34 
MOOSE’S BUBAL WEW-YOBKEB. 
JAN. \\ 
SAVED BY THE BIRDS. 
BV WVUAMMS FAWCKTTE. 
Yes, that'll tin? little gut, Sir,—as pooty a one as you’ll 
hoc— 
With wtnjjin’ smite, an’ lovin’ face, an'wonderful 
fond o’ me. 
Love tier ? Should think no ! With that sweet look, 
an’ that clear, tender tone, 
I'd love the bright, innocent darling, even If she 
wasn’t my own. 
My heart's strings are wound so round her, I’ve 
hardly words to say 
How terrible «|| - the danger 1 found her in to-day. 
She's always liked the birdies, an’ if she could she 
was bound 
To have tt look Into every nest that was anywhere 
near the around. 
X left, her at home tills mornin’, a klsstn’ her little 
hand, 
8nyin’ she'd help to get dinner, an'do It real grand. 
Well, we was a reapin’ the big wheat field (the grain’s 
nigh four feet high). 
An’ X says to Joh n, “ Hold up a spell, there’s a nest 
o’ lurks near by. 
" I’ll go ahead an' find ’em, ho you can drive one side, 
“ I’or, drlvln' straight, we'd likely kill the birds the 
wheat stalks hide.” 
" Oh, bother the larks,” says John, “ who cares, 
s'posln' they do get hurt?” 
“ 1 care,” says 1, " an’ Got) cares, too, for the mean¬ 
est thing In the dirt.” 
“ Wal, go ahead,” says John, quite cross, an’ he 
Jerked the bosses back, 
So the machine stood free o' straw, a restin’ In t)io 
track. 
1 went along right thro 1 the grain, to Yds the old 
apple tree, 
Where I'd seen ’em fly In many a time, an' knowed 
the nett roust be, 
1 got pooty near the tree, when X struck a little track, 
As If a dog’d run t hro’ t he straw, an’ It hadn’t quite 
sprung back. 
I thought ho must a smelt the birds, so X followed on 
his tv r JJ, 
To find tb. nest; an' when ’twas found, this sun¬ 
burned face turned pale. 
Right over the half-fledged critters, a watchin’ their 
open throats, 
An’ wonderin' why their chirpin' wan’t sweet like 
their mother's notes, 
Rot dreamin’ of any danger—Just where the knife 
would come, 
Sat darlin’ little I'ati y, that 1 thought was safe to 
hum I 
I snatched her up an' kissed her, an' said she was 
saved by the birds, 
An’ she kissed my an' wondered what I did-mean by 
them words. 
Wlicn 1 showed her to John, an’ teJl’d him, he looked 
both glad an’ shamed, 
An’ says he, “ If she'd got hurt, 1 s'pose I'd been the 
inan to get blamed.” 
*’ No, John,” says 1, “ no man’s to blame, 'less what 
ho doOB ho knows; 
*' But the dear God’s always merciful to them as 
mercy shows.” 
(Dur ^torii-belter. 
FROM YEAR TO YEAR. 
Continued from page 18. 
She went to him in the parlor, where ho 
awaited her, with eyes, round which wero dark 
circles, as though she had been woeping bit¬ 
terly, and the little hand he pressed so warmly 
was listless and cold. 
“ Miss Maude.” lie said, ‘‘you would not listen 
to me when once before—on Christ mas Eve, you 
remember?— 1 told you how dearly 1 loved you. 
Since then trouble has touched you through 
the failure of t bis lirm of-, and now for the 
second time 1 ark will you give me the right to 
protect you from sorrow ?’’ 
Very gently and tenderly he spoke, and pa¬ 
tiently Maude listened, while the eyes he 
sought to read would not, because of the tears 
again gathering, lift themselves from the floor. 
But at last the silence grew long, and then 
Macde answered sadly: 
“ Mr. CROMWBMi, you have been a kind friend. 
You have won tho esteem of both my mother 
and myself. But, oh! forgive me, I cannot be 
your wife. You arc noble, good, and worthy of 
the love of a true heart. 1 know you would be 
all that I could ask were I to do as you desire; 
but 1 cannot! I cannot 1” 
Then, as he opened his lips to reply, Macde 
interrupted— 
“ Listen, 1 will tell you frankly. I was, at the 
time of your first kind desire to make mo your 
wife, betrothed to one whom I loved most ten¬ 
derly, whom I cannot yet put away from my 
heart. Circumstances, which it is not necessary’ 
to mention here, caine between us. and we were 
obliged to separate forever. With mo, to love 
once is not easily to forgot; and l tun not will¬ 
ing to yield my band without my heart,” she 
added, with a smile Inexpressibly sad, but so 
sweet as to cause Mr, f’no.M well's heart- to 
throb with his desire 1t> fiddlier in his arms. 
But he drew from his pocket-book a letter, 
worn, and hardly legible from hasty writing, 
and handed It to her-as ho said : 
“This is my excuse for having presumed to 
seek your love, Miss Maude. You will see that 
in concealing the letter for so long 1 acted only 
upon the desire of your father. My own wish 
has been to confess everything to you long ago; 
but according to the promise 1 made the dying 
man who wrote that letter I strove first to win 
your love for tho sake of loir alone, fearing lest 
you should have learned to hate me because of 
a father’s strange commands. Had he allowed 
me to raako myself known to you from the 
first, believe me, at your request, had you made 
it, I would never have troubled you again. But 
seeing you frequently, I could not help loving 
you. Oh! Maude, believe me! Aud I was 
ignorant of your engagement to another; there¬ 
fore 1 trusted that 1 might win your love ere 
showing you this letter.” 
While George Cromwell was speaking 
Maude had read her letter, ami now sat as if 
turned toioc. As his voice ceased she rose wit h 
an effort. 
“Sir,” she almost- gasped, “will you leave me 
now? I cannot understand this. In a few days 
I may be better able to talk to you. Thank you 
for all your kind words. Good-bye, sir. Please 
go now.” 
Me went; but bis heart, was sad as he wit¬ 
nessed the strong grief into which that letter 
had thrown the sweet girl he would fain have 
shielded from despair and sorrow. 
For three doys the girl battled with her grief 
ere she could summon strength to go with that 
sorrow to her mother. Hut when one morning 
Mrs. Hastings asked anxiously; 
“Dear Maude, why do you sigh so often? 
You do not know how often I have heard you 
when you did not suspect it. What ails my 
daughter?" And then suddenly: “Is it not 
strange that no word has come front your 
father since that hist letter? Oh! child, f do 
not know whether ho may bo yet alive J" 
Then, with a sob. Macde drew from her bosom 
tho letter hidden so long there, as she said: 
“Mamma! mamma! papa will never write 
again. See! He has been ho went away long 
ago. Oh, read, road, and see how, even with his 
last strength, he laid a command upon his only 
child hard to be borne, indeed!” 
There Is no need to describe the scene which 
followed. Mrs. Hastings, deserted, unloved 
though she had been, yet wept sorrow ful tears 
when she thought of the father of her child, 
and with her woman’s heart forgave him all. 
Then came days of suffering and poverty for 
both. Maude toiled hard and late with her 
pencil- Fortunately the house was their own, 
but many articles of furniture wore sold from 
It that the fast-fading invalid might have the 
luxuries necessary to a sick person. George 
Cromwell called occasionally with offers of 
assistance, and left each time without seeing 
MAUI.’,e, who dared not meet him, lest, worried 
with long suffering, she should be tempted to 
tho sin of marrying without love. Her mother 
strengthened her w ith loving, earnest counsel, 
until at last, too weak to talk, she could only 
smile upon the loving daughter who watched 
with a sinking heart the sands of life loosening 
one by one, that held her beloved mother to 
earthly scenes. 
Then there came a time when the little girl 
(who had for some time been the only help 
Maude could afford) admitted George Crom¬ 
well with a wild, frightened face,, and an¬ 
swered his question: 
“ Is Miss Maude in?" with a low whisper: 
“She will not see you. sir, for she is with Mrs. 
Hastings alone* and crying ns if the heart of 
her syud break, sure !’’ 
And George at last, learned how Macde had 
gone to waken her mother with her usual 
morning kiss, only to find a still, dead face 
awaiting her! 
.Silently lie handed tho little servant his card 
and 1 urned away, while 1 he child wiped her eyes 
I with her apron and crept softly up to the room 
where deat h had entered so mysteriously, and 1 
where Maude, her face buried in tho bed¬ 
clothes, was preying for strength to bear this 
new sorrow. 
When, the next day, George Cromwell call¬ 
ed at th” door and inquired if Miss Hastings 
I would see him, the little girl refilled that she 
'•Guessed likely she would,*'and tho gentleman 
entered the parlor. Tho house was still, with 
that chilling silence always noticed in a house 1 
of mourning. Not the restful silence which one 
loves to feel, and enter upon now and then in 
(he midst of bus)' life, and which is freedom for 
awhile from care and thought: the delightful 
rest which makes silence eloquent with its own 
muteness: not that!—but the still nose which 
tells of the sorrow so deep that there is naught 
of strength left wherewith to give it utterance! 
The silence which reigned through the house as 
young Cromwell awaited Maude's coming, 
vraa oppressive. He seemed to feel even yet, 
the shadow of death's dark wing, and his heart 
ached for the lonely daughter, now orphaned 
indeed. Even the clock on the mantle was si¬ 
lent, since no one liad wound it the previous 
night, and George Cromwell, for the sake of | 
breaking the strange spell about him. found the 
key and started the pendulum once more on its 
monotonous journeying back and forth, to and 
fro. The door opened at last, and Maude, pale, | 
languid, and with eyes so gad and filled wit h 
woe, that, h started its he met their glance, en¬ 
tered,and extended her hand without speaking. 
For a moment there was no word passed be¬ 
tween the two Then George asked gently: 
“Can r do anything for you. Miss Maude? Is 
there any way in which I can be of service to 
you ? Surely, you trust my friendship sufficient¬ 
ly to lot me help you in this time of trouble?" 
And Mai t>B answered “ You are kind, dear 
friend! Thank you for It all! The neighbors 
have been thoughtful and sincere in all that 
could be tone for me. Mamma—"here she 
broke down utterly, aud wept without reserve, 
while George, longing (no one could know how 
Intensely) t o take tho suffering girl in his arms 
and comfort her, could only wait silently until 
she grew calmer. Presently she continued : 
I “Now that mamma has left me, I shall dis¬ 
pose of this house and find a home elsewhere. 
If you can find a purchaser for me, Mr. Crom¬ 
well, It will indeed be a kindness, and I shall 
thank you most gratefully.” 
George Cromwell promised with all his 
heart to aid her in any way she desired, and 
then tenderly ami reverentially asked a few 
questions concerning Mrs. Hastings’ death. 
Maude seemed to find comfort in speaking of 
her mother, and told him how she had received 
that mother’s “good night” kiss, the last thing 
before retiring the night before, and of the 
wakening tho next morning, when she hastened 
to the invalid’s bedside for the usual morning’s 
attentions only to find the lips silent, though 
with n smile upon them, and n still, dead face 
upon the pillow. “ OOD took her very gently, 
Mr. Cromwell,” Maude added, “amt t am 
very thankful and grateful for His loving kind¬ 
ness; but oh!— it was hard to fed I hat whilst 
I slumbered, the dread messenger entered and 
bore away from my side, forever, the darling 
mother whose presence had made my life so 
happy.” 
George remained but a, short time, not, wish¬ 
ing to Intrude at such an hour of distress ; but 
having ascertained the arrangements for the 
funeral, and learned that kind and thoughtful 
friends had rendered every assistance in their 
power, be bade the sweet girl he had already so 
learned to love a kind farewell, and left her 
comforted in the knowledge that one true 
friend remained, even though her heart's best¬ 
loved bad proved her false. 
The days passed wearily for Maude after her 
mother had been laid to rest, and she could 
only weep and moan for the dear days of happi¬ 
ness gone so far from her life. Too weak to 
touch her pencil, and almost indifferent regard¬ 
ing the future, the poor girl roamed from room 
to room, and tried to comfort, herself with t he 
fancy that her mother was still In tho house, 
and she had only to call “ Mamma!” In order to 
hoar again tho sweet, voice answer, “1 am here, 
my daughter!" There was the favorite chair 
wherein, before the glowing lire, mother and 
daughter had sat together so often, the latter 
upon a low cushion with her head in that moth¬ 
er’s lap. The firelight danced as merrily now 
as then, but Its shining fell only upon one face, 
alas! where had before been two. 
At lost, after many days had gone by, George 
CROMWELL came again and was shown Into the 
parlor, and presently Maude stood beside him. 
Then for t he third time did the young man ask 
the privilege of oaring for the girl so sorely 
tried, all through her life; and that ho might 
prove by years of devotion, how truly his ln-art 
had learned to love her! For the third time 
Maude listened with pale face and eyes heavy 
with tears; then, as ho ceased speaking, she 
lifted those eyes which, because of the tours, 
were even more beautiful than when lie had 
seen them lighted by Joy,- arid placing her hand 
in his, replied gently“ Mr. Cromwell, if you 
are willing to accept a heart that canuot return 
your love as fully as the devotion you offer 
should be returned, T will not refuse that which 
you ask of me ! 1 give you highest esteem, truest 
friendship, and the affection which, as a dear 
friend, you have fairly won- But I repeat again, 
that which 1 have already told you. I can never 
givo to you, in return for all you offer me, more 
than the ashes of a love which once so earnestly 
belonged to another! Are you willing, know¬ 
ing all this, to make me your wife? Arc you 
willing to waste upon a dead heart the warmth 
and devotion of yernr living heart ?" 
George, whose joy, notwithstanding his 
knowledge that her best love could never be his, 
was so Intense, that he found no words to ex¬ 
press it, could only gather the slender form 
close within his arms, and kiss the pure brow 
upraised to him, over and over again. 
‘It is wrong! it is wrong! 1 know it is!" mur¬ 
mured Maude, after lie had left her; “but oh, 
my dear Father who knoweth all things, pity 
and forgive!” Mho knelt upon tho floor, and as 
rbe cried to that Father, laid the poor weary 
head upon the seat of her dear mother's chair, 
and tried to imagine that the arms now still, 
were once again around her; that the gentle 
hand was once again stroking her brown hair, 
tenderly, lovingly! 
“0, mamma! dear, dear mamma!" she cried, 
and tho little servant, passing through the hall, 
paused with awod face at tho sound of grief and 
wiped heroyes with her little hard hand. “0, 
mamma! I cannot help it—you know 1 cannot! 
The future is all dark. I have no home! Ito 
offers me one that will be peaceful at least, and 
it is the only gleam of light in the midst of all 
the clouds about me. Dear mamma! tell your 
poor Maude that she is not doing very wrong!" 
And so she sobbed and sobbed, first praying fi li¬ 
st rength, then calling to the mother who never 
before had failed to respond with kisses and 
loving words. 
When next George Cromwell came, tin? 
shadows of the twilight hour were gathering 
fast; and os Maude entered the room, and be¬ 
held her visitor,who, all unconscious, had placed 
himself beside the mantel, and, with bowed 
head, was watching the fire beneath, Just as, 
only a short time before, some one else, of 
whom she had been I Kinking when culled to re¬ 
ceive George, turned as ho heard her light step, 
and there, where Everaud Grey hud so many 
times held his beloved in his strong arms, she 
was clasped to the heart of her new Lover, while 
even yet her whole soul was flooded with mem¬ 
ories of days gone by. 
With this ring,”’ whispered George, with 
a tender smile, as taking it from the case, he 
slipped a pure, white pearl ring upon one of the ; 
small fingers his hand held. “ ‘ With this ring—’ 
you know the rest, dear one? When may I com¬ 
plete the sentence ?” 
Maude replied rather wearily, “ O. G eorge, do 
not talk of that quite yet! Let me rest a little 
while alone, and then, then you may do with 
me as you please !” 
A shadow passed for a moment over her com¬ 
panion's face, but was chased speedily away by 
thc smile with which ho replied. “So long as 
you have given me the right to love you, d;irlir;g! 
1 will try and bo content; and will wait patiently 
for the day when i may cull you by a dearer 
name! Will you try to love mea little, Maude ?" 
“ Yes!“ was the answer, spoken low and soft, 
but without seeming to hob! anything of earn¬ 
estness in the tone. George saw by the far-off 
look in her eyes, that lie had no power to re¬ 
strain the thoughts which wore evident ly wan¬ 
dering elsewhere—among I he things long past, 
perhaps, or may be reaching far beyond longing 
for one who once had possessed the treasure he 
now claimed the right to protect. 
Three days passed, and one morning tho post¬ 
man left a letter addressed to MAUDE. It was 
long ore she could muster strength to open and 
read the following: 
“-Feb. ft, 18— .” 
"Maude, my darling I nn dark-eyed Jove! 
for whom my heart has longed unutterably since 
last 1 held you in my arms 1 Only let me come 
back to you ! Only send me one little lino, bid¬ 
ding me return! and Maude, I solemnly 
promise, even as GOD hoardh me ! never again, 
In thought, word or deed, to wound you 1 For¬ 
give tho past I 1 hove tried to grow reconciled to 
life without you; but—but, Maude, only uou, 
can imagine bow miserably I have failed ! Try 
me again ! only try mo again ! will you ? Maude, 
may 1 come ? Everaud.” 
“ P. S. -Address, care W. B. C. La.” 
It was long, after reading the letter, ore 
Maude could compose herself sufficiently to 
write the few foilow] ng 1 i ncs in rep)y. Evehard 
would have been shocked could lie have seen 
tho pale, thin face, and heavy eyes which bent 
over t he paper, as she wrote : 
"I do forgive you, Kvekard, aud it may be 
that i acted hastily, unjustly; 1 do not know! 
God knows I thought It was right, when I re¬ 
leased you from a tie that seemed to cause you 
very little of real bappituxv*. and a great deal of 
misery. If I did wrong. 1 also ask you to pur- 
don me, and with this request i must bid you 
farewell! L><• not write me uga.n. Kvekaud '• 
You will not, will you? when 1 say that i am 
soon to bo the wife of one who is worthy of more 
love than it is in my power to givo him ; 1 shall 
pray for you 1 Maude." 
Evkrard Grey, receiving the little note which 
had tgivoled safely to him, in due season, locked 
himself in his room alone, and wept like a child, 
strong man though lie was. But did ho refrain 
from writing again? Ah, no! the few little 
words which dosed Maude's note, and which, 
In her distress, she had allowed to escape her 
pen, only increased his longing fur one more let¬ 
ter from tho dear hand iio had once called all his 
own, and ore many days Maude received, and, 
with a troubled, gravo face, read slowly, over 
and over again, this appeal from her first love ; 
“Maude Though you arc lost to me! (and 
oh ! If you could only know the pain, the suffer¬ 
ing, that knowledge brings rue!) my heart cries 
out for one word more, dear l only say for my 
comfort, that you have not put me entirely 
from your thoughts, and 1 will be content, if it 
be possible if if he possible, Malle ! 
Eyeicakd.” 
Once more a pulo face, drawn with anguish, 
beut over the paper, aiul a trembling hand pen¬ 
ned as follows; 
“ Kykrakd—E ven if I would, I could not put 
you away from my thought! Gun bless you ! it 
vou have ever loved me, do not write again ! You 
knew iny mother hud left mo weeks ago, did you 
not? O, Evkrard, try arid be all that is noble and 
true, and though wo never meet on earth again, 
we may Join each other where she is uow ! 
Maude." 
That was the last word that passod between 
the two, who were onco all in ail to each other. 
The house in which Maude dwelt at last found 
a purchaser, and as the Spring approached, the 
orphan grew more and more sad at The prospect 
of leaving the home so hallowed by dear mem¬ 
ories. After earnest persuasion, she consented 
to become the wife of young Cromwell, when 
the month of J une should clotho the earth with 
beauty, and he bade her farewell for a short 
time, until his return from u distant business 
trip. 
Tho girl had only her pencil and thoughts with 
which to busy' herself until her lover camo 
again to her side. How many times did she 
sigh, as she remembered tho dear old days 
when Evekard, her mother, and she, sitting in 
the same little parlor, wherein she now sat 
alone, would plan for the future, that looked 
so bright and glad, all tilings beautiful for each 
other! Ah, well! Everard’B jealousy had 
wounded her sorely, and at length had forced 
her, (remembering her mother - orxls of warn¬ 
ing against that foul trail), to release him f rom 
their betrothal. Her life, ^uidened by that 
event, was ere long thrown into heavy shadow 
by the dcatii of her devoted parent, (for her 
father she could not mourn! mid now bhe was 
oo the eve of marriage with one for whom she 
fell only that hc action which proceeds from 
warmest fricnustiip, as different, from the love 
her heart had yielded Everaud Grey, as it were 
possible to express! All this passed through her 
mind, as sitting alone before the lire one stormy 
evening site had given way to her thoughts, and 
allowed the tears to flow freely, "'hat might 
have happened, had Everakd’s letter reached 
tier before her promise to George Cromwell. 
site did not dare to think. At any rate, a promise 
given as she gave her promise to the noble, true 
heart that sought to protect her, could notin 
reason be broken, and though it might tie 
wrong, she prayed inwardly that God would 
pardon lief, if so, and make her happy with him 
whose wife she had promised to be —yet, per¬ 
chance it might, in the end, be well for her and 
for him !—(Concluded next week. 
