Page images
PDF
EPUB

VI.

The taper shed a ruddy glare

On the bruised features of the dead, And gory beard and clotted hair

In all awoke an icy dread.
Ah! fearfully the brow was still
Contorted by the pang of death,
And pomp with dust accorded ill,
Robbed of mobility and breath.

VII.

Why sits that ghastly watcher by
The corse, with phenzy in his gaze?
The fearful wildness of his eye

A storm, at work within, betrays: He looks upon the pall and shroud With face, as stainless marble, pale, Afraid the slumberer to the crowd Would tell the heart-appalling tale.

VIII.

The mystic pencil cannot paint
The frightful look his visage wore,
When, reft of consciousness, and faint,
He sunk exhausted on the floor.
Awaking from the swoon, with hands.
Outspread for aid, the ruffian cried-
"Vengeful the sheeted victim stands,
With arm uplifted, by my side!"

*

IX.

These startling words his guilt reveal,

His bosom wildly throbs with fear;

See vol. xxii. p. 112, MAVOR'S UN. HIS.

Loud shriek of death, and vain appeal
To stony hearts, ring in his ear:
The cup he made the monarch drain,
With poison fraught, he now beholds,
And clenches in his hand again

The napkin with its bloody folds.

X.

Ah! phantoms, unallied to earth,
That other eyes cannot discern,
Are feeding, with their hellish mirth,
Fierce flames which in his bosom burn:
In vain the mind-destroying bowl
Was brought his anguish to allay,
No draught will ever from his soul
The stain of murder wash away.

THE INEBRIATE FATHER.

BY MARIE ROSEAU.

ASHEDALE had its stream-what village would be beautiful without one? It was a clear, wandering creek, presenting a charming variety to the eye. For a space it would move slowly and demurely along in a straight line, as if it were sinful to make a noise or deviate from a direct course. Again it would wander off a short distance in a gentle curve, and then suddenly retrace its way back, forming a little oblong island, with a water willow to shade it. Oh! how delightful we thought it to step from stone to stone, carrying our shoes and stockings in our hands, our little bare feet more than covered with water, and balancing ourselves as best we could, that we might reach this spot to get a swing upon the grapevine, or gather the prettiest shells we could find. Truly our ideas as to what composes happiness change materially as we grow older! Then our stream would dance playfully along over the stones, reflecting the bright rays of the sunshine, and showing occasionally a golden sunfish, tempting us to convert our pins into fish-hooks for his especial benefit, upon which would be placed something nice to please his appetite. We wondered that he did not bite, for we were very young then, and had not learned the art of baiting successfully. Again it would rush impetuously over a rock in the deep woods, its

[blocks in formation]

waters so closely overshadowed by the forest trees that the sun never shone upon them, seeming to bear the dark hues of passion.

Near this spot stood old Simon Hunt's house, if such it might be called. It was a miserable old log tenement with two square openings answering for windows, and an oblong space left for entrance. Nothing would have tempted one of us children to go near Hunt's after dark; and many a day have I sat upon a hill where the place was visible between the trees, listening, by the hour, to tales which one of the larger girls would tell of deeds of darkness which had been done by "old Hunt," as he was familiarly called by us, although he could not have been forty years of age, until my blood was chilled and I was fearful of moving, lest the noise might startle some evil spirit that was at his bidding. Many of these stories were most probably drawn from Ellen Day's own fruitful imagination; still, even the older folks looked upon him with suspicion. He seemed like one formed for evil, although no great crime had been proven against him. He treated his family unkindly and diminished wood-piles, missing poultry, and broken fruit-trees bore evidence to his plundering propensities; yet these were not considered enough in themselves, by the peace-loving inhabitants of Ashedale, to bring him before a court of justice. No one knew how, or when he came to the place. The owner of the woods lived at a distance, and the dilapidated cabin had long been considered untenantable. I had a great curiosity to see his family, and would frequently, when I knew he was away, go near enough to the house to get a distinct view, but at the same time taking care to keep sufficiently distant to be out of danger. His wife's countenance wore that calm, settled, heart-broken sadness that would of itself have told volumes of domestic trials. There were four children, the eldest ten, and the youngest almost an infant

They never seemed disposed to mix with the other children of the village, except once, when one of our number, bolder than the rest, having held out a biscuit enticed the little boy near. He started eagerly forward to take it, but his eldest sister, a quiet, gentle-looking girl, with the thoughtful expression of womanhood upon her face, called him back; he instantly obeyed, and taking her hand passed on.

I

Some weeks afterwards I was walking along the creek, picking blackberries, when a wasp suddenly stung me: I screamed loudly with the pain, at the same time upsetting the whole of my small stock of berries into the water. Almost immediately Mary Hunt and her little brother and sister appeared. They were in the habit of picking berries and disposing of them in the village, and now they were just returning from the woods with their baskets full. Seeing my trouble she came up to me and asked, in a pleasant voice, what was the matter. started, but her kind tone dissipated my fear, and I told her my difficulty. She put down her basket, and leaning over took off my shoe and stocking, and after applying some cold mud to the place, she wrapped around my foot some dry oak leaves, tying it up with a piece of twine which her brother produced from his pocket; all the while consoling me with sympathizing words. This kindness on the part of one from whom I expected such different conduct, won my heart completely, and I thanked her over and over again. She seemed pleased by my manner, and bidding me good-bye, passed on a short distance, when they paused and her brother whispered something to her; she appeared to give consent to what he asked, for he came back to where I sat, and taking up my empty basket was filling it, when I stopped him.

"Will you not let me give you some of my berries?" he asked.

« PreviousContinue »