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"You are aware that this is your
resolution, and not mine."
"What do you mean, Mr. Hastings?"
"You understand well enough,"
said the other, biting his lip. "Give me your daughter in marriage, and the
mortgage shall never trouble you."
"I have no desire, even if I had
the right, to force my daughters inclinations," said the farmer, coldly.
"You mean that she don't like me.
That is only a girl's fancy. Hasn't she considerations enough for her family to
consent to the only course which will save them from ruin?"
"It is sacrifice which I shall
neither require nor accept at her hands. To be plain with you, Mr. Hastings, I
do not think you would make a suitable husband for my daughter. Even if she were
willing to marry you, knowing you as I now do, I should use whatever influence I
may possess with her to dissuade her from a step which I am convinced would
yield her only unhappiness."
The young man turned pale to the
lips with anger. "By Heavens, Sir," he exclaimed, impetuously, "you shall rue
this; you and your daughter too! I foreclose the mortgage, Mr. Hayden; and I
give you warning, Sir, that if you do not leave the premises before sundown I
shall call in the assistance of the law to eject you."
"Not so fast, Mr. Hastings," said
Farmer Hayden, calmly. "I will trouble you to adhere to the law. The mortgage
can not be foreclosed unless I fail to cancel it."
"But that you can not do," was
the quick reply.
"You are mistaken. I have the
money here, and shall lose no time in severing all business relations between
He produced a roll of bills, and
counted out the amount of the mortgage.
Samuel Hastings was speechless
with surprise, anger, and mortification. "Where did you raise this money?" he
"That does not concern you," said
the farmer. "Is the amount correct?"
There was a surly reply, and
putting his hat violently on his head, the foiled creditor withdrew. With him
the shadow passed from Farther Hayden's household. At one o'clock a happy group
gathered round the table laden with the substantial delicacies which no one
better than a New England housekeeper knows how to provide. In feeling words
Farmer Hayden craved a blessing, and in the hearts of all there was a deep sense
of gratitude to God, who had made this indeed a day worthy of thanksgiving.
Later in the day John Patten and
Mary Hayden sat before the fire alone. Her eyes were downcast, her hand, a
willing captive, pressed in his. He was telling her how, during his long
absence, the thought of her had been always with him, stimulating him to
exertion, giving him courage in the midst of peril—that he had never parted with
the hope that she would some day consent to be his, and walk hand in hand with
him the journey of life, which, longer or shorter, as God willed, would be the
happier for their joint companionship. That hope he asked her now to ratify. I
can not give Mary's answer. I only know that a fortnight later, just before John
Patten's furlough expired, they stood before the altar and were united, in
presence of the whole village, every man, woman, and child turning out to
witness the ceremony.
HER soul caught up Hope's shining
Against the dark assaults of
She bade him bravely to the field
Where Death holds Glory's
She girt the good steel on his
And, "Rumor's random shafts," she
"Full oft are poisoned with a lie
That strikes the unwitting victim
"If you—God give me
Yet stanch life's current ere it
Send me this scabbard! I will
No other token, tongue, nor tale!
"If captive, in the rebel host
Some youth, heart-mated, there
Who for her sake, or loved, or
Will speed your ransomed blade to
"If—if—I can not speak the word!
Pray some true comrade—at the
In pity hither bear the sword;
But bid, oh! bid him break it
Time sped. And Rumor still
To strike her with its venomed
Hope's buckler, still undimmed,
A constant AEgis, on her heart!
Till—surely 'twas a love divine
That armed her soul with daily
A soldier found her at the
And laid a broken falchion there!
"You broke the blade at his
She faltered. "Nay, true heart,
''Twas shivered, in his good
Full on the forehead of his foe!"
"To the just cause I freely gave
My better life," she said, and
To her pale lips the shattered
"To God I dedicate the rest!
"Yet is my mission here to do;
I hear his stricken brethren
Many their pangs, their soothers
Be they my heralds to the
Self-vowed, to wounds and death,
Her Master's healing and his
But ever at her side she wears,
For rosary, the broken sword!
STORY OF THANKSGIVING-
THE chill November sunshine lay
with mocking brightness on the velvet violets of the carpet; the wind howled
sharply past the windows, as if furious that its keen touch could not blast the
cream-white roses and fire-hearted geraniums whose delicate fragrance filled the
room with an atmosphere of June. Without, people hurried shuddering by, with
blue noses and frost-nipped fingers; within, there was summer warmth and tropic
Cecile Gore was sitting at a
little papier-mache desk, writing delicate scented notes of invitation, with an
apparently interminable list of names on one side and a bronze card-receiver on
the other. And Maurice Kensett was lazily sorting the cards, and supplying
sheets of tiny note-paper, and making innumerable comments—that is, he was
busied in this manner when he was not watching the bright shower of curls that
touched the desk, and the blue, down-drooping eyes, and the pretty hand with the
diamond betrothal-ring upon its forefinger. Don't blame Major Maurice Kensett
for being a little careless about the cards, and knocking over the alabaster
ink-stand with his clumsy hands. You would have done just the same thing if you
had been there.
"Now, Maurice, who next?" says
Cecile, with the pen-end between her scarlet lips, and her fingers playing a
little tune on the paper before her. "What a pity it is you can't be here! I
don't see the necessity of your being ordered off so suddenly. Only think of
it!—you will not even spend Thanksgiving with us, and papa is going to have a
real old-fashioned festival of it, just such as his grandfather used to have!"
"Duty before pleasure, cara mia!"
responds the Major, lifting his black eyebrows. "My Thanksgiving will probably
be in camp. Here's a name, Spencer Dyatt—aren't you going to ask him?"
"Why not? I'm sure he'd like to
"Very possibly," said Cecile,
hiding a little yawn behind the diamond ring. "But he always steps on ladies'
toes when he waltzes, and on their dresses when he don't waltz."
"Poor fellow! And so he is to be
excluded from society on that account?"
"From my parties—yes!" laughed
"Isn't that Horace Verde's card?
Give it to me."
"You are not going to invite
"Certainly. Why not?"
Maurice Kensett rose with a
disturbed countenance, and looked gravely down at Cecile's bright face.
"I had rather you wouldn't,
"How ridiculous, Maurice, when
Mr. Verde goes in the best society!"
"More shame to the best society
then. But if yon remember, Cecile, this is not the first time I have spoken to
you on the subject."
Cecile's cheek and eye blazed
"I do remember, Major Kensett,
that you have attempted to dictate to use whom I shall, and shall not, receive
at my house. It is useless. Mr. Verde is a general favorite, and I shall ask him
to this party. Give me that card, if you please."
But Kensett still withheld it.
"Cecile, he is not a man with
whom I would wish either wife or sister of mine to associate."
"I am not your sister, Sir, nor
am I sure that I shall ever be your wife if this is a foretaste of the authority
you intend to exert over me."
The fiery crimson mounted to
Kensett's brow: he bit his lip, and strove to speak calmly.
"Cecile, my dearest, do not let
us quarrel over such a mere trifle as this."
"It is no trifle to find myself
subject to such galling control as this. You have no right, Major Kensett, to
"Is the right of a betrothed
husband nothing, Cecile? Do you wish me to yield it up?"
Cecile hesitated a second; but
passion was too strong for sober reason.
"If it is to be exerted in this
manner—yes! I will be a slave to no man's whims and prejudices."
Kensett had grown very white.
"You can not mean those words,
"I do mean them."
He held out his hand to her—a
hand cold as ice.
"Good-by, Cecile; it has been a
pleasant dream, but it is ended now."
"Good-by, Major Kensett."
And so they parted, these two
young lovers, standing in the stormy gold of the November sunbeams with the
winds mourning a voiceless reproach, and the anguish of unshed tears gnawing at
Major Maurice Kensett's regiment
marched that night, and when Cecile, tossing on her restless couch, beard the
steam-shriek of the "midnight express," and knew that it was bearing him away,
she wept the bitterest tears that perhaps had ever dimmed the eyes Maurice had
likened to blue forget-me-nots. Poor little forget-me-nots! it was a chill rain
and a sad; poor little blue blooms!
Sleep! she could not sleep, and
when the morning of Thanksgiving penciled the east with gold she rose up,
heavy-eyed and silent. She had heard of broken hearts—could it be that her
wayward, willful, yet loving heart was breaking?
"I say, Cecy, there's such a
turkey down stairs!" ejaculated Master Alexander, commonly called "Alec" Gore,
rushing into the room like a small whirlwind, as Cecile sat by the register with
an unopened volume on her lap. "It's all a fellow can do to lift him! Ain't he
stuffed nicely, though? and ain't Hannah crosser than two sticks? There's some
tall currant jelly, too, and I just took a peep into the oven when cook's back
was turned. Such pies!—and a pudding big enough to get into, like Sir Somebody
What'shisname in English history, you know. What a jolly old cove papa's
grandfather must have been if he kept Thanksgiving this way every year!"
"Alexander!" reproved Mrs. Gore,
trying not to smile.
"Well, it's a fact, mother. Who's
coming to dinner? Ain't we going to have it until six? If that ain't a shame!
Oh! look here!" exclaimed Alec, rushing precipitately from one subject to
another, "I've just come from down town, and every body's talking about the
"What accident?—Alexander, I wish
you would learn not to crack nuts with your teeth."
"Women never hear any thing,"
said Alec, patronizingly, aiming a nut-shell at the canary bird's cage. "Why the
railroad accident, to be sure. Express train knocked into smash, locomotive
split to flinders, and nobody to blame. And there was a regiment of soldiers on
board, too, all killed. 'Frightful loss of life!' the bulletin says, for—"
Alec checked himself suddenly,
for a low cry had burst from Cecile's white lips; she sprang to her feet with
wild, fixed eyes, and a cheek paler than the carved marble of the mantle against
which she leaned.
"Killed!" she repeated, in
strangely syllabled tones—"killed! O God! and I live on!"
"Mother," whispered Alec, in
awe-stricken accents, as Mrs. Gore leaned over her daughter's prostrate form,
busied with soft womanly offices, "was that Maurice's regiment? Is Cecy dead?"
"She has only fainted, my son—she
will be better soon. Go to your father, Alec, and ask hint to hasten down to the
telegraph office, and learn what particulars have transpired. Perhaps there is
some mistake. My poor, poor child!"
"Leave me alone a little while;
mother," said Cecile, sadly, an hour of two later in the day. "Indeed I am well
now, dear mamma, only—"
Her head sank on her hands. Mrs.
Gore knew that solitude is sometimes the best medicine for a sick heart, so she
only laid her hand lovingly on Cecile's fair curls, and quietly stole out of the
Alone—alone with the dim twilight
and her own sorrowful fancies! Was it strange that Cecile Gore felt as if life
were a burden too great for endurance?
"Dead!" she murmured, gazing into
the dusk with dilated, expressionless eyes. "And I shall never see him
again—never hear his voice! How many years must I live through before I meet him
in that other world whose shores we know not of? How many weary hour's must I
count before I can tell him how dearly I loved him, even when I was most
willful, most mad? Oh, memory! if I could deaden your keen pangs! I shall go mad
if I think over that parting again!"
So Cecile mused on. She had yet
to learn how heavy a burden the heart will bear ere Reason quits its throne, and
mercifully blots out the past.
Like a funereal pall the starry
darkness of the Thanksgiving-night came down over the freezing world.
"Where is she? where is Cecile?"
She clasped her hands over her
heart with a low, wailing sob as the words fell on her ear.
"I shall fancy it many a time—his
voice—as it used to sound. I shall dream he is with me once again, and waken to
find it only a dream! That is not his footstep on the stairs; it is only the
sick phantasy of my over-tired brain. He is dead. He has found the peace which I
shall know no more."
The door opened. Instinctively
she raised her heavy eyes.
Twilight—darkness—what were they
to her? Would she not have known him if the shadows of Styx rolled between?
Would she not have recognized the tender light of his eyes through the blackness
of eternal midnight? She could not speak; she could only rest her head against
his arm and sob out strange inarticulate sounds, like a babe waked from some
"So you thought I was dead,
Cecile? Poor little Cecile!" murmured Maurice, folding her to his breast as if
she had indeed been a babe. "Oh, my love, God is kinder than we deserve. Let us
never set His mercy at defiance again. Yes," he said, answering the mute
question of her eyes, "there was an accident, but none of our men were hurt; and
as we can not go on until to-night I came back for the kiss I was too proud to
take yesterday. Are we true lovers once more, darling?"
Yes—once more and forever!
"It's a mercy the dinner isn't
spoiled, waiting for you lazy people!" quoth Master Alec, with one eye directed
reproachfully at Major Kensett and Cecile, and the other riveted upon the
turkey, whose brown sides rose, a mountain of unctuous fatness, in the centre of
the festive board. "I say, father, I'll take a big slice of the breast, if you
please. Ain't Thanksgiving jolly?"
"I think it is, Alec," laughed
Cecile, shyly radiant at her
lover's side, looked into the dark splendor of his eyes and thought that her
Thanksgiving would last forever.
HUMORS OF THE DAY.
SARCASTIC.—Young —, son of Her
Majesty's printer, who had the patent for printing Bibles in Scotland, went to
an assembly in Edinburgh in a bright green suit, turned up with gold lace. This
gay attire attracted universal attention, and some one asked Lady Wemyss who he
was? "It's only young Bible," replied her Ladyship, "bound in calf and gilt, but
QUESTION IN GEOMETRY.—Given, a
river as a base, what figure does a fisherman's rod and line form in conjunction
with it?—A try-angle, undoubtedly.
THE BEST FRUIT FOR PRESERVING
LOVE.—Kate was talking glowingly about "love-apple's." "That's strange!"
exclaimed Charlie, her accepted lover. "'Why should 'love' be associated with
apples? On the contrary, I always thought that love went in pairs." Kate smiled
"In short, ladies and gentlemen,"
said a speaker, in a husky voice, and perspiring freely, "I can only say that I
wish I had a window in my bosom, that you might see the emotions of my heart."
The newspapers printed the speech leaving the "n" out of "window."
What is the principal difference
between the swallow and the cat? It is an admitted fact that "one swallow does
not make a summer," but one cat can make a spring.
An old lady looking at the
curiosities in a museum, came to a couple of large sea-dogs, and after gazing at
them with wonder, inquired of a wag, who stood near, if they ever barked. "No,
Madam," replied he, "not now; their bark is on the sea."
A WELL-READ SOLDIER.—Private
When is a window like a
star?—When it's a skylight.
What is the difference between a
mischievous mouse and a beautiful young lady ?—One harms the cheese, the other
charms the he's.
"Won't you cut open a penny for
me, papa?" said a little girl, when she came home from school one day. "Cut open
a penny! What do you want me to do that for?" asked her father. "'Cause," said
the little girl, "our teacher says that in every penny there are four farthings,
and I want to sea them."
Foote dined one day at Richmond.
When the landlord produced the bill, Foote thought it very exorbitant, and asked
his name. "Partridge, an't please you," replied the host. "Partridge!" said
Foote; "it should be Woodcock, by the length of your bill!"
"Mrs. Dobson, where's your
husband?" "He's dying, marm, and I don't wish any body to disturb him." A very
considerate woman that.
"They don't make as good mirrors
as they used to," remarked an old maid, as she observed a sunken eye, wrinkled
face, and livid complexion in a glass that she usually looked into.
A pedestrian traveling in Ireland
met a man, and asked him rather gruffly why the miles were so long, when the
Hibernian replied, "You see, your Honor, the roads are not in very good
condition, so we give very good measure."
A famous musician, who had made
his fortune by marriage, being requested to sing in company, "Permit me," said
he, "to imitate the nightingale, who never sings after he has made his nest."
"Are you fond of tongue, Sir?"
asked a lady. "I was always fond of tongue, Madam," was the reply, "and like it
What were the last words the
trumpeter said when he was gored by the wild bull?—Why, "Blow the horns!"
Mrs. Partington wants to know why
captains don't have their ships properly nailed in port, instead of waiting to
tack them at sea.
It is better to be ready and not
go than go and not be ready.
"Sally," said a fellow to a girl
who had red hair, "keep away from me or you'll set me on fire." "No danger of
that," replied Sally, "you are too green to burn!"
Two country farmers lately
passing the Stock Fxchange stopped to inquire what was the occasion of such a
noise. The gentleman to whom these men addresed themselves answered that it was
a Bedlam for mad merchants, who, having lost their reason, imagined they were
transformed into bulls and bears, and acted accordingly. "Prey, zur," said one
of the countrymen, "mout we zee 'em?" "By all means," replied the gentleman,
and, conducting the farmers to the door, he desired them to walk in. No sooner
did the poor fellows put in their heads than one said to the other, "Zoons,
Davy, let uz get off—those mad volks are all loose;" and they took to their
heels as fast as their legs could carry them, and went home full of the story of
the mad merchants and their Bedlam near the 'Change.
Two Irishmen in a smart
engagement were gallantly standing by their gun, firing in quick succession,
when one, touching the piece, noticed that it was very hot. "Arrah, Mike," said
he, "the cannon is gettin' very hot; we'd better stop firin' a little." "Divil a
bit," replied Mike; "jist dip the cartridges in the river afore yees load, an'
kape it cool."
A man in the habit of traveling,
complaining to a friend that he had often been robbed, and was afraid of
stirring abroad, was advised to carry pistols with him on his journey. "Oh, that
would be worse," replied the hero: "the thieves would rob me of them also!"
A new method of shop-lifting has
been discovered in Paris. An elegant lady enters a store, accompanied by a
nurse, carrying a baby dressed in rich embroidery. On leaving they are supposed
to have taken laces, jewelry, etc., as the case may be, and are arrested. An
examination proves that the baby has a wax face, and a hollow pasteboard body,
which serves as a hiding-place for stolen articles.
A physician's horse being out of
order, he sent him to the farrier to be cured; which being done, the doctor went
to pay him. "No," said the farrier; "we doctors never take any money one of
We are repeatedly told that "Love
laughs at locksmiths." It is true to a turn; for there are instances on the
legal books of Cupid not only laughing at the locksmith, but actually taking his
pick of all the wards in Chancery.
Sir George Grey speaks with
extraordinary volubility. On one occasion, to enforce his argument, he made use
of a simile. "If we throw a spark of fire into a barrel of gunpowder we all know
there will be a dreadful explosion; but we may throw a blazing torch upon a
turnpike-road, and the probability is that it will expire harmlessly." The
stenographer went on very well until he came to the blazing torch on the
turnpike-road; but he could not make out the end of the sentence. He knew it was
something about a brazing torch; but what it was to do he could not for the life
of him tell. The sentence was deemed too important to be left out; so he wrote
it as follows: "You may throw a spark into a barrel of gunpowder, and it will
explode and cast devastation around; but, if you place a blazing torch on a
turnpike-road, all that it will do will be to burn down the turnpike-gate."
ARMY OF THE CUMBERLAND.
page 780 we reproduce a
sketch, by Mr. Davis, representing one of the most famous and popular of the
army transports on the Tennessee, the Chattanooga. Mr. Davis writes:
"THE STEAMER 'CHATTANOOGA' ON HER
WAY UP THE TENNESSEE WITH ARMY STORES.
"HEAD-QUARTERS GENERAL W. S.
BRIDGEPORT, ALA., Nov. 15.
"This little steamer was built at
Bridgeport by our troops. The Michigan Engineer Regiment, I think, did the
principal part of the work. We
have more like her under way, so that we shall have in a sort time quite a
fleet on the line—cracker line the rebs call it. The party rejoicing in the
dignity of commanding the craft is Captain Arthur Edwards. This is, I think, the
first boat that has been built by the soldiers for their own use, though it
seems as if they had done every thing else in the mechanical line."