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“That-I-am-your-wife's— father?” to be busy with our work and ambitions, we
The pain, the sorrow, the surprise, the mor- left him to his repose and the thoughts that tification, and the implied reproach in his voice I should not dare try to follow, and walked were mirrored upon the wasted face, where away in silence. But as we parted Kirby said, there was also infinite and yearning eagerness with his voice a little choked: for answer. His very soul was answering for “ Brown, we shall always be friends. You his innocence. I felt, rather than saw, the knew better than I felt.” remorse that sprung into Kirby's eyes, and recognized that he recoiled from
collision The next morning Kirby came with his wife with that gentle spirit in its last struggle. It had and her mother to pay that visit of re-assurall passed quickly, but the old man had per- ance and generous confidence. I had got ceived that such a suspicion actually existed, and there hours earlier, but a visitor had entered so, after a moment of hesitation, Kirby blurted even before me. So when the girlish young out in a great explosion of manly recantation: wife and her handsome mother entered, upon “ No, I don't!”
the couch near the window, where the sun Peace fell instantly upon the worn old face came streaming into the chamber, now in the pillows, but succeeding it came a sad barren, lay a white coverlid over stark and smile, as if there might still be a doubt in rigid outlines. With reverent hands I turned Kirby's honest mind, when there should be down the corner of the folds, and as she looked complete re-assurance. Signing Kirby forward upon the features Mrs. Longworth uttered one again, he murmured :
penetrant shriek and gasped: “You — must — bring-your-wife — and “My husband !" her mother-to-see- me— - to-morrow." But the sound never reached the soul that
“Oh, no, no!” cried Kirby, in deep distress; had quietly “ stepped ashore.” “ not that. I don't know what it was induced Kirby led her from that surprising room, and - but I cannot do that."
I drew the pall again over the dead face. But Unless,” said I, gently," he might desire as I did so I wondered what mystery, what it.”
depths of motive, or what shallows of expedi“I-do,” said old man Longworth; and ence, were stilled behind that pallid and serene there was a mute appeal in his eyes to which mask, upon which hovered the trace of a smile Kirby answered with a nod. Then, pressing the so gentle as to wave curiosity back dismayed friendly and thin hands that were never again forever.
Young E. Allison.
“Lo Rs hierce upon my "patin, and sore the weight
ORD, I am weary ” cried my soul.
Of smarting burdens; ere the goal be won
My fainting heart rose bravely up, made strong
To bear its cross: God granted me a song!
A thousand cruel ills have hedged me round,
When lo! with new-found life my soul, made strong,
“ Lord, I am dying! Earth and sea and sky
Fade and grow dark; yet, after all, the end
But suddenly with immortal power made strong,
SONGS OF IRELAND.
On pancake day in the morning, (Pancake day immediately precedes Lent, and the An' so she fell weeping and wailing,
Losing Shan was none of her game, custom of tossing the cake still prevails in every district of the south of Ireland.)
An' calling his thratement a shame!
Then Shan, wid a laugh in his heart, ON pancake day in the morning, Cried, “ Norah, 't is never you fret,”
Shan O'Leary throd his own leather, An' to end up the quarrel, the wedding
In less than a jiffy was set -
Of all the colleens in the land,
Sweet Mollie is the daisy ;
Though when I 'm wid her or widout, On pancake day in the morning,
My heart is never aisy ! Norah opened the door wid a cry
Ahone, an' I am quarely lost Of surprise at the sight of young Shan,
Whenever she comes tripping! Who gin her a blink wid his eye.
An' afther her widout delay, Swate Norah she bade him come in:
Avick, I 'm lightly skipping !-“Och, vourneen,” the rascal he said,
Och, of all the colleens in the land, “Now, Norah, the pancake we 'll toss,
Sweet Mollie is the daisy; To thry if this year we will wed
Though when I'm wid her or widout, On pancake day in the morning!”
(The cunning crathure, wid her witching On pancake day in the morning,
ways, her gold head, an' her rollicking Swate Norah she gave the first toss;
black eyes.) The pancake fell back in the pan,
My heart is never aisy !
Musha, if Mollie would be mine,
The world would all admire her; Och, Norah, jist turn 'way your eye
A lady I would make of her, On pancake day in the morning !”
In silk I would attire her!
Arrah, an' I would sphake the praste On pancake day in the morning,
Widout a minute's tarry, The pity, och hone, I should tell,
If Mollie would but name the day Shan's elbow it got a bad jog,
Or night on which she'd marry ! An' the cake in the ashes it fell !
Och, of all the colleens in the land, 'T was Norah the mischief had done,
Sweet Mollie is the daisy ; “Ah, vo, an'ah, vo," then she said,
Though when I'm wid her or widout, “ Poor Shan, an’ whatever you do,
My heart This year an' you never will wed —
(Mollie, my darling, Mollie, acushla, Jollie On pancake day in the morning!”
z'ourneen, alanna machree.)
My heart is never aisy !
My heart wid love is burning,
An' all because o' love o' her, " What is it yiz afther forgetting,"
My head is quarely turning! Cried Norah, “to thus run away?”
Faix, Mollie, if you kill me quite, “It 's yourself I 'm afther forgetting," Think on your sitavation, Said Shan widout any delay
Wid you a-weeping day and night, On pancake day in the morning !
Widout my consolation
Och, of all the colleens in the land,
COME OVER THE S'A.
Though you 'll die seven deaths coming over, (The cruel deludher, who knows betther than But yiz would n't be stopphin' for that,
to chate me wid her soothering ways, break- When yiz live ever afther in clover;
ing my heart into smithereens, och, hone!) Ameriky is a foin land, My heart is never aisy !
'T is a flowing wid milk an' wid honey —
Which is only the poethry of sphakin' If Mollie were a prisoner,
That a man has a pocket o' money!-
Och, Larry, come over the s’a!
Och, Larry, come over the s'a,
The poorest have praties in store, Wid fetters firm and weighty,
An' though you will miss the poteen, An’if Mollie will not marry me,
There 's whisky and 'baccy galore ! I 'll stay one till I 'm eighty !
The men they are all o' them lords, Och, of all the colleens in the land,
An' each colleen I know is a quean ; Sweet Mollie is the daisy ;
If you choose you can vote for yourself, Though when I 'm wid her or widout,
An' no one will think it is m'an !My heart
Och, Larry, come over the s’a ! (Bedad, hold your whisth, for whether she
loves me or not, I will love her all my life Och, Larry, come over the s'a, long.)
An' when comin' fetch over your sthick, Though my heart be never aisy !
The chances for foighten are few,
But the bobbies may play you a thrick! THERE 'S A GREEN GRAVE IN IRELAND.
Two dollars a day you can git,
Widout workin' scarce any at all, THERE 's a green grave in Ireland,
Jist to throw up a scrapin' o' dirt, Where my heart lies buried deep;
Or to carry the bricks for a wall -
Och, Larry, come over the s'a!
AN' IF I HAD MONEY GALORE,
An' if I had money galore, Since Mary sank to rest !
I'd git me a scrapin' o' ground; I've lived through many weary years,
Wid sphadin' I'd toss it about, Since on that summer morn
An' wid praties I'd set it around :
I'd buy me a bit of a cow,
An’a nate little pig in a pen,
An' laste I 'd be ch'atin' in Lent,
I'd have me a duck of a hen: Bright hope will once again be mine
Och! the thought of it sets me agog,
Till the c’aling is down to the floor!
An' if I had money galore !
An' if I had money galore,
I'd sphort me a coat wid a tail,
An' the gossoon that throd on the same
A b'atin' I'd give wid a flail!
I'd build me a bit of a house, I AXED her for a pogue,
To Norah I 'd fall on my kneas, The black-eyed saucy rogue,
An' wid Father McCarthy to wed, For a single little pogue,
We'd live ever afther at 'ase : An' she scornful turned away!
Och! the thought of it sets me agog, Wid a blue-eyed swate colleen
Till the c'aling is down to the floor! I was shortly afther seen,
Bedad! what a Paddy I'd be, An' what did the black-eyed queen
An' if I had money galore! But weep the livelong day!
· Jennie E. T. Dowe.
BEN AND JUDAS.
[I am quite aware of the apparent willfulness which hovers about my action in writing the following bit of social history. I have assailed, so often and so unsparingly, the spirit of dialect, which for a decade has dominated our “school” of fiction makers, that for me, at this late day, to offer a dialect sketch to the public is to bare my breast and defy all comers. Still I have no apology to make, unless it be apologizing when I explain that it is not fiction, but history, which I have written in this simple and clumsy fashion. The days of slavery are gone forever, and so rapidly has the world spun forward since the chains were cut, we can scarcely realize that we have come so far in so short a time. It is due to future generations that every characteristic of the old time shall be recorded ere it be forgotten, that every correlation between master and slave shall be preserved in the cast, that all the curious and touching instances of slave life shall have their places in history, and that no element injected by slavery into the tissues of American civilization shall have its origin obscured a century hence. While their bondage lasted the negroes absorbed a great deal of Anglo-Saxon life and influence, and at the same time the whites as masters took into themselves an indescribable, but very noticeable, something from the negroes. How could it have been otherwise ? The very foundations of human nature make it sure that it must often have happened, as in the case I have tried to record, that master and slave shaped each other's lives. I do not know, nor do I pretend to say, that the following instance is a typical one. Like all detached fragments of history, however, it has a trace of allegory in it. When I came upon it I felt the lurking significance which I may have failed to preserve in my imperfect sketch. Those who care for dialect literature, as such, may read lightly; but let the serious reader ponder over what may shimmer between my lines. The editor has suggested to me that the prayer by Judas recorded herein resembles the one in Mr. H. S. Edwards's fine sketch, "Two Runaways.” If it does, I hasten to disclaim everything. My story is mere history, for which I am responsible only as the chronicler. If my facts and Mr. Edwards's fiction have even one point in common, the praise is due to Mr. Edwards, not to me.
:- MAURICE THOMPSON.] N a dark and stormy night, ing vigorously. Soon enough, however, Judas
early in the present century, discovered that, by some invisible and inscrutwo male children were born on table decree, he was slave to Ben, and Ben the Wilson plantation in middle became aware that he was rightful master to Georgia. One of the babes Judas. The conditions adjusted themselves to came into the world covered the lives of the boys in a most peculiar way.
with a skin as black as the The twain became almost inseparable, and night, the other was of that complexion known grew up so intimately that Judas looked like as sandy; one was born a slave, the other a the black shadow of Ben. If one rode a horse, free American citizen. Two such screeching the other rode a mule; if the white boy habitand squalling infants never before or since ually set his hat far back on his head, the negro assaulted simultaneously the peace of the did the same; if Ben went swimming or fishworld. Such lungs had they and such vocal ing, there went Judas also. And yet Ben was chords that cabin and mansion fairly shook forever scolding Judas and threatening to whip with their boisterous and unrhythmical wail- him, a proceeding treated quite respectfully ing. The white mother died, leaving her and as a matter of course by the slave. Wherchubby, kicking, brawling offspring to share ever they went Ben walked a pace or two in the breast of the
more fortunate colored matron advance of Judas, who followed, however, with with the fat, black, howling, hereditary depend- exactly the consequential air of his master and ent thereto; and so Ben and Judas, master and with a step timed to every peculiarity observslave, began their companionship at the very able in the pace set by his leader. Ben's father, fountain of life. They grew, as it were, arm in who became dissipated and careless after his arm and quite apace with each other, as healthy wife's death, left the boy to come up rather boys will, crawling, then toddling, anon running loosely, and there was no one to make note on the sandy lawn between the cabin and the of the constantly growing familiarity between mansion, often quarreling and sometimes fight- the two youths, nor did any person chance to
observe how much alike they were becoming country made it a mansion, just as Ben Wilas time slipped away. Ben's education was son was made Colonel Ben. There they were, neglected, albeit now and again a tutor was the white, the black, and the dog, enjoying a brought to the Wilson place and some effort certain story of medieval days, about a namewas made to soften the crust of ignorance less, terrible knight-errant who had stolen and which was forming around the lad's mind. borne away the beautiful Rosamond, and about Stormy and self-willed, with a peculiar facility the slender, graceful youth who buckled his in the rapid selection and instantaneous use heavy armor on to ride off in melodramatic of the most picturesque and outlandish exple- pursuit. Judas listened with eyes half closed tives, Ben drove these adventurous disciples and mouth agape; Chawm was panting, possiof learning one by one from the place, and at bly with excitement, his red tongue lolling and length grew to manhood and to be master of weltering, and his kindly brown eyes upturned the Wilson plantation (when his father died) to watch the motions of Ben's leisurely lips. without having changed in the least the man- There was a wayward breeze, a desultory satin ner of his life. He did not marry, nor did he rustle, in the vine-leaves. The sky was cloudthink of marriage, but grew stout and round- less, the red, country road hot and dusty, the shouldered, stormed and raved when he felt mansion all silent within. Some negro plowlike it, threatened all the negroes, whipped men were singing plaintively far off in a cornnot one of them, and so went along into mid- field. The eyes of Judas grew blissfully heavy, dle life, and beyond, with Judas treading as closed themselves, his under jaw fell lower, he exactly as possible in his footprints.
snored in a deep, mellow, well-satisfied key. They grew prematurely old, these two men: Ben ceased reading and looked at the sleepers the master's white hair was matched by the for Chawm, too, had fallen into a light doze. slave's snowy wool; they both walked with a “ Dad blast yer lazy hides! Wake erp yer, shuffling gait, and their faces gradually took er I 'll thrash ye till ye don't know yerselves! on a network of wrinkles; neither wore any Wake up, I say!” Ben's voice started echoes beard. To this day it remains doubtful which in every direction. Chawm sprung to his feet, was indebted most to the other in the matter Judas caught his breath with an indrawn snort of borrowed characteristics. The negro hoarded and stared up inquiringly at his raging master. up the white man's words, especially the poly- “Yer jest go to that watermillion patch and syllabic ones, and in turn the white man adopted git to yer hoein' of them vines mighty fast, in an elusive, modified way the negro's pro- er I 'll whale enough hide off 'm' yer to halfnunciation and gestures. If the African apos- sole my boots, yer lazy, good fer nothin', lowtatized and fell away from the grace of a savage down, sleepy-headed, snorin', flop-yeared — taste to like soda biscuits and very sweet coffee, He hesitated, rummaging in his memory for the American of Scotch descent dropped so yet another adjective. Meantime Judas had low in barbarity that he became a confirmed scrambled up unsteadily and was saying “ Yah 'possum-eater. Ben Wilson could read, after sah, yah sah,” as fast as ever he could, and bowa fashion, and had a taste for romance of the ing apologetically while his hands performed swash-buckler, kidnap-a-heroine sort. Judas rapid deprecatory gestures. was a good listener, as his master mouthed “ Move off, I say!” thundered Ben. these wonderful stories aloud, and his heredi- Chawm moved off with his tail between his tary Congo imagination, crude but powerful, legs; Judas went in search of his hoe, and was fed and strengthened by the pabulum thus soon after he was heard singing a camp-meetabsorbed.
ing song over in the melon patch: It was a picture worth seeing, worth sketching in pure colors and setting in an imperish
Ya-a-as, my mother 's over yander,
Ya-a-as, my mother 's over yander, able frame, that group, the master, the slave,
Ya-a-as, my mother 's over yander, and the dog Chawm. Chawm is a name boiled
On de oder sho'. down from “chew them"; as a Latin commentator would put it: chew them, vel chaw them, To any casual observer who for a series of vel chaw 'em, vel chawm. He was a copperas- years had chanced now and again to see these yellow cur of middle size and indefinite age, twain, it must have appeared that Ben Wilwho loved to lie at the feet of his two masters son's chief aim in life was to storm at Judas, and snap at the flies. This trio, when they came and that Judas, not daring to respond in kind together for a literary purpose, usually occupied directly to the voluble raging of his master, that part of the old vine-covered veranda which lived for the sole purpose of singing religious caught the black afternoon shade of the Wilson songs and heaping maledictions on Bolus, the mansion. In parenthesis let me say that I use mule. If Ben desired his horse saddled and this word mansion out of courtesy, for the house brought to him, he issued the order somewhat was small and dilapidated; the custom of the as follows: