MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
“If you don’t take that rag off Point 
will,” continued the scape-graoe. The 
handkerchief was instantly removed, and 
the patience of the canine rewarded by 
having his velvet paw grasped by the lily- 
white lingers. 
“ Is that all?" she inquired, in a tone ex¬ 
pressive of the utmost resignation, but with 
a drawing of the shapely mouth, which 
showed plainly that, notwithstanding the 
dignilled nervousness of the aristocratic 
lady, she was more amused than annoyed by 
her eon’s pertinacity. 
“ Oh, yes, there are plenty more things 
Point is up to. If you like, I’ll put him 
through his drill. That reminds me, Mag— 
have you beard the news from the North 
this morning? Harry and father arc in a 
state of glorious exoi tement about it. There 
is a long-winded editorial in that abomina¬ 
ble New York abolitionist paper, headed 
“Have the States a right to Secede?” Of 
course it is a one-sided, partisan, intemper¬ 
ate article, and easily enough comprehended 
by everybody. The animus is plainly ap¬ 
parent in every word. I was for laughing 
at it. but when 1 found father was so com¬ 
pletely wrought up, 1 concluded'the wisest 
t Uing to do was to clear out, as long as I 
couldn't Are up as they did. If we’ve {/of to 
light for our rights, and I reckon we have, 
I'm all ready—in fact, actually spoiling; hut 
there isn’t- a particle of sen so in wasting 
one's powder with unnecessary newspaper 
excitements.” 
“Your father is very foolish to allow him¬ 
self to bo put about by every wind that 
blows from the North,” said Mrs. IIeath- 
erstone, i n her most languid manner. “Had 
he been at all like other men—as far-sighted 
and cool, I mean—he would have stopped 
fretting when the Jons Brown excitement 
died out. 1 told him that was all smoke, 
and this is precisely like it.” 
Margaret wanted to say that it took 
some time for a little leaven to leaven the 
whole three measures of meal—that she had 
been conscious of the fermenting process 
for months, and that those who failed to 
observe the signs of the times must he both 
blind and deaf; but she wisely forbore, and 
George rattled on in his usual nonchalant 
and indifferent fashion. 
“Don’t look so down in the mouth, Mag 
O h! by Jupiterl T forgot to tell you that 
Harry wants you on the piazza.” 
“Lot him want! ” replied his sister, 
munching hot* dry toast vigorously. 
“Margaret!” oame pleadingly from the 
sofa. “Oh, my head! my bead 1 I believe 
every nerve in my body is completely shat¬ 
tered. Such willfulness and impoliteness 
are enough to break down the strongest 
constjitutiani 1 want to inquire, daughter, 
now we are on the subject, what poor 
Harry has ever done to provoke (he treat¬ 
ment he receives daily at- your bands? 
What he has dono, or what he has left un¬ 
done?” 
“Left undone!” repeated Margaret, 
with alight, mocking laugh. "That’s the 
trouble! If he would, onoo in a while, leave 
something undone—something to imagine— 
something to wish for—in other words, if he 
could just be persuaded to give me a little 
less of himself, 1 should he a very much hap¬ 
pier girl. I hare lived so long ou sweet¬ 
meats that T actually long for a good, sen¬ 
sible piece of beef steak.” 
“ Why, Margaret, you might just as well 
have had some steak for your breakfast, as 
anything else. I'm not sure but your father 
had some. Send Fan into the kitchen to 
see if there’s any brought up/’ said Mrs. 
IIeatiierstone, in the most comically dis- 
pairing tones. 
Margaret laughed aloud— who could have 
helped it— and, strange to relate, with this 
laugh, every speck of her ill humor vanish¬ 
ed. She was again the bright, sparkling, 
loving pet of the household— full of freaks 
and as true as the sun. “ It was spiritual 
beef-steak I was talking about, dear ma," 
and the strange girl, whose nature so far 
bad been understood, neither by her rela- 
t ives nor by herself, tucked her head in her 
mother’s neck and was quite for a full mo¬ 
ment. then, suddenly remembering her 
lover, smoothed back her tumbled hair arid 
stepped through the open window to the 
broad sunny piazza. “ Harry Traverse,” 
said she, with a light laugh, “Harry 
Traverse, is there nothing better on a 
bright October moruing, than lounging in 
the sun ? Ah, what tame clays are these up¬ 
on which we have fallen! No more knightly 
deeds; no more heroic valor. It were bet¬ 
ter to be a Yankee, and run a cotton-mill, 
than sit and dream dreams all dHj\” 
Harry’s cheeks flushed. “I have been 
waiting patiently to see you Maggie, and 
now you taunt me with idleness.” 
“ I don't want, auybody to wait patiently 
to see me. I would rather my lover were 
away doingand daring. There. Harry,” as 
young Traverse, thorougly aroused by her 
thrusts, rose, and paced the piazza, “ there 
Harry, now sit down; 1 didn't mean any¬ 
thing.” 
“You say a great deal for a young lady 
who doesn’t mean anything.” 
“But it’s only your own little Maggie. 
He couldn't be cross with his own poor, 
saucy little Maggie, who has always said 
what she pleased ever since she said any¬ 
thing. Sit down. There! now we’re all 
right, aren’t wc?” and the willful girl 
nestled her little white hand in her lover’s 
and laid her soft cheek on his shoulder, in 
a beseeching way, not to be resisted by any 
of the Bon? of Adam. 
“ Yes, we’re all right now,” said the poor 
fellow', putting his arm round the pretty 
waist, “but in two minutes, 1 suppose, we 
shall be all wrong again. I don’t know why 
it is, Margaret, that we never can have a 
quiet talk now-a-days. I sometimes think, 
Maggie, that you don’t care so much for 
me as you used to." 
“ How does that thought affect you ?” said 
the girl, growing saucy again. 
11 Affect me! You know very well how it 
affects mo.” 
“ Don’t know anything about, it. A knowl¬ 
edge of a young man’s thoughts is some¬ 
thing 1 never cultivated to any extent.” 
“ You know it would break my heart if I 
thought you didn't, love me, Maggie.” 
“Thenl advise you by all means not to 
think so; for of all things, a broken heart 
must be the most disagreeable. So difficult 
to treat those internal organs, you know.” 
“But, Maggie, if it’s so, I uiuy us well 
think so.” 
"1 don’t know about that. Unpleasant 
truths are better ignored I think. But nev¬ 
er mjnd, Harry. What’s the use of quar¬ 
reling ? T’m going to be Margaret Heatii- 
erstone. And if you don’t like Marga¬ 
ret Hkatheustone, why then—" 
“ I’ll make hor Margaret Traverse.” 
“May be so, sometime. But you have 
much to do before that day,” 
“ What do you mean, Maggie?” 
“1 scarcely know, Harry, what I mean. 
But I often feel as if these calm do-nothing 
days are almost over. I see action in the 
future, action for all of us.” 
“Yes, there may he action. The- sky 
grows cloudy. What if we were forced to 
fight, Maggie?” 
“ Thru I should expect you to go the field, 
and I should expect to hear that you were 
always in the front.” 
“And then you would love me more, Mag¬ 
gie, and you would watch eagerly for my 
letters, and droop a little if you failed to 
hear from me ?” 
“ Perhaps; 1 don’t know. 1 so seldom do 
as I’m naturally expected to, that under 
those circumst ances my spirits might rise, 
instead of falling. I’m sorry, Harry, that 
I enn't, play the role of affianced more to 
your satisfaction;” and the naughty child 
looked demurely out of the-comer of her 
eye at her lover, and tapped her cunning 
little foot upon the floor. 
“Never mind, darling; if you are suited 
I will try to he. How is mother, Maggie ?” 
“O, mother is much as usual,—worn out 
with me.” 
“ Worn out with you ?" 
“Yob, of course. And father’s worn out 
with me and so arc you. I don’t seem to 
suit anybody but old Hannibal. I wonder 
why 1 couldu’t have been made so as to 
please you all. I interfere with the slaves, 
and 1 rush to the quarters in the morning 
without my breakfast, and I don’t treat 
Harry' Traverse well, and I’m a miserable 
sinner.” 
“Well, we all love miserable siuuers then,” 
said Harry, giving the sinner a little 
squeeze. 
“ No you don’t. You love saints. I wish 
you’d fall in love with one, and let me alone. 
Here, Point, dear old Point, let’s have a 
tumble in the grass. We’ve had too much 
love. Point knows how to love, lie isn’t 
all the time fretting one about it. Como, 
Point. By-by, Harry," and the two frolic¬ 
some creatures, one seemingly as irresponsi¬ 
ble as the other, ran down the lawn pell- 
mell, and were soon out of sight, behind t he 
shrubbery. 
Margaret had not a particle of fear in 
her nature, yet she was strangely excitable 
aud impressible. With her, “ coming events 
cast their shadows before.” Without in 
the least realizing the value of the gift thus 
bestowed upon her at birth, she found her¬ 
self at. eighteen totally unable to analyze 
the emotions that swept over her, by night 
and by day, filling her waking hours with 
gloom, and her dreams with horrors inde¬ 
scribable. Had she been able to take, link 
by link, of the chain that bound her to the 
future, and followed them in thought to 
the deprivation, the desolation, the woe 
unutterable that was to come upon this 
glorious but mistaken people, she might 
have been strong enough to have guided 
her nearest and dearest to homes of peace 
aud plenty. Margaret’s spiritual vision 
was keen, but she was unable to form any 
adequate conception of the things she saw. 
Her father declared that her imagination 
was running away with her. Her mother 
constantly chided her for her foolish fan¬ 
cies. (Ieoroe made merry a dozen times a 
day at her expense, and Alfred— her dear 
elder brother—felt called upon, whenever 
they met, now-a-days, to be more tender of 
her than ever. “ Why do you call me ‘ poor 
child ?’ inquired she one day, after her 
brother had been unusually silent and 
thoughtful. 
“ I hardly kuow, pet,” was the evasive 
reply. 
“ But you never used to call me so,” she 
continued. “ I used to be Rosebud, and 
Miguon, and Beauty, and Sweet, Brier, and 
any quantity of other nice things. Now I 
am ‘poor child’ only.” 
Alfred was compelled to laugh a little at 
t he woe-begonc expression, put on for the 
occasion, but the smile soon faded from his 
face, as drawing the bright head to his 
breast, he answered :—“ You are everything 
that is sweet, and dear, Maggie, but you are 
a poor child, nevertheless. Should we ever 
be separated,” and the young man’s tones 
grew strangely low and pathetic- 
“ Don’t Alfred, pleaso don’t, brother. 
You will break my heart,” Interrupted his 
companion, looking beseechingly up into his 
face. 
“Just this, sister.” Oh, how inexpressi¬ 
bly sweet sounded that little word sister, 
from those manly lips. “Just this. If 
we ever should be separated, and you should 
come to know the agony of heart-ache and 
privation, remember that whether in the 
land of the blest, with the loved ones gone 
before, or living to suffer aud endure, your 
brother A lfred loves you more than any 
thing else on this beautiful earth,—more 
tliau himself; yes, Maggie, darling, a mil¬ 
lion times more t han himself. And remem¬ 
ber, too, it was that this prophetic out-look 
brought those obnoxious words * poor child,’ 
so often to his lips.” 
“ Then you thiuk there is great danger?” 
sobbed Margaret. 
“I fear, dear, that war is inevitable, but 
I feel bettor now that I have worried you 
with my forebodings. So cheer up, and I’ll 
try not to say 1 poor child ’ for a week.” 
A few evenings after this conversation 
Margaret retired to her room more than 
usually excited with the news just, received 
from different parts of the country. Harry 
hud just galloped away toward homeland, 
as usual, tin: evening had been anything hut 
a harmonious one. The intelligence had 
elated one and depressed tin* other. Trav¬ 
erse was for vengeance—quick, implacable, 
sanguinary vengeance. Margaret argued 
peace at any terras, and tile evening ended 
by the capricious girl’s informing the gen¬ 
tleman to whom she had plighted her troth 
that she trusted ho would not only see t he 
necessity of returning home immediately, 
but of remaining there after he got there. 
It is unnecessary to say that Mr. Harry 
Traverse made a speedy exit! And it is 
probably unnecessary to say that when 
Margaret sought her couch that, what 
with the stinging of conscience aud the sad 
outlining of the future, there was no more 
unhappy girl in the Old Dominion. After 
an hour or two of restlessness aud nervous 
tossing, she fell into an uneasy slumber, 
from which sho was awakened by the souud 
of her name called clearly and distinctly— 
“Margaret, Margaret, Margaret!” It 
was her brother Alfred’s voice. She would 
have known it among a thousand. Hurried¬ 
ly throwing ou a wrapper, Margaret sought 
her brother's room. She opened the door. 
Everything was as silent as the grave. 
“ Alfred,” said she softly. “Alfred” 
—again. There was no answer to either 
call. Trembling with terror and appre¬ 
hension, she tottered to the side of the 
bed. “Alfred,” came again from her 
almost benumbed lips. Not a word. Sum¬ 
moning all her courage to the front, she felt 
her way to the bureau—found a match, lit 
it—and then discovered that her brother 
was not in his bed! At that moment she 
remembered he had informed the family of 
his intention to remain that night with a 
friend—and more dead than alive she left 
the apartment. 
“Are you sick. Miss Margaret?” came 
in the sweetest of tones from across the 
the corridor. 
“Oh, Susan! is that you?” whispered 
Margaret. “May 1 come in a momont ?” 
How strange that even in that time of su¬ 
preme terror Margaret oould not approach 
this slave, this servant, this bond-woman, 
without inquiring, almost deferentially, if 
she might be allowed the liberty. 
“Certainly," said Scsan, in the same 
musical monotone. “But please be very 
quiet. You know your mother is easily 
awakened,” and Scsan carefully closed tho 
door connecting the room of the mistress 
with that of the servant. 
“Did you hear any one call me, Susan?” 
inquired Margaret, eagerlj'. 
“ You were dreaming, perhaps,” said the 
slave. 
“ I heard my brother Alfred call me 
three times distinctly, so — ‘Margaret 
— Margaret — Margaret,’ apd the last 
Margaret was so plaintive, so full of love, 
and longing, and of great need, Susan, that 
I ran to his room expecting to find him ill, 
suffering, dying perhaps ; and he wasn’t 
there! What does it mean?” and tho 
frighteued girl threw herself on the lloor 
beside bev companion, and buried her head 
in hor lap. Oh! the magnetic touch of that 
octoroon's hand! It fell upon Maggie’s 
hot head, like the refreshing dew—and tears 
once more relieved the excited brain. 
“Oh, Susan, if you would only love me!” 
sobbed tho child. 
“Lore you?” repeated Susan, mechani¬ 
cally continuing the passes over the beauti¬ 
ful brow. “Love you? Why do you want 
me to love you, Miss Margaret?” and the 
tones were as clear, ns flute-like and self- 
con till tied as ever. 
“ Because I love you, dear, and because I 
need your love, and because we could do 
each other good, and because, Susan, there 
is something about you that Ifeel as if I had 
a right to. You are reserved, of course, but 
you are not strange, Susan. I have a feel¬ 
ing for you, dear, very much like, that I have 
for-” 
The word remained unspoken. 
“ Do you hear those voices, Miss Marga¬ 
ret?” and Susan tenderly lifted the tired 
bead and threw back the window blind. 
The negroes wore having another jubilee— 
this t ime in an entirely opposite direction 
from the scene of the other evening. 
“ I must go to them immediately,” said 
Margaret, rising hastily. "If pa hears 
I his, I shall be powerless to keep t hem from 
being punished;” and the girl, once more 
fairly aroused, started for tho door. 
“ I will accompany you,” said Susan, 
throwiug on a shawl. 
The two women sliped cautiously out of 
the house. The night was intensely dark; 
clouds were heavily massed iu the west, 
and the wind in the red cedars on the bluff 
sighed dolefully as they passed. They spoke 
not a word as they glided like ghosts along 
the broad avenue that Jed to the negro 
quarters, lad by the melancholy music that 
seemed to fill the air with a sort, of sweet 
sorrow. Suddenly Susan exclaimed : 
“Margaret! Look, Miss Maggie!” Mar¬ 
garet looked, and both stood still, fascinat¬ 
ed by the scene. They had just made a sud¬ 
den turn in the road and the negro quarters 
were before them. In one of the cabins 
were a dozen negroes, mule and female, ar¬ 
rayed in all sorts of garments, and disposed 
in all sorts of picturesque attitudes. In the 
mud fireplace at tho back of the cabin blazed 
an immense lire of pitch pine. The bril¬ 
liant light threw the black faces into strong 
relief. The negroes were evidently labor¬ 
ing under high excitement, and as the gro¬ 
tesque words, set to the sweet, emotional 
melody, were pronounced by them, their 
features worked and their eyes rolled, 
making a picture that Dante would have 
liked to describe. Clearly the song rung 
out as the silent listeners waited: 
" O take your shoes from off your feet; 
Let my people go. 
And walk into do golden street; 
Let my people go. 
Go down, yfeutes. 
Way down to Egypt’s land; 
Tell old Pharaoh 
To let my people go.” 
It would be impossible for any singer, 
however skilled, to imitate the power aud 
pathos with which these untutored children 
sung. In the notes were treasured the en¬ 
durance, the faith, the love and the heart¬ 
break of generations. Margaret listened 
till Susan’s sobs startled her to conscious¬ 
ness of her position, and then speaking gen¬ 
tly to her companion, she hastened forward 
to fulfill her erraud.—[To be continued. 
-- 
Mrs. Commodore Barney was reported 
to be the last surviving child of any of the 
signers of the Declaration of Independence. 
Two daughters, however, of Vice-President 
Elbridge Gerry, one of the signers, are still 
living iu New Haven, and a third in Boston. 
-++-+■- 
Money and Time are the heaviest bur¬ 
dens of Life, aud the unhappiest of all 
mortals are those who have more of either 
than they know how to use,—Johnson. 
