m 
MOOSE’S BUBAL NEW-YORKER. 
SEPT. 24 
have said “was nothin’ particular to brag on.” 
They had no child. But there was a small—a 
very small—mound in the bleak hill burying 
ground, where Zita ,ah used to go once In 
awhile, alone. John never went. But he 
always knew when Zillah had been there, for 
she sighed so In her sleep. And there was a big 
ache In his honest, heart as he said, “ Poor Zit.r,! 
poor little girl,” a bigger ache than most men 
feel in a litetime. 
But there was a deeper trouble than the little 
mound in John's life, because It was a living 
trouble; and that was bis brother—his only 
brother Biin. These two wore left- alone in the 
world; and after Ben came of age and had 
Shipped for a whaling cruise, John, ten years 
his senior, had married Zit.i.ah Bek. He had 
loved her a long, long while. And after Bkn 
catne back—sooner than he ought to have done, 
with minors that he hud given the slip at the 
last and never been all it was easy to sec how 
ho had fallen Into bad ways. John and Ziu.ah 
nursed him through a fever, mnl now ho was us 
bad as ever again; idling his days in drunken, 
reckless misery, and waiting for a chance to 
ship again. Handsome Bi;n I.i ahd! Rumor 
said some disappoint ment had driven him “to 
the bad.” Ho had the mother's lace, great 
earnest eyes and a pretty, womanish mouth. 
He avoided John, and evidently dreaded him. 
They never met if Ben could sneak away. And 
after John had taken him, in his delirium, to 
his home, as soon ns tie could walk he bad stolen 
away, unthankful and without ft word. 
It was coming Fall. Soon the Wlntor cruise 
would be at. hand. John's snug little vessel, 
smelling of still fish and brine, wits repairing, 
and nearly ready for service again; and since 
the night Ben left in silence the brothers h«<l 
not mot. Faithfully John tried to luce him, 
but the other lurked and hid, and kept the si¬ 
lence unbroken between them. 
To-night, l'or the first time In several months, 
Zii.i.An had been up to the little mound. There 
was something about tier mouth, quivering and 
sweet as it was, that grew bitter as from hidden 
pain. Klie came down the bleak hill with weary, 
heavy feet. She felt loth to lot John go this 
cruise, Bu I. had ho not been dozens of times be¬ 
fore? Something rose and choked her as she 
looked at the dappled streak of blood red light, 
where the sun was setting. And John's trouble! 
If site only knew if site only dared tell him just 
all she knew 1 
The lonely hillside, with the sea view, and the 
high walls shutting in the graves, straightway 
went out of her mind, for there before her, in 
the path, haggard and wan, stood Ben. 
“1 thought i should find yon here, Zillah , 
when I raw you come out of the house this after¬ 
noon, and I gave you time to get through your 
work hero before I came. No, I ain't drunk; 
you needn’t shrink back so. I’ll stand here, us 
far off as you please; only, for (Ion’s sake, let 
me have a word with you." 
“ Bkn ! " her sweet pink color coining to her 
checks—“ why, poor Ben!” 
For the miserable boy—and they were the 
same ago- was shaking with sobs, covering his 
face with his old hut. Slowly Zii.eau drew her 
fingers together. Her thoughts were never 
swift. 
“It will be right,” she thought, so she laid a 
hand on his arm. At her light touch the miser¬ 
able wretcb drew himself up, the wreck of a 
better man In his handsome face. Alter a few 
minutes, he said: “For (ion's sake, girl, why 
didn't you keep John from taking me where 
your face would be 1 lie first I’d sec when 1 came 
out. of the fever? I hoped I’d 'a died. You 
OUghter let mo. And I Imin't come to reproach 
you now, only why, when you refused me three 
years ago and over, didn't you tell me it was 
John as was your lover? ’’ 
A cry broke from her suddenly. 
“ He wasn't then, and 0, Ben, it was you who 
first made me love him, telling me how good lie 
was, and how noble and unselfish. You talked 
of him in those days so much, I thought when 
you went away that you would l'orgel all about 
the talk we had. And afterward, John came 
to me; I wus lonely; I began to love him, 
and-” 
“ Curse him,” said the man, suddenly. 
“ H ush 1" said Zillah, growing paler yet; “he 
is my husband, and he is a good man ! There 
never was any promise between us. Ben. It 
may be hard to tell, but I didn’t, love you, and 
you came so sudden with your words that 
time." 
“Zillah,” he said, looking quiekly up, “I’d 
ha' died for a mere hope then." 
“There was nothing to hope for," she an¬ 
swered, growing very white, “besides-" she 
was shrinking back, thinking John would be 
eoming home to tea and she was lute. 
He saw it instinctively. Something in her 
touched him, as lie saw her pity in her face. 
“1 know; lie is—a—good man,” he said in a 
low, honest voice; “and I know you are think¬ 
ing I am weak and foolish to let the loss of a 
girl's pink and white face send mo to perdition; 
but you don’t know, 0 you don’t know how I 
loved you!’’ 
A shadow startled them. It was only a dead 
leaf rustling down on the girl’s shawl, 
“ ] am going to-night. 1 hope I'Ll never come 
back. I cun part in silence from John. I loved 
him, too, (Ion knows, once. But you, Zillaii ; 
much us I wanted to say one word, 1 never want 
to see your sweet face again. Don’t start; I'm 
going now.” 
“ 0 Ben," shesaid, catching at his arm, “ don’t 
lay this sin on my head. Say you won’t, Ben.” 
An intense pity, a deep pain, but nothing 
more, lay under her words. 
“Do Ben," she pleaded, as she saw him turn 
away in silence, “and try and give Up drink. 
Try and be your old self again. There are bet¬ 
ter, far better women than me-” 
He raised his head, a quick, sad smile swept 
tils face like a cloud over a summer sky. 
v “Don't ask me to, Zii.i.ah. I can't promise. 
I ’spose its wrong, but t couldn't keep it. I 
w<i>n’t blame you; there, there, don’t soli." 
It was Bkn who was dry-eyed now. 
“John will be a waitin’," she said, holding 
out her hand. 
He didn’t touch it; he didn’t move toward 
her. 
“1 ain't worthy, Zillah," lie said; and after 
she had gone, ho gathered up the dead leaf t hat 
hud fallen oil her shawl and took it away with 
him. 
John wasn’t Availing. He bud started the (Ire 
and gone in search of Zii.i.ah. Somehow he 
knew where logo, and lie had heard only a Avord 
of the two voices bar's and Ben's— talking, and 
crept away to battle out the rest. 
I know you think lie Avcnt away with a groat 
and grievous loud on bis soul, and never saiv 
her more. But. ho didn't. He walked it out in 
the wind and dark, and then lie made up his 
mind. 
“ I’D do iny duty. Zillah shan’t know it. I 
won't blame her. Why, hain't I rough and old, 
and hain't he a king to mo? But why didn't 
she tcJI me? My poor little ewe lamb!” And 
I daresay tbe story of the rich man and the poor 
man, and the little cavo Jamb, seemed no sadder 
to him than his own. But even then John loved 
his brother loved him as Ioav brothers love. 
“ Poor Ben ! ” lie said, and his eyes grow Avot. 
“ But she's my wife, and once there was some¬ 
thing she'd a told me afore we two wus married, 
and 1 said * no, it’s not your past. It's your pres¬ 
ent and your future 1 want;’ so I sealed her 
lips unknowing. I’m to blume, not my little 
girl. But I wish I’d ha’ died, and the two chil¬ 
dren could a been happy afore I ever loved her.” 
He Avent home. The shadow of the woman's 
head on the curtains made kirn falter, but ZlL- 
l All's face, white and anxious at the door, drew 
him into the warmth and light. Zillah was 
usually very quiet and still after these hillside 
visits. To-night there was a fluttering color 
coming and going on hereheeeks, and her builds 
trembled. 
When he told her Ills vessel was ready, and he 
avus going next morning, she. drew a quick 
breath and sat still. Ho tried to make this last 
evening just as usual. But in the midst of 
his smoking and talk, she crept to his knee. 
Laying lior hand hesitat ingly on his sleeve she 
stopped. 
“John," she said. 
lie didn't look at her, he couldn't. But lie 
felt her hand quiver. 
“ fvo something you must knoiv, John," she 
said. “ At last, dear,” 
Ho interrupted her, “don't tell mo nothin', 
sweetheart. 1 heard you two talkin' to-night, 
jusLeiUitl to know I oughtcr left you and Hen 
to each other. But we're man and wife. I'll do 
my dooty. er you can only be happy like agin'.’’ 
“ Jlappyt 0 John,” said Zillah. And there 
was a long pause. 
Then she told her story. I wont tell you any 
more about It. And f don't suppose JOHN 
thought he hud been magnanimous or self-sac¬ 
rificing in the least. And ihen after that they 
went back to talk of kindling AvoOd and Hour 
and winter stores, and the chance of a good 
haul ttiis cruise. A Her t hey had quite done 
talking John still kept her on his knee, ever 
and anon shading his eyes to let the happiness 
dry a little in them. 
News came a year later that Ben Avns swept 
overboard in a gale and lost. But John always 
kept thought of lilm as the fair-faced boy that 
used to sleep at his side in the years long back; 
and the ache never quite Avorc HAvay from his 
heart—not though he lived to come home from 
many a brave cruise to take Zillah next his 
heart and thank God for her—once to Avonder 
and smile over a little bundle thai lay on her 
arm, that made him go and lay Ills cheek down 
against her pillow, remembering the little 
mound, and how this had come to comfort her 
for it. They Avere not afraid to trust God for 
the child, and for his future, so they called 
him Ben. 
-- 
COLORED PHILOSOPHER. 
An elderly darkey, Avith a very philosophical 
and retrospective east of countenance, was 
squatting upon his bundle on the hurricane 
deck of one of the western river steamers, 
toasting his shins against the chimney, and ap¬ 
parently plunged in a state of profound medita¬ 
tion. His dress and appearance indicated famili¬ 
arity Aviih camp life, and it being soon after the 
siege and capture of Fort Donelson, I Avas ln- 
eliuod to disturb his reveries, and on interroga¬ 
tion found that he hud been Avith the Union 
forces at that place, when I questioned him far¬ 
ther. His philosophy was so much in the Fal- 
stattinu vein that 1 Avtll give bis views in bisoAvn 
Words as uear as my memory Avill serve me. 
Were you in the tight ? 
1 had a little taste of it, sa. 
Stood your ground, did you? 
No, sa, I runs. 
Hun at the first fire, did you ? 
Yes, sa, an’ Avould lmb runsoona had I know’d 
it avhs com in.' 
Why, that Avasn’t A r ery creditable to your 
courage. 
Dat isn't in my line, sa—eookin’s my profes¬ 
sion. 
Well, but have you no regard for your repu¬ 
tation ? 
Reputation ? nuffin to me by de side of life. 
Do you consider your life worth more than 
other people's? 
It’s worth more to me, sa. 
Then you must value it very highly? 
Yes, sa, I does; more than aJI this world; 
more dan a million dollars, sa; for AvhatAvould 
dar tie Avuth to a man wid de bref out him? 
Self- preserbashuu is the first Jiiav wid me, sa. 
Hut why should you ticl upon a different rule 
Trom other men ? 
Cause, sa, different men'sets different A-alue 
upon derselvcs; my life is not in de market. 
But If you lost it, you would have the satis¬ 
faction of knowing that you died for your 
country. 
What satisfaction would dat be to inc, when 
der power of feelin’ Avas gone? 
Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you? 
Nullin whatever, sa I regard dem as among 
de varieties. 
If our soldiers were like you, traitors might 
have broken up the government without resis¬ 
tance. 
Yes, sa; der would hah Veen no help for it. 
I wouldn’t put my life in de scales ginst any 
guberment dut cber existed, for no guberment 
could replace de |<>ss to me. Spoof., dough, dat 
de guberment. safe, if da all like me. 
Do you think any of your company would 
have missed you if you had been killed? 
May tie not, sa. A dead white man ain’t 
much with dose sogers, let alone a dead nigga; 
but I’d a missed myself, and that was the pint 
wid me. 
It is safe to say that the darkey corpse of that 
African will never darken the field of carnage. 
DIABOLIC DUALITY. 
A good story is told in Washington of agonial 
young gentleman, unwilling to omit recognition 
of an acquaintance who at a wedding reception, 
caught sight of a gray-whiskered and rather 
stately person, and being satisfied by inquiry 
of ids identity immediately edged along to his 
side. 
“Good evening,” says ho, extending hfs bund 
with cordiality. "I am delighted to see you! 
We haven’t met since we parted in Mexico.” 
“ I rather fear," said tho gra y-Av hlakered mag¬ 
nate, “that you have mo at an ndvatage." 
“ Why don’t you rpoollect ? But then I Avas 
very much younger," said the other, “ Avith my 
father in Mexico.” 
“And, to tell the truth,” said the other gent le- 
lmin, “my remembrance of ever having been 
In Mexico is very indistinct.” 
“ Excuse the question,” said Ihe young man, 
rather desperately—” are you not Sir Edward 
Thornton ?” 
“By no means. I am Judge Poland of Ver¬ 
mont.” 
“A thousand pardons!” and the discomfited 
youth moved away. 
But a feAV nights afterward, at an other recep¬ 
tion, his eye was similarly caught, and, the edge 
of his mortification having been worn off, tie 
could smile at his mistake; and be accordingly 
once more made his way to the side of a gentle¬ 
man Avith gray mutton-Ch&p whiskers, and after 
a word or two on the weather ami tho scene, he 
suddenly said:— 
“That was an aAvkward tiling of mo to take 
you for old Thornton, the other night.” 
“And who do you take me for iioav, may I 
ask?" said the companion. 
“Why—why,” said the embarrassed young 
man of society, “you toid me you Avere Judge 
Poland of Vermont." 
“On the contrary, my name is Thornton,” 
Avas the rather annihilating response. And the 
young man at this day calls it a ease of diabolic 
duality. 
-- 
HOW HE KNEW HIM. 
A distinguished professor in one of our theo¬ 
logical seminaries relates the folloAvingBeing 
In Germany, Avith a rod-covered book in his 
hand, a German, supposing the book to be 
“Murray,” asked in English, if he Avas not an 
Englishman ? The professor replied in German 
that he Avas not. The conversation presently 
turned upon an object Of architectural beauty 
near at hand, in the course of Avhiehthe profes¬ 
sor incidentally raised the question of its cost, 
“Sir," exclaimed the Gorman instantly, “you 
arean American !” “ How do you know that?" 
rejoined the professor. “Sir, continued the 
German, striking an attitude, and assuming a 
tone of great solemnity, “upon the resurrection 
morn, Avhen we stand before the Great White 
Throne, the first question of every American 
in the whole assembly will be, 4 Hoav much did 
that throne cost?’ " 
As a Yale Professor Avas passing out of his 
recitation room, the other day, a freshman 
dropped slyly into his hat a piece of paper on 
which AVUS written “ monkey." Tickled Avith ids 
joke, he told it to all his student friends. But 
at his next recitation the Professor addressed 
his division in hissAveetest tones“ Gentlemen, 
as 1 was passing out of the room yesterday, one 
of your number did me the very high honor of 
leaAing Avith me ids card." 
The Hartford Times tells of a gentleman in 
that city who, on getting a glass of soda, Avas re¬ 
tiring from the store without tho usual little 
ceremony which follows that operation. 44 Recol¬ 
lect, sir,” said the polite proprietor, “ if you lose 
your pocket-book, you didn’t pull it out here,” 
TRUST. 
I knoav not if or dark or bright 
Shall be my lot; 
If that wherein my hopes delight 
Be best or not. 
It may be mine to drag for years 
Toil’s heaA r y chain. 
Or day and night my meat be tears 
On bed of pain. 
Bcur faces may surround my hearth 
With smiles and glee. 
Or I may dwell alone, and mirth 
Be strange to me. 
My bark is walled to the strand 
By breath divine; 
And on the helm there rests a hand 
Other than mine. 
One who has known tn storms to sail, 
I have on board 
Above the raging of the gale, 
I hear my Lord. 
lie holds me when the billows smite, 
I shall not full; 
If sharp, ’tis short; if long, TIb light- 
lie tempers nil. 
Bafc to the land—sale to the land— 
The end Is this; 
And then Avith him go hand in hand 
Far into bliss. 
[Dean of Canterbury. 
-♦♦♦-- 
THE STONE ROLLED AWAY. 
Lkssluviag hearts than those which prompted 
the preparation of the spices wherewith to em¬ 
balm their Loud, might -knoAving the greatness 
of the stone at the door of the sepulchre have 
deemed It useless to attempt to visit His tomb, 
or bear the fragrant gifts to anoint llis body. 
How many u faillile-s one would have folded 
their hands in mute despair, and felt the obsta¬ 
cles in the way insurmountable. Nut so Avith 
those women who were first at His sepulchre. 
With loving hearts they came, and richly Avas 
their faith and love reAvardod. For while they 
asked themselves, 44 Who shall roll us away the 
stone?” when they looked they saw the stono 
was rolled away. And when their Loan han¬ 
sel! appeared unto them, how must their hearts 
have exulted, and their sorrow have been turned 
to joy! 
And Is not the Loud still equally ready to re¬ 
ward tho doA’otion of those who trust and honor 
Him? Yet how much do His children suffer 
from I heir gloomy apprehensions of evil; their 
dread of whut the future may tiring; their 
anxiety: who shall roll uway the stone? Many 
a trembling disciple lias gone mourning all His 
days from leara never realized ; or found, when 
trials came, tliiU the Angel of the Covenant had 
gone before him, and the presence of his risen 
Lokh made light the way. Blessed are all they 
avIio put their trust in Him. Lina Lee. 
--♦♦♦- 
LOOK UNTO JESUS. 
BeechE it says:—“If you have no need of 
looking unto Jesus, it is because you are Avitli- 
out aspiration; it is because you are degraded; 
it is because you do not understand either your 
present condition or the dangers which fall up¬ 
on you in consequence of it; it is because you 
baA r e not a touch or taste of the divine nature in 
your souls. Ho \vho hies no occasion to look un¬ 
to Jesus is degraded and vulgar—for vulgarity 
does not mean poor clot lies. Vulgarity means a 
poor soul. A mean soul in broadcloth Is vulgar. 
A mean man who has a eroAvn on, is vulgar; 
and u pauper with a king’s 60 ul in him is royal. 
He Avho can live in this life and suy, 1 Husks are 
good enough for me. and the pigs that 1 associate 
with, and that are my eampanions, are good 
enough for me; I hm r e no need of looking unto 
Jesus’- woe be to that man! Woo be to bint 
whose heart does not ring out every day, in 
every time of need, 4 Look unto Jesus—look 
unto Jesus.’ Woe be to the man who has no 
time of conscious need.” 
THOUGHT-SUGGESTING PARAGRAPHS. 
These poor, restless hearts, how they need 
keeping! Our desires and loves and hates, Iioav 
they run us Avtld at times! How these hearts 
6 well, almost to the bursting! The peace of God 
shall keep them! Shall keep them steady and 
true, Avhen temptations and troubles and be¬ 
reavements seem bearing them away from God. 
We are always able to propose more than Ave 
ha\-e the poAver to accomplish. Our work is to 
do all we can by the best employment of our 
best powers now. That best employment can 
never be, without a feeling that the Avorld of 
spiritual things is upon ns, l Hat the Lord is very, 
very nigh. 
Tub men who have been spiritually-minded 
have become poets and philosophers and proph¬ 
ets, winged souls, living on land, on water, in 
a ir—have led I he wuy of human progress, shining 
at the head of the marching column of humanity. 
Nothing ghee such elevation of character, 
and such power, and such consistency Of living, 
as a real sense of the presence of the spiritual 
world. 
The present use of the spiritual world to us is 
the influence it has upon our inodes of existence 
in the natural world. 
__ 
