l 
m 
“ White Chief,” and the wives and little 
ones of bis family must he tenacious of life, 
» to thrive in those tumble-down old sheds, 
and if you can manage the intricate ar¬ 
rangements that fasten the broken doors, 
you’ll sec how the cows and horses shiver, 
as the wind frolics through the rattling old 
barn. 
On the hill, a little way from the house, 
stands a grove of trees; evergreens, maples, 
and elms, that even in this most unpleasant 
month are attractive. Twenty years ago, 
when the trees were slender shafts just trans¬ 
planted from the forest, passers-by looked 
that way to note the progress of Dascomk’s 
building. A cellar had been dug, the wall 
laid, and huge piles of quarry stones drawn 
there for a house. Rut twenty or more 
years have passed, and the cellar, half filled 
with rubbish, remains, and the building 
Btones remain, and the trees liaye grown to 
a young forest, but the new house has never 
been built. People call this cellar Dascome’s 
trap; and its history would suggest the idea 
of a pit-fall. 
Years ago, when Mr. Dascome was a man 
of twenty-five, or thereabouts, pretty, fear¬ 
less Lauha Landis crossed his path; and 
all his sluggish nature was roused into a tur¬ 
bid, violent passion. When the reluctant 
Laxtra recoiled a little from his approach, 
or smiled indifferently at Ids expressions of 
regard, he presented tiuv design of a great 
stone house, and proved its authenticity by 
digging this cellar and drawing the stone. 
But when his game was fairly caught— i. e., 
when lie had married her—he had no further 
use for his pit-full, and there it remained. 
Mrs. Dascome, looking from the window, 
saw .Tack Burrell with his horses on full 
gallop coining down the road. She slipped 
out of the door, and as he came up stood by 
the gale beckoning. 
“ How is your mother’s hand, Jack S'” 
“Bad enough”—shaking his head—“it’s 
a felon, sure. She walked and cried all 
night with it, last night. It lakes something 
to make mother give up, but she’s given 
up, and got Midge Pouter puttering around 
there to-day.” 
“ Only Midge? She’ll do as well as a lit¬ 
tle girl can, but I’ll go down and see if 1 can 
do something for her; and Jack, I’ll bring 
home those fine shirts of yours to make.” 
“Oh law, Mis’ Dascome ! You needn’t 
now. I can wait, I guess.” 
“ But 1 shall, Jack ; lor I’d like to do it 
for you. Du you know of anybody that’s 
going to town to-morrow?” 
" I d-o-n-’t know. Let—me—see. Got any 
arrmits ?” 
“ Why, if I knew of anybody’s going, I’d 
try to get a chance for Fred to ride home; 
he’ll be there, but his father don’t feel able 
to go for him.” 
“ All right Miss Dascome. Come to think 
of it. I’ve got to go myself, and shall he glad 
to have bis company up.” 
“Oh, have you? I’m so glad! and Jack, 
I’ll go right down and see your mother.” 
And Mrs. Dascome turned with a relieved 
look toward the house. 
“It’s my opinion,” said Jack, meditative¬ 
ly, as he passed on, “that if Fred Dascome 
has got three drops of his mother’s blood in 
him, he’ll be more of a man than his father. 
Poor woman, she has a hard row of it, and 
ought, by good rights, to be promoted to 
widow as soon as possible.” 
What the necessity was, that sent Jack 
Burrell to town lie did not explain ; it is 
doubtful if he could ; but lie went, nnd Mrs. 
Dascome, with the embryo shirts in her 
basket, to lie caught up at odd moments, put 
her house in order for her sou’s return. It 
was a discouraging task; the low rooms, 
patched and broken over head, the walls 
covered with damp, mouldy paper, the win¬ 
dows decayed and crazy, the doors, the 
furniture, everything, looking so old and 
shabby. As she was wiping the possible 
dust from the little looking-glass, she caught 
sight of her own face nnd scanned the faded, 
weary looking reflection, with more interest 
than she often did. Would Fred think she 
had grown old? Her hair was no grayer, 
only here and there a white thread marking 
the brown ; butshe closed her lips nervous)}', 
as if to hide the loss of her teeth. “ Oh yes, 
I grow old, like everything elseand she 
glanced at the carefully darned carpet, and 
the broken stove, shining with a polish that 
it had nearly exhausted her strength to im¬ 
part. But she combed out her hair, and put 
it up with a little half shamed attempt at 
style, put on her new calico dress, and then 
a collar that she wore so seldom, and looking 
in the glass to sec that it was pinned straight, 
could but notice that even this little care 
made her look better. So anxious was she 
in expectation, that for hours before he could 
possibly arrive, she kept watching far down 
the road, with a flutter of the heart at every 
moving object. 
Three years before, a Mr. Landis, in pass¬ 
ing that way, stopped over fora day, to drive 
out and see his cousin, Laura Dascome, 
whom he had known as a pretty, gentle girl. 
He found her a faded woman with a husband 
who, only fifteen years older, looked thirty 
years her senior. Found her leading a tread¬ 
mill life, trying by extra exertion and over¬ 
work, to make up the deficit caused by her 
husband’s selfish inertia. Found her with 
five little graves to mourn over, and one 
bright, generous-hearted, but rather unman- 
agable boy to labor for. 
“ If he stays here, he will have to be an¬ 
other hoy like his father, or get discontented 
and reckless, by-and-by. I think he might 
be a man,” and Mr. Landis put this thought 
into altogether a different form as he gained 
the consent of two, and worried an ungra¬ 
cious acquiescence from Mr. Dascome, to his 
proposition to take Fred home with him. 
And now three years had taken him from 
boyhood to manhood, and he was eoming 
home; his mind widened by what he had 
seen, and learned, and felt, to at least a sense 
of his wants. 
Ilis mother heard the rumbling of Jack’s 
wagon, and in a moment more she was 
caught with a great hug, that choked the 
words of welcome. How lie had grown! 
How handsome! But she did not say it; 
she only looked at him, and kissed him again, 
and cried a little with her face turned away. 
“IIow very natural everything looks! 
nothing a bit changed,” said Fred, glancing 
around so as to over look the tears. 
“ Yes, Fred. Nothing is a hit changed,” 
said Mrs. Dascome with a sad apprehension 
of home sickness; home sickness of that 
inverse kind, that makes home and all per¬ 
taining to it, odious. 
“ And mother don’t look a day older,” con¬ 
tinued Fred, putting his hands on her 
shoulders, “ not a day—only your teeth ; 
you must have some new ones, and theD 
you’ll be as pretty as ever.” 
Mrs. Dascome smiled, partly at the idea 
of new teeth, or anything that she could do 
without, for her; hut more from a grateful 
joy, at, being thought, of, having it remem¬ 
bered that she had needs. 
“ Humph, Fred !” Mr. Dascome stopped 
in the door, on his way from the barn. 
“ Reckoned you’d get along well enough,” 
shaking his son’s hand with a pleasant look. 
“ 1 knew a little walk wouldn’t hurt you.” 
Fred caught his mother’s look and did 
not reply. He had come home with his 
mind full of ambitious plans. He did not 
know why this home of his should not be 
made as pleasant as any that dotted the route 
from his cousin’s. There was a hundred or 
two acresofuot worse land than t hat on every 
side of them ; and distance, and absence had 
invested the old Dascome farm, that his 
grandfather had owned, with something of 
the dignity of an old family estate. Just 
before his return he had described it in this 
kindliest light to eager-listening Nellie 
Sprague, whose hand lay lightly on his arm 
as they walked up and down on the flag¬ 
ging, before her father’s house. And when 
lie had told all that he could tell, without 
telling the truth, he stopped abruptly with— 
“ But, Nkllth, if you care to know any¬ 
thing about my home, 1 hope you will come 
and soo it some time." 
“Certainly 1 shall, if I have an oppor¬ 
tunity,” said Nellie, evasively. 
“ And if you will, you will certainly have 
an opportunity,” said Fred, resting his 
hand on hers. But Fred was too honor¬ 
able to tender his house os it was, or himself 
as he was, to her acceptance; so he held her 
hand as they walked silently up and down, 
and up and down, only whispering as he 
bade her good-night, “ Don’t forget me, 
Nellie.” 
Cousin Landis had said to him, as he 
shook his hand at parting; 
“You’ve got a man’s work before you, 
Fred, but. I believe you can do it, and I 
shall keep a look out to see how you get 
along.” 
Fred felt quite equal to the future. lie 
had n brave pride in hearing it called a 
man’s work; lie was so sure of his efficiency. 
But this reception from his father was hard¬ 
ly gratifying. It seemed to him that his 
arrival should have been the one idea, and 
no other consideration have stood in the 
way of his sure and easy transit. But with 
his lofty complacency, he could afford to 
accept his mother’s apology, “ That’s fath¬ 
er’s way, you know, though I’m sure he’s 
glad to see you.” He could not afford to 
offend or be offended by liis father, whatever 
came. Any effort or concession he could 
make to please him, should not be lacking; 
for in return be had much to demand; 
rather, perhaps, to persuade or incite him 
to. 
A new house must be built over the old 
cellar. This low, dilapidated tenement, 
with its sunken, moss-covered roof, he could 
point out to Nellie Sprague as the house 
lie had been born in; from the proud new 
house, iss tottering chimneys, decayed walls, 
and uueven floors would read only of poeti¬ 
cal antiquity. But to ask her to live there ! 
The thought almost provoked a smile, as he 
observed his mother’s pitiful expedients, in 
stuffing the doors and windows about, plac¬ 
ing pans to catch the leakings through the 
roof; or worse still, his father’s make-shifts, 
in bringing the wretched, numbed lambs to 
the kitchen fire, or their shivering mothers 
into the outer entry for shelter that he had not 
provided elsewhere. A world of work must 
be done there before Nellie Sprague could 
come. 
The month of March, with its blusters and 
sleety salutations, gave him not only time to 
discuss his plans with his sympathetic 
mother, but to suggest his wishes to his 
lather. He did not meet the opposition he 
half expected. A sneering incredulity was 
all the attention they provoked from Mr. 
Dascome. By-and-by spring was really 
come, and work really come, and Fred 
commenced zealously. The alder grown 
farm was an illustration of indolent manage¬ 
ment. He determined to be thorough. Such 
phrases as “ the nobility of labor,” “ the 
dignity of a purpose,” or “ a real live man,” 
had a heroic ring to them that inspired his 
enthusiasm. The long, hard day’s work left 
him at night exhausted and impatient at the 
little one pair of hands could do; and quite 
disposed to be peevish and disagreeable to 
all about him. Then he would get to work 
tardily in the morning, and strive by over¬ 
exertion to regain lost time. 
But though be worked fitfully and at 
great disadvantage, as spring wanned into 
summer, people remarked that the old Das- 
comk farm was picking up a little. The 
cold, moss-grown meadows and pastures had 
been converted into grain fields; the ex¬ 
hausted plow land seeded to clover; and the 
Hheep limited by substantial fences to the old 
orchard lot. The little leaven of ambition in 
Fred’s nature was certaiuly at work, but 
the lifeless atmosphere around him threat¬ 
ened to change it to acid before it could be¬ 
come strong, wholesome spirit. 
lie had begun by accepting all the time- 
honored superstitions and inconveniences 
that his father adhered to. First, because 
he must; second, because he hoped, by dis¬ 
creet effort, to prove a better way by-and- 
by; and within bis limited range there was 
an abundance to be done. Mon were em¬ 
ployed to convert the piles of lumber that 
for years had occupied the barn, into new 
covering and roofing. A little help was 
grudgingly granted to assist with the farm 
Work. But the old house, the greatest re¬ 
proach and disgrace of all, the one obstacle 
in the way of his future, was a cherished in¬ 
stitution. Here Mr. Dascome had been 
born, here he would die; its very mustiness 
and decay seemed to render it, more con¬ 
genial to his bleared and glupified nature. 
Fred might turn over the land for better 
crops, or prune the orchard, or fetter the 
sheep if he had aTiLcy ; he had himself done 
that, when young; but the old house held its 
own yet; what had been good enough for 
him was good enough for Fred. He would 
not be worried and impoverished by build¬ 
ing fine houses for giddy children. 
So Fred argued, urged, and entreated in 
vain, until the old house became a plague- 
spot, poisoning his life. What was the good 
of working like a dog, to live in worse than 
a dog’s kennel ? What was the Dascome 
farm, it' he must become a cringing drudge 
like his mother, his life all absorbed by a 
deadening incubus ? He would leave this 
hateful life, only Cousin Landis had said, 
“ I would give you a place with me, Fred, 
but your duty is with your mother now ; she 
needs you, and you cannot do too much for 
her.” So he was bound, to this odious life by 
his mother. Partly because his conscience 
held him, and partly for fear of Cousin 
L.andis’ censure. 
Fred Dascome did not possess the ele¬ 
ments of a stoic, neither was he self-poised 
and firm. With a purpose, and ways and 
means for its accomplishment, all his’might, 
mind and strength would be given to the 
work; but mentally, he was one of those 
semi-helpless, near-sighted ones, who in the 
hazy distance fail to discover the ways and 
means that others discern. Now. his father, 
with all his dead weight, was blocking the 
way he wished to go. His mother and 
Cousin Landis cutting off the way he might 
go, there seemed nothing left but. hopeless 
submission; and as Mrs. Dascome had ap¬ 
prehended, the crops that were planted so 
enthusiast ically in the spring, were harvested 
in sullen indifference in the fall. Fred 
grew moody and silent. Nothing at home, 
or among the friends abroad gave him any 
pleasure. Even Nellie Sprague's punc¬ 
tual little messages irritated more than they 
consoled him, for they stirred the old ambi¬ 
tion ihai bis destiny tauntingly forbade. 
Winter made the stagnant life at the Das¬ 
come farm still more tedious; and Fred, 
with no other resources for amtisc-.ent, and 
no ambition for work, drifted into idle, 
bar-room company at Cross Corners; ..od 
finally, with the same abandon that he would 
have given himself to work or study, had it 
been held out to him, he became one of the 
idlers and revelers there. Poor Mrs. Das¬ 
come! If gentle words of sympathy—if 
any burden of body or soul—would have 
saved her darling these trials, they would 
never have come to him. He was not more 
wretched in counting over the outrages fate 
had heaped upon him, than was she in her 
yearning sympathy; only his was an arro¬ 
gant, self-pitying sorrow, tiers a timid, self- 
imtnolating one. When he began to dissipate 
his gloom in this way, it brought, her a new 
sense of pain and anxiety, lmt no word or 
thought of censure. Ail her painstaking 
efforts and pitiful little artifices were em¬ 
ployed to keep him away; but she did not 
upbraid him; and the growling invectives 
of his father only gave zest to his ill-found 
pleasure.—[Concluded next week. 
mini fapics. 
MORNING THOUGHTS. 
by rosette a. hose. 
In the silence ol the dawning, 
Ere the stars have vanished quite, 
And the shining tears of angels 
On the greensward glisten bright. 
Comes a Presence, pore and holy. 
Fresh from realms beyond the Sky- 
Giving strength to weary mortals, 
Bringing hope, and courage nigh; 
And It seems to whisper to us 
Words that rouse us into life; 
Bidding us be up and doing, 
Making ready for the strife,— 
For the way Is long and toilsome 
That we have to travel yet. 
And though flowers are strewed along it, 
They are oft with tear-drops wet. 
But the morning comes to cheer us 
With a language not of earth,— 
That was sent from yonder Heaven 
Where the morning sturR had birth; 
And it gives us dimmest visions 
Of the morning that will come, 
When our earthly Ilf a is ended. 
And the angels call us home. 
Let us then with courage hasten 
Onward to the rest of love— 
For each thorn that's In our pathway 
Flowers shall bloom for us above; 
There’s no need of tardy waiting. 
Though the storm-clouds vent their spite, 
For beyond their darkening shadows 
Lies the shining Lund of Light. 
GOOD SINGING. 
Good singing is one of the very finest 
social accomplishments. And a good bul¬ 
bul singer, of either sex, is a most valuable 
addition to any circle. Ballad singing is, 
however, not the half so popular us it. used 
to he, as it ought to he. We run to opera 
and operatic airs, and the simple, beautiful 
melodies so charming are for the time being 
forgotten. The very soul of music abides 
in ballads, and that soul is immortal. “ An¬ 
nie Laurie” can never die. The “ Last Rose 
of Summer” will not fade from our memory 
ever. Ballads, rightly sung, reach the 
heart, and thrill it with a strange sweetness. 
What, then, is good ballad singing ? It 
is, in fact, the highest type of vocal art. Its 
essentials are a good voice, careful culture, 
delicate sensibilities. Quick sympathies arc 
a prominent characteristic of the good bal¬ 
lad singer. Without the capacity to feel 
whatever he expresses in melody, the singer 
will fail miserably, although gifted with the 
rarest of voices. To quote from “ Col tain’s 
Advice to Young Singers;” 
“ He should be able to impress his hearers, 
and rivet their attention, no matter what his 
subject may be, if sad, then must he use 
pathos and tender feeling; if gay, he must 
himself be cheerful, joyous, and lively; if 
the strain be martial, lie must also be mar¬ 
tial in look, word and action, full of lire and 
brilliancy, lie must he able to declaim in a 
clear and masterly style; too much attention 
cannot be paid to this; for if he merely sing 
in tune and the words are not heard, he but 
does that which au instrument is capable of. 
“ The soul of the singer must rise with 
every emergency; and if he be clever, he 
will sway the minds of his hearers as the 
wind plays with the leaves. At one moment 
his audience will be roused to the highest 
pitch of enthusiasm, the next may see them 
melted unto tears. But. to achieve this he 
m nst lose sight of himself, and for the time 
being become, as it were, the individual 
whose feelings he endeavors to portray; in 
short, he must feel and speak from the heart; 
and unless he does so, his labors are thrown 
away. 
“ What wonderful effects are created by 
merely paying attention to light and shade, 
or piano and forte! One person with a 
capital voice shall sing a song without pay¬ 
ing attention to the above, and ere it is fin¬ 
ished, it becomes monotonous and even pain¬ 
ful to tbe ear. Another, with not nearly so 
good an organ, will use it with judgment, 
one moment thrilling his hearers with soft 
plaintive atterings, and auon electrifying 
them with his stirring denunciation. This, 
let it be remembered, is the secret of our 
greatest singers; there must be life, soul and 
contrast. Having a fine voice and using 
these aids, he may attain the highest position 
as a singer; but without them he is poor 
indeed.” 
♦ » »- 
PROMISES TO CHILDREN. 
Parents ought to realize, when making 
promises to their children, that failing to 
keep them, unless good and sufficient reason 
is given, is a grievous wrong. Children lose 
courage under repeated promises that lack 
fulfillment. Especially is this the case with 
farmers’ boys. They are often promised if 
they will bring up some calf or lamb by 
hand, that it shall he theirs; their own to do 
with as they please. The child, flushed and 
eager, takes the promise in good faith, runs 
and tends and feeds his pet until there 
springs up a mutual affection between tbe 
child and the animal. Sooner or later, the 
farmer disposes of the animal to the butcher, 
or trades it off as coolly as if it was his own, 
which it rightfully is not. This is done 
again and again; and by aud by the boy, 
discouraged with hopes proving false, goes 
off into the world to labor, and the man never 
ceases to wonder why none of his boys will 
remain with him. 
This matter was brought out, in full force a 
little time since, by the conversation of au 
old and respected citizen of B. Said lie: 
“ I lost all confidence in in}' father before 
I was fifteen years old, and he a minister, 
too. We lived on a farm, and every spring 
there was a lamb or two that would have 
died only for extra tending; and a calf too 
handsome to be vealed; and it was, * There 
is a job for you, Hiram ; you take hold and 
raise them, and they shall be your own.’ So 
I would work and sweat and tend upon the 
handsome creatures, until I had a number of 
animals virtually mine. Then the first I 
knew he got pinched for money and sold 
them every one. At my indignant protest at 
this proceeding the answer was: * Pooli! 
did you tliiuk I should winter all that young 
trash and he short of hay T ” 
No explanation to soften the disappoint¬ 
ment. Tbe man continued; 
“ I made up my mind that instant to leave 
home as soon as I was old enough.” 
If you want your hoys to stay at home 
and respect, you, keep their faith in you 
strong and unfaltering. mrs. c. 
-+♦ » 
THE POSSIBLE COMMON LOSS. 
Some months ago we wrote:—“If our 
Ruth will vote and remain Ruth still, 
lovely and loving, wc will not put a straw 
in the way of her voting.” We wrote this 
with a deep sense of wlial the social loss 
would be, were Ruths henceforth to be 
known only in name. To others than our¬ 
selves this fear of possible loss 1ms come,— 
we were not speaking an individual misgiv¬ 
ing. In a recent number of Old and New, 
Dr. Bellows gave utterance to the same in 
tbe following almost sad words: 
“Men, in their inmost souls, feel more 
than women can, the change which must 
come over tbe world, when the publicity 
tbe}' know and feel in their own lot comes 
to turn the whole race out of doors. They 
themselves live now in the reverence, admi¬ 
ration and Jove which they feel for the deli¬ 
cate, the private, the domestic nature of 
woman. They see the shrine where they 
worship profaned, they feel tbe bosoms where 
they are wanned growing bard and cold. 
They see the * homes J where alone their pub¬ 
lic cares are soothed and made tolerable, 
converted into disprivacied parts of the great 
hotel of life. They hear already the sweet 
harmony of different voices dying away in a 
monotonous unison. They feel the romance, 
tbe poetry, the sentiment of life oozing out 
under the blows aimed at the chief hoop 
which binds tbe staves of society together; 
and they know that woman without their 
consent is about to discrown herself queen 
of her own home, in order to usurp a barren 
scepter in the kingdom of public life. It is 
idle to warn, to prophesy, to complain. The 
fruits of the tree of the knowledge of good 
and evil are fair to the woman’s eye, as of 
old; and the tempter is no less a serpent, 
but though we shall still go doubtless hand 
in band with the modern Eve, when she ex¬ 
pels herself from the garden of God’s own 
planting, we know better than she the charm 
of the Paradise which we shall lose together, 
and the coldness .and emptiness of all that 
lies outside! It is only some divine interpo¬ 
sition that can avert the mad determination 
that does not mind ruining man, in rashly 
protesting against the fiat which made hu¬ 
manity male and female.” 
-- 
SOCIAL CURIOSITIES. 
“ No man in England thinks of blacking 
his own boots,” said an Englishman to Mr. 
Lincoln. “Whose boots does he black?” 
Mr. Lincoln quietly asked. 
A young lady was alighting from an 
omnibus, when a ribbon fell from her bon¬ 
net to the floor of ilie stage. “ You have 
left your bow behind,” remarked a lady 
passenger. “ No I haven't, he’s gone a fish¬ 
ing," replied the damsel. 
A quarrel on the Boulevards terminated 
thus, one day recently, to the amusement of 
the spectators:—“ Monsieur, you shall give 
me satisfaction.” Reply (amid a peal of 
laughter): “Monsieur, I cannot; I am a 
member of the Society for Protecting Ani¬ 
mals.” 
At the Grand Army Fair in Lewiston, 
Me., a veteran was relating his exploits to 
some friends, and in the hearing of some 
boys mentioned that he had been in five en¬ 
gagements. “ That's nothing,” broke iii a 
little fellow, “ my sister Sarah has been en¬ 
gaged eleven times.” 
Mat M-was a queer genius. A neigh¬ 
bor found him at work one day at an enor¬ 
mous woodpile, sawing away for dear life 
with an intolerably dull saw. “ Why don’t 
you sharpen your saw, Mat ?” asked the 
neighbor. Looking up with an inimitably 
droll expression, “ I should think 1 had 
work enough to do to saw up this woodpile, 
without stopping to sharpen saws.” 
