ But you must—”

“ Oh, Wharle l” throwing her arms round his
neck and gazing full into his face, “ I do won-
der if I am alvvays to be so unhappy? You
don’t know what a home mine is! I some-
times fecl as if I wanted to die.”

“ Hush l—hush! Haven’t I told you, Ytol,
that it is wicked to think that way? We have
no right to wish ourselves dead. Whatever
trials are put upon us by the Great Being who
gave us life, we must strive to submit to them
humbly. We may rest assured there will come
something in the end to soothe our pain. Don’t
talk of dying.” -

She listened attentively to the boy, and her
head bowed low.

“ No, Ytol,” he continued, after a pause, “it
will not be always so. If you can only bear it
a little longer, your life will change. I will
soon be of age, and my own master. Father
will then give me a good piece of land. And
haven’t I promised you that I’ll build a snug
house, and put you in it for my wife—my
queen? It will be love, then, dear Ytol; love
from day to day, without ceasing; and I’ll
work and work all I know how to make you
comfortable.”

“How long?” questioned the girl, looking
up, while the light of hope brightened her
face. ‘

“ Two years.”

“ Two years! So long as that ?”

Ytol thought of what she must endure
throughout that time. But she thought, too, of
the future her young lover had so often paint-
ed, and her was resigned ; she would wait, and
nurse his promises deep down in her heart, to
strengthen and sustain her in her sorest mo-
meats.

“ You will wait for me those two years,
Ytol ‘2”

“ Oh, yes.”

“ And be true ?”

“ Yes, VVharle. Why, I have nobody in the
wide world to love but you. And what would
I have been if I had not met you? I owe
every thing to you—you have been so kind.
You know that mother Lyn would never let me
go to school ; and you taught me all I know—-
how to write and how to read the letters you
sometimes drop at the milestone, when you
can’t come to me. Girl though I am, you have
created a woman’s heart in me. But for you, I
should not have known my God-—how to wor-
ship him, and pray that in his mercy he may
Soften mother Lyn’s heart. You taught me
what love is-—-and you won all I possessed.

‘With the last her arms tightened, and she
1clung to him as if in a sudden fear of losing
um.

“I repeat my vow to you, Ytol: ‘Nothing
shall separate us. You shall be my wife,
though the whole world stand against us.’
Wharle Dufour’s heart dOes not, and never
will, know any love but yours 2”

She nestled trustingly in the arms that cm-
?riilced her, and his speech calmed her wonder-
u y.

It was high noon before the young lovers
awakened from the sweet dream in which they
became wrapt.

Ytol was first to remember her danger in re-
maining away from the farm-house; and when
she marked how time had flown, the old dread
of mother Lyn’s wrath began to prey upon her.

“ Good-by, Wharle; I must go now.”

‘ ‘ Good-by. And, Ytol—strive to bear all for
a little while. Remember, it is for my sake."

“ For your sake, dear, dear Wharlc l”

He snatched a hurried kiss, and, in a mo-
ment, she had bounded from his arms and was
gliding swiftly away.

For a long time he stood watching her reced-
ing form, then he, too, turned homeward.

1' “ Oh, why am I not a man ?" burst from his
1ps.

The exclamation was from his very soul.

The two had scarce disappeared when the
clump of cedars was pushed apart, and a man
emerged from behind the screen of bushes.

He was short and stout, miserably ragged,
with bloodshot and distended eyes, and wear-
ing a beard of red and gray. The cast of his
countenance was extremely repulsive, made
more so by a broad grin that displayed a set of
yellow teeth. '

“ Ha! ha! ha i" he chuckled, gutturally;
“ it’s the same strange fate. Once more :1. Dn-
four vows to marry one whose lovers never
leave them! Ha! ha! And that’s little‘Wharlc,
eh ?——a chit when I saw him last. What will
Gerald Dufour say when he hears of it? Let it
go on—and stop it who can. It’s fate—fate.
But, I must make Bud Villa. It’s been a long
time since Hoyle Yarik, the tar of the ‘ Gipsy
Queen,’ saw the place; so stir your stumps, my
hearty l” .

He sauntered onward, with a swinging roll-
ing gait-the grin still upon his visage, and
muttering and shaking his head as he went.

 

CHAPTER II.

01.1) FRIENDS NOT WELL MET.
“ I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of hie."
—SHAK8PEARE.
“ * * * * Methinks it sounds
As though some heav footstep followed me.
I will advance no i‘urt er.”
—BAn.Ln;.

BUD VILLA had long boasted of its purity.
That is, it had been free from liquor stores, and
the consequent dangerous characters which in-
fest thoSc establishments, and make surround-
ings hideous with their revelries and brawls.

But “ a change came o’er the spirit of this
dream ” at last, and the advent of an individu-
al with a suspiciously-colored nose -— whose
name was Jeremy Coddle—was’shortly follow-
ed by the erection of a post, before one of the
larger, more central houses, and on the post
swung a sign bearing the ominous word:

TAVERN.

For about six years Jeremy drove a thriving
trade; the scowls of teetotalers to the contra-
ry notwithstanding. At the opening of our
story he had grown fat over success, and set-
tled down to an easy indifference toward the
world at large.

Jeremy Coddle had no cronies in Bud Villa.
He rather shunned an acquaintance with those
with whom, he had contact, and it was not
long before he wove around himself an at-
mosphere of mystery, by his reticent mood and
retired life. He perceived the curiosity he cre-
ated, but he only chuckled to himself and con-
tinued to serve his bar-room customers with the
exterior of a stoic. _ ,,
The equanimitly of Coddle was destined to a
lurch. On the onday morning following the
Sunday of our previous chapter, he was con-
fronted by an old and significant acquaintance.

The tavern-keeper was lounging lazily around
his bar-room, puffing contentedly at his meer-
schaum pipe, when the double doors were kick-
ed Open, and his first caller for the day entered.

It was the rough—dressed, rough-visaged fel-
low whom we have seen eavesdropping at the
tryst of the child-lovers.

“ Good-morning—good-morning, sir," Coddle
said, waddling behind his counter.

The comer just nodded his head jerkingly,
and fastened his blear eyes on the corpuleut
proprietor in a searching gaze.

Something about the man struck Jeremy as
familiar. He scanned the other’s face closely;
and the more he tried to identify him, the more
puzzled he became.

“ Well, sir, what will you have ?”

“ Hello, J e-re-my ! how are you? Let’s have
some of the same old stuff!”

The pipe dropped from Coddle’s mouth.
The voice of the shabby man told him who it
was; and the recognition could not have been
very pleasant, for he stared, turned pale, seem-
ed speechless.

“ I say, how are you ?—blast your teeth 1
Didn’t you hear me ?” repeated and demanded
this individual, in a tone that was grating.
“ Didn’t expect to see me round again, did
you l‘”

“ Hoyle Yarik !——’ti511’t you ?”

“ ’Tisn’t, eh ? Well, maybe not, since Hoyle
Yarik was sent to prison for life, and ought to
be there now. But, Je~re~my~blast my teeth!
I’m here.” He rocked from side to side, a
couple of times, as he delivered himself——
twitched his shaggy head, pushed back his
greasy hat, bit a fresh chew of tobacco from
his plug; then rammed both hands in his
pockets, and surveyed Coddle with wolfish

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

foot. “ A fine mood you are in to go to hoped that it might fill up the blank occasioned premises. Whatever little sunlight has been in my sad complacency. ' g .
church.” by the loss of his own offspring. It was on a high hill overlooking the spark- life, you have sown there ; and oh ! V’Vharle! Jeremy betrayed a srngttiaiimervotisness m
& “ My mood’s my own, and I’ll do as I please. But Rebecca Lyn did not partake of his con- ling waters, amid a bower of stunted pine and Wharle ! don’t ever let any one steal your love the presence of this Hoyle Y arik. His features
L Don’t you understa—«" solution. On the contrary, she seemed inspired cedar that in summer time was rich and dreamy from me i” grew very white; he moved restlessly. v
4'.) ' . ’4: L.
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