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i 
WINDS OF THE MORNING. 
BY HOWARD THURSTON. 
I. 
Winds, ah, winds of the morning! 
Over »ml over a gain 
Have ye whispered to me,—In the voiceful tree. 
Or adown by the wa ve* of the murmuring sea,— 
Whispered to me in uiy pain,— 
Whispered to me In the sunlight and rain,— 
Whispered to me till my heart It was fain 
To forget all Its woe, and to warm tn the glow 
Of u warmth that my being forever would know, 
Were not its prayer* all In vain! 
n. 
Wind*, ah, winds of the morning 1 
Hweet is the message yc bring; 
For ye kissed in your flight thro' the region of night 
Muny lips overflowing with lore’s own delight,— 
Kissed them on noiseless wing,— 
KUsed them with breath like the balm of the spring,— 
Kissed them, and now of their beauties ye slug, 
Till my heart It Is stirred with the song It ha* heard. 
And It trills In return, like asoft-trllllng bird ; 
Hove Is a joy-giving thing ! 
III. 
Winds, ah, winds of the morning, 
Wafted from islands of real! 
Ye have played, as it seems, with the beautiful dreams 
That have come to me only in fltf ullewt gleams,— 
Flayed with, caressing, caressed; 
Flayed with the locks of some qnecn of the blest, 
Flayed with her locks, and herdowny cheeks pressed, 
In a land far away, where our dreams ever stay, 
And the rare golden flush at. the ( lose of the day 
Never fades out of the West! 
oo 
•tones for iltmilists. 
HER VICTORY: 
AN EVERY-DAY STORY. 
BY BERTHA 8. SCRANTOM. 
[Concluded from page 370, Iasi number.] 
In her little room back of the nursery, 
Bernice sat down to look at the nigbt. A 
glorious flood of moonlight fell upon her 
face; the lawn and gardens were frosted 
with silver, — the night was still, voices from 
the open windows below floated up to her. 
There was a low, quiet night breeze that 
Stirred her hair. Tenderly it kissed the 
young fair face, sweetly the stars looked 
down upon her. 
She did not lose a single fragrant breath 
from the garden, a cricket’s faint chirp in the 
lawn, a note of the waltz that came from 
below. She had need of solitude, of pitiful 
tenderness, Bernice Allison, little child as 
she was, for a woman’s battle waged in her 
child’s heart, and her strong will was her 
only protection. She let her head fall upon 
the window; her hands were cold with 
mental pain; her lips were palsied. 
O, sister, have you never fought out a bat¬ 
tle bitterly? Has no hard lesson come to 
you, no chalice of pain which seemed not to 
yield the wine of patience? 
Out of her shadow, and doubting she 
would not cry to human heart, God heard 
her prayer. Did the mothur she loved look 
down into her child’s tossed heart, pityingly, 
tenderly? Would it have been better to 
have been. spared this fiery lesson, little 
Bernice ? 
She raised her head at length proudly. 
“Why did they give so weak a soul so strong 
a name? Bernice! it means victory! 
Victory ! is this like it,— this shrinking, fear¬ 
ful struggle? It shall be “ victory” though! 
I thought so to-day, looking at the river — 
I will conquer /” 
The old expression came into her face, 
hard set stern lines were there. Then she got 
up and took a little worn box from a quiet, 
hidden corner. You would have smiled a 
great deal, very cynically, could you know 
the few things it contained. Dried ferns, 
withered roses, old letters, a braided hair 
ring, a little carved cross with “ F. E.” on 
it, hut her little treasures shall be sacred. 
She did not even look at them. They wore 
all there. Of course there were her few 
books, the picture in the small carved frame 
over her writing table j but these others 
should go. 
She went out across the lawn, down the 
winding road, through the alder bushes and 
willows that skirted its banks, to the boat 
house by the river. She was a fearless girl, 
and it was not so far from the house. The 
rest were hack in the parlors, she knew how 
the heart she was resigning was smiling into 
that other face. Poor little Bkknice 1 
She did not even trust herself to wait 
moment with the parcel she held growii 
dearer. Raising her arm she threw the bo 
tied with its blue ribbon, far into the qui 
moonlit waves,— she was very young a: 
foolish,you know; and so when it had su; 
down, she said “ there!” quite complacent 
Her heart followed it, and she crouched li 
in the dew-wet grass and became vc 
human again, the sobs shaking her slig 
frame noislessly. 
A noise in the boat house checked he 
they were getting out the boats for a row 
the moonlight, she thought , suddenly, sta 
ing up to run back. But the door h 
opened, a tall form came toward her hastil 
and she could have fallen through the groin 
for slrame. It was only Albert after a 
terrible as he was then. 
“ Why, Berne, what were you doing ? 
saw you come down the path, and follow 
»v - 
,\n> \r,] 70 
i£&m. & 
you, just to be sure we had no elopement on 
foot you know; and so, unfortunately 1 was 
witness to the tragic little scene just now, 
and saw the actress sink down limp and dis¬ 
consolate after the performance! I’m sorry 
if I intruded ; hut what was it that muli- 
ciously met death at your hands ?” 
“ Only something I hated very much, 
Albert” she said, clinging tearfully to him. 
lie dill not guess her secret, he thought in 
bis rough, man’s way, it was some despised 
article of dress she had been obliged to wear, 
some ribbon or glove, some nicknack she 
was tired of; and so laughing at her eccen¬ 
tricity he folded her in his great arms, and 
put her head close on his shoulder, for a 
look in her face so like that mother they had 
lost,—and I am very glad he did. 
“ You won’t laugh at me, or tell the rest, 
Bert, dear?” she said winding her arms 
about him. 
“Never — perish the thought!” and he 
smiled in amusement at her vehemence. 
Would he have smiled had lie guessed the 
wretched little secret, or known the miserable 
soul of the little sister he loved ? 1 think 
not. But he did not know. He only felt a 
pitiful love for her, as he thought how little 
lie had seen her of late, and so a new bond 
was established between them. The blind 
old spinners tangled another mesh in the 
garment of her life. 
“ Well,” he said, after her smiles came 
hack, (for Bkknice was no sentimental 
young lady, but an extremely exuberant, 
healthy one — does the word shock you?) 
“ Well, now that the shower is over, and the 
eyes are beginning to look like Berne’s 
again, suppose you do me the favor of ac¬ 
cepting my invitation for a ride in my boat ? 
Some of the rest are coming down soon. I 
head Fritz say he meant to find you. 1 
shall be his deadly rival, remember, if you 
don’t go with me. What say you?" 
“With you!” she cried, eagerly; and he 
turned to unfasten the few boats. Presently 
he came hack to her. 
“ Now I am going up to the house again 
to tell them all is ready, shall I bring your 
shawl and wraps?” 
“ Do ; I want to stay here,” she said, seat¬ 
ing herself in the stern of her brother’s boat, 
as it lay fastened to the others. 
“ Very well; no more tragic scenes, — no 
suicide, or the like ?” he laughed. 
Her old warm sense of fun came hack to 
her, and so, laugh answering laugh, he 
passed out of sight. 
The only tragic element that ever broke 
the humdrum natural course of her life 
came into it then. The only thing that 
seemed at, all like a story, happened in that 
next ten minutes. 
Sitting there quietly, with her hand dip¬ 
ping the water to see it fall off like drops of 
silver from her finger tips, she suddenly be¬ 
came convinced that the space was widen¬ 
ing between her and the little boat house. 
This discovery was not made until Ai.gert 
must have reached the house. When she 
turned she bad floated out of the reach of the 
three boats, for the current at this point was 
strong, and she discovered that their fasten¬ 
ings had been so Slight that, her added weight 
had unloosed them, and with no oar or anchor, 
she had drifted down the stream. As 1 have 
said, she was a fearless girl; she did not 
doubt hut they would return in time to see 
her ere she rounded the bend; so she sat 
with the same calm air of patience, drifting 
slowly along the pleasant, river, with a sense 
of splendid pleasure tingling, her veins at 
the discovery they would make. 
A second look at the boat house, now far 
behind, was not so pleasantly exciting; for 
the boats, as though entered into a con¬ 
spiracy, had drifted out into the current, 
widely apart, all of them, far from the shore. 
There were no remaining boats in the shed; 
their oars lay upon the shore; already to 
reach them necessitated a cold bath for some 
one. She tried to think of some plan of 
escape, hut none came. There was no appa¬ 
rent danger, only of her drifting so far into 
the current as to make her passage swifter; 
she would not cry “ help''-- that would 
alarm them,—so she called loudly her 
brother’s name. 
It seemed long, long before a voice replied, 
and she saw two figures on the shore. Then 
it took a still longer time for one of them to 
run down the bank, and by dint of many 
futile attempts intercept a boat and come out 
to ber rescue. When the boat came nearer, 
it was Fritz, not Albert who said — 
“ Bravo, you are a perfect hero, Berne, not 
to have had a faint or something”—his 
cheery tones full of deepest fear, however. 
When after a time all the boats were 
secured, and she was sufficiently passed 
about for inspection, Fritz came to her. 
“ Come, I’m your rescuer, you owe me this 
ride,” he said, looking into her face. 
“ No, Fritz, I promised Albert before; 
you must not mind,” but lie had turned on his 
heel and walked back to Miss Bisnor. 
Albert looked almost suspiciously at his 
sister’s face, as she sat opposite him. 
“ Berne, it was so strange how they came 
unfastened. Did you notice the oars were 
gone ?” 
“ Nothing of the kind,” she said, laughing 
now at his grave face. 
“ How very like a novel! Fritz rushing 
to the rescue, and all,” Carrie said as she 
looked at Bebnice. There was a look in 
her face so strange, so sail, that her eyes took 
sister heed of it. 
That never-to-be-forgotten ride, with the 
moonlight silvering the scene, ancl the quiet 
plash of the oars making music as they sang ! 
“ Bernik has a fine voice," Miss Bishop 
said to her companion. “ What a strange 
creature she is, how I should have been 
scared!” 
“ Yes ! ” he answered absently, listening to 
the voice that made “ Stilly Night" ever af¬ 
ter so sweet to him. 
Bernice did not fall asleep until quite late 
that night. As she lay awake, the moonlight 
framed licr face in, with its dark, rich hair. 
She was saying softly to herself: — “ And 
thanks be to God who givetli us the victory 
—with a strange smile on her lips. 
She saw Fritz only casually again, until 
the day before they left. She had been read¬ 
ing to her father, and was just writing her 
name ill a little pocket Bible he had given 
her years before. Strangely, she had written 
“ Bernice, ” and under it “ victory." The 
Judge had gone to the station to take the 
noon train for town. The others had gone 
over also in the carriages; the children were 
still at lessons, when through the library 
windows, from the porch, Fritz suddenly 
entered. 
“ Fritz ! ” she said, hastily. 
“ Yes, that’s my name, Berne. I saw .you 
did not go, and rightly judging you were 
alone, I came in to find you.” 
“ But,— why,— I thought you had gone to 
ride,” she said, confusedly, a deep flush 
mounting to her brow. 
“ Hoped I had, I shall interpret it, if y’ou 
don’t talk to me.” He had thrown himself 
upon the couch, and did not see she had 
arisen. 
“ But, really’, Fritz, dear, I must amuse 
Jack. lie feels ill and is not able to leave 
the nursery to-day.” 
“ Pslmw! Bernice, sit down opposite to 
me and talk to me, or 1 shall immediately 
take you down to the river and put you 
a-drifl in a beat again.” 
“I’ll not promise you won’t rescue me,” 
she said. 
“ Puella impudence!” Catching her dress 
as she passed, he seated her in a chair be¬ 
side him, and looked into her face. 
“ Berne, what is it? What have I done, 
or said, or acted? Tell me ?” 
There was a pleading tone new to his 
voice, in it. 
“ Nothing, Fritz,” the girl said; she had 
not. seen t he flash of tears in his eyes. 
Nothing , Fritz!* as though you had 
not kept away from me and hardly noticed 
met Why, I’ve had to come loan actual 
quarrel to make you apeak to me! This is 
the last time in years I shall see you, per¬ 
haps. When I return, I’ve only a day or so 
in town,” he spoke hurriedly, without notic¬ 
ing how pallid the face was becoming, how 
painftilly she tried to crush the team down, 
“ and you, the only one I care to leave in the 
wide world, turn from me, it’s unkind ; there 
must he some cause, some reason. W hat is it V” 
8 he tried to speak to him, but her voice 
failed her wholly. Poor child, she tried so 
to he brave! He was so much older and 
st ronger; it w r as cruel in him to lay her heart 
hare so! 
At last she turned from him; turned to 
bury her face on the study table and sob, 
such hopelessly bitter sobs as young girls sel¬ 
dom know! 
“ Bernice," he said in surprise, starting 
from his place — “ Bernice, are you crying 
fur me ?” 
Fritz forgot his fortune, his heiress, the 
blondoiocks of the future Mrs. Eldwyn he 
had hoped to win, forgot his penniless con¬ 
dition, forgot his policy and pride, his social 
position ,—all in the one true feeling, the 
god-given love for the child. 
“ Bernice," he cried, putting his head be¬ 
side hem, “ little girl, how could 3 'ou think 
I did not know all this, long before 3 'ou even 
dreamed of it 1 ” 
That morning the pocket Bible went into 
Iils pocket! That little, worn hook. How 
little be dreamed what it would be to him! 
Jack opened the door presently, a tangled 
floss of silky hair, a very fever-flushed face, 
and a piteous voice. 
“ 1 cannot make believe be Robinson 
Crusoe any more, if he didn’t cry nor any¬ 
thin' when his head ached. I want, 3 T ou, sis¬ 
ter Berne.” 
The child was ill; she saw that at the 
first glance. The joy in her heart lost itself 
before the pain in another’s; and when 
Fritz had carried the vanquished Robin¬ 
son Crusoe back to the nursery she took 
him iu her arms and held him. 
Something like her mother’s look for him 
was in the face bending over little Jasper. 
Fritz thought of that same pale face, and 
bending down he kissed Berne’s brow and 
went out quietly'. 
There w r ere team in the worldly eyes of 
the man us lie walked out into the solitude 
by the river. “ Bernice, you have given 
me the victory over all the worldly part of 
myself. I will write to cousin Mortimer 
and tell bim all before I ask him for the 
rarest flower in all Jus green houses. Berne 
knows this —she will wait,” he said. 
Jasper would not let her leave hi3 side 
all that long day; he tossed and moved in 
pain, and they took little Floy and Chtussie 
wondering]}’ away. Toward evening Fritz 
came up to the door, Berne was there; the 
child was asleep with a hand of hers locked 
within his own. 
Early the next morning the pile of trunks 
in the hall were carried out to the carriage. 
All the gentlemen bustled about Superin¬ 
tending the removal of guns and game bags. 
There was Unusual bustle* and excitement. 
Albert and Max caught Berne in their 
arms for a kiss, as they stood at the nursery 
door, and were down in the lower hall again. 
All was in waiting—but Fritz wa9 not 
there. 
At last he came, hastily running down the 
great hall stairs, his traveling coat on his 
arm. lie looked a shade paler, as he made 
his adieux. Albert noticed lie said “Miss 
Bishop,” now. Then they were in the car¬ 
riage whirling down the avenue. Fritz 
raised liis cap to an upper window, where, 
looking up, they saw Bernice, the sunlight 
on her pure head rising out of her white 
dress, and a smile 011 her face. 
So they’ lost. l]er. 
“ Fritz, you’re blue," Max laughed, watch¬ 
ing his cousin’s handsome face as it still 
looked back at the hidden house. “ Come, 
cheer up, } r our * ludye faire, with goldyn 
liaire’ is not a trifle more devoted to your 
memory for all those glum looks at parting.” 
“ 1 was not thinking of Miss Bishop, Max, 
but of a victory 1 had won,” Fritz replied. 
Something seemed to whisper “ lost" but 
he did not heed the raven’s croaking. 
A few days of pain, then little Jack was 
pronounced ill with fever. The guests had 
goue; Carrie and Adelaide went down to 
open the town house, and had the two 
younger children taken back at once. The 
housekeeper and Berne stayed behind. 
One day she had been feeling strangely ill. 
She sat now, near evening, Jack’s little 
hot hand in liers as he talked incoherently 
of Fritz, Bruno, hear stories, and his favorite 
“ Crusoe.” The light fell over the hills softly, 
tenderly; the autumn sunlight that goldened 
little Jack’s moist curls ere it died in the 
west. She never felt such tender peace, such 
love to all mankind, such largess of pity 
and true womanly' work that she might do 
for all the world. 
A few moments she sat in thought. Then, 
as though she were renouncing the world, 
and that heart most of all, she laid her head 
down by the little one on the pillow. 
“ Jack, we could not tell him how hard 
this was,” she said. Then she added, while 
the tears fell fast on the child’s unconscious, 
fevered face, “But still we know that joy,— 
don’t we, darling,— that joy such ns lets us 
say, ‘ Thanks be to God who givetli us the 
victory ,’ ” and here she stopped. 
The old housekeeper coining in at the 
sound of wheels a long time after, said:— 
“ It’s your father, dear,” noting her face with 
alarm as she raised it from the pillow, where 
it rested with the child’s hand in her hair. 
When the Judge cainu hastily up the steps, 
Bernice met him at the door, a strange 
light in her eyes, a flush on her cheek. 
“ Papa! ” she said, clinging to him. 
“Bernie,” he said, in alarm, “you are 
ill. You must let me send for the physician 
at once. God help me, darling 1” and he 
raised her little face to his. She smiled 
sadly, and suffered him to lead her in to the 
couch in his study. 
“ Jasper will call for me,” she said, start¬ 
ing to go up to him, but ber bead fell back 
again, and she said faintly,—“ It is the fever, 
papa; don’t let it frighten you.” 
Little Jasper called piteously for sister 
Bernik, but she did not come. 
A week went by r . At lust there was a still 
form in a darkened room, a bowed, bleeding 
circle of hearts, a calm, while face. And 
that, was all that met the travelers, Albert, 
Max and Fritz, as they were summoned 
back again. 
Into her life the triumphal fugue had en¬ 
tered. She had indeed found the victory’ 
notes at last. 
Oh, three gray spinners of life and death, 
ye may lay’ aside the spindle, for the gar¬ 
ment of life is finished! 
Is not the ending sweetly sad? I 3 not 
death grander evermore than life V 
Hearts heat and toss, brains toil, scheme 
and plan, hands build and lay deep the foun¬ 
dations of life; hut God perfects the whole 
by giving us our dream at last. 
So she had hern. 
Little Jasper is a grown man now, and 
has other idols beside Robinson Crusoe and 
Fritz. He does not remember, of course, 
the words, or the tears that fell upon his lit¬ 
tle baby' face those y r ears ago. He only car¬ 
ries an idealized vision of a being who made 
liis little life a dream before the night came 
into it- It may be those tears have had their 
influence overall his life, keeping his heart 
nsa 
purer and his hands cleaner as he goes 
among his fellow men. 
Fritz, —but it spoils the romance of the 
story, I know,—is gray-beaded now. Of 
course, he went to Germany, but it was years 
and years before lie married a 1donde-liaired 
wife and a fortune. Even now, I dare say, 
lie often takes out a worn, rusty little hook 
and reads, “Bernice, victory,” on the title 
page, in faded ink, and half effaced. lie 
married life fortune; hut there was a void in 
bis life, a grave in his heart. 
Such graves as these reconcile us to God’s 
resurrection morning. 
This is only an old heart-memory, not al¬ 
together a sad one, either. 
Well, he had his dream ! So have we all! 
---- 
PERSONAL ITEMS. 
President Juarez is sixty-five. 
Lucretia Mott is seventy-six years of ag-e. 
Abdul Aziz, Sultan of Turkey, is reported 
insane. 
Offenbach, the composer, is engaged in writ¬ 
ing a novel. 
Tiinur.ow W eed has returned from his health 
trip to the South. 
Jules Jan in, the French feuilletonist, is a 
very wealthy man. 
The Parisian Democrats call the Prince Impe¬ 
rial “ Velocipede the Fourth.” 
The Homan Catholic Bishop of Pekin died 
recently after forty years of service. 
Bismarck recently visited Paris incog., and 
Louis Nap’s vigilant police didn't know it. 
Princess Mettehnich has had all her carriages 
painted a deep grccu color. They were formerly 
yellow. 
8 . II. Mallory, Jeff. Davis' Secretary of War, 
is lecturing in Florida, upon “ Woman and her 
Rights.” 
Lady Franklin, widow of the great explorer 
who sacrificed his life In the cause of science, is 
nowin Madrid, 
Emile Oluvter received 20,000 francs for the 
copyright of his recent work “The Nineteenth 
of January, 1807." 
Joseph Smith, son of Joe Smith the originator 
of Mormonism, and chief of the Illinois Mor¬ 
mons died recently at Plano, III. 
Marcus Morton, Jr,, has been confirmed ns 
Judge of the Massachusetts Supreme Court, in 
place of Attorney-General Hoar. 
Alexander Dumas, Sr.. Is reported as en¬ 
gaged upon six different novels, three plays, a 
cook-book, and a treatise on hogs. 
The widow of Gen. W. A. Nichols, late of Gen. 
Sheridan's staff, has received the appointment 
of postmaster of Leavenworth, Kansas. 
Charles XV., King of Sweden, is said to 
allow no day to pass without writing a poem, 
yet hr* permits but few of them to be printed. 
I.anoikwicz. the lender of the Polish Insur- 
surrectlon of 1863 has married a Wallachian 
widow possessing a fortune of half a million 
dollara. 
Charles C a dwa lla dhr, engineer of the Cen¬ 
tral Pacific Railroad, reports that Downer Lake 
has beer: sounded 1,800 feet without touching 
bottom. 
Miss Carpenter, who has accomplished so 
much for female education in India, is com 
polled to return home on account of the failure 
of her health. 
Gf.n. Prim, in 1867, could not find a publisher, 
either in Parts or Brussels, who would issue his 
work on the Spanish insurrection. The book 
remains unpublished. 
Capt. Geo roe Cummings of the ship Young 
America, was presented by the Board of Under¬ 
writers of San Francisco with a purse contain¬ 
ing one thousand dollars in gold, for the seomau- 
like conduct displayed in a late storm. 
Rev. W. If. H. Murray, whose “Camp Life in 
the Adirondack^” is attracting so much atten¬ 
tion, is pastor of the Park st reet Congregational 
Church in Boston, late Kev. A. L. Stone’s, lie 
is but twenty-eight years old, and graduated at 
Yale College in 1863. 
Timothy C. Day of Cincinnati, who died in 
that city on the 15th ult., was at one time part 
proprietor and one of the editors of the Daily 
Enquirer. He was once elected to Congress on 
the anti-slavery ticket, beating George II. Pen¬ 
dleton by a handsome majority. 
Gen. Jonatiefp, the Russian Minister to Con¬ 
stantinople, gave a diplomatic dinner soon after 
the return of Omar Pallia from Crete, and did 
not invite that distinguished officer. Being asked 
the cause of this omission, he replied:- “The 
blood on his hands would soil my napkins.” 
Gen. C. C, Sibley, in tenter of the army tent 
and stove bearing his name, was presented with 
an elegant silver service by the officers of liis 
regiment upon the occasion of his retirement 
from the service, a few days since. Gen. Sibley 
has been a commissioned officer more than forty- 
years. 
Charles O. Rookhs, Editor-in-chief and pro¬ 
prietor of the Boston Journal, died in Boston on 
the 15th ult. The energy and perseverance of 
Major Rogers rendered the Journal one of the 
most cnterprislngand live papers in the country, 
and he retaiued the sole proprietorship until his 
death. 
The 14thof March is the birl Inlay of King Vic¬ 
tor Emanuel and his eldest son, Priuce Humbert, 
the heir to the throne. The double anniversary 
was this year made the oeeusion for loyal demon¬ 
strations in different portions of the Kingdom, 
and all that could be tv as done to promote good 
feeling. 
Judge E. Rockwood Hoar is the third At¬ 
torney-General appointed from Massachusetts. 
Levi Lincoln (father of the Governor) served in 
Jefferson's Cabinet during his first term, and 
Caleb Cushing was Attorney-General through 
the Presidency of Franklin Pierce. Theophiius 
Parsons was invited to the position by John 
Adams, but declined. 
Prof. John J. Owen, D. D., the well known 
Greek scholar and author, Vice-President of the 
College of the City of New York, died on the 18th 
ult,, in that city, in the sixty-sixth year of his 
age. The Independent fittingly says: — “This 
intelligence will touch a tender chord in the 
hearts of the many young men whom, year al ter 
year, the genial professor laboriously, patiently 
and affectionately instructed iu the classics.” 
V % 
V* «• 
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