“ Of course not; but who’s talking about 
revenge ?” 
“ Well, friend During, let me ask you an¬ 
other question : For what purpose should a 
child be punished ?” 
“ Why, to make it better—to do it good, 
of course,” quickly replied Doriug. 
“ For any other purpose?” asked Han¬ 
ford. 
“ Well, no, not that I can think of just 
now,” replied During thoughtfully. 
“ And now, friend,” kindly continued 
Hanford, “ do yon suppose your treatment 
to your son, a few moments ago, did him 
any good, or has increased his respect and 
affection ? The boy, I venture to say, is 
utterly unconscious of having done any 
wrong, and yet you suddenly assaulted him 
with anger and violence, and gave him a 
beating which no penitentiary convict can 
he subjected to without having the outrage 
inquired into by a legislative committee. 
But let me tell you a story. You know my 
son Charles ?” 
“ The one that is now preaching in Charles¬ 
town ¥” 
“ Yes; you have probably noticed that he 
is lame ?” 
“ I have noticed it,” said Doring, “ and 
asked him how it happened, and he told me 
he got hurt when a boy.” 
“Yes,” responded Hanford with emotion, 
“ the dear boy could never be made to say 
that it was occasioned by his father’s brutali¬ 
ty. But listen,” he continued, us be saw that 
Doriug was about to apeak— 
“ When Charles was about the age of your 
son William, he was one of the most active 
and intelligent boys I bad ever seen. I was 
fond of him, and especially of Ills physical 
beauty and prowess. But unfortunately I 
was cursed with an Irritable and violent tem¬ 
per, and was in the habit of punishing my 
children under the influence of passion and 
vengeance, instead of from the dictates of 
reason, duty and enlightened affection. 
“ One day Charles offended mo by some 
boyish and trifling misdemeanor, and I 
treated him almost exactly as you treated 
your son a few moments ago. I struck him 
violently, and he fell upon a pile of stones 
at his side, and injured his left side so badly 
that the result was he was crippled for life,” 
said Mr. Hanford in tones of deepest sor¬ 
row and remorse, and covered his face with 
his bauds. 
A short period of oppressive silence fol¬ 
lowed, which was at last broken by Han¬ 
ford saying: 
“ When I found that my hoy did not rise 
from the stones on which he had fallen, I 
seized him by the arm and rudely pulled 
him to his feet, and was about to strike him 
again, when something I saw in his face— 
his look—arrested my arm, and I asked him 
if he was hurt.” 
“ I am afraid I am, pa,” he mildly au- 
swered, clinging to my arm for support. 
“Where?" 1 asked in great alarm, for, 
notwithstanding my brutality, I nearly idol¬ 
ized my boy. 
“Here” lie replied, laying bis band upon 
his hip. 
In silence 1 took him in my arms and car¬ 
ried him to his bed, from which lie never 
arose the same bright, active, glorious boy 
that 1 had so cruelly struck on that pile of 
stones. But after many months he came 
forth a pale, saddened little fellow, hobbling 
on a crutch. 
Here Mr. Hanford broke down and wept 
like a child, and the tears also rolled down 
Doriug's cheeks. When he resumed, Air. 
Hanford said: 
“ This is a humiliating narrative, neighbor 
Doring, and I would not have related it to 
you, had I not. supposed you needed the les¬ 
son it contains. It is impossible for me to 
give you any adequate notion of the suffer¬ 
ing that 1 have undergone on account of my 
brutal rashness to my boy. But, fortunately, 
it has been overruled to my own good, and 
to that of my family also. The remedy, 
though terrible, was complete, aud uo other 
child of mine has ever been punished by me, 
except when I was in the full possession and 
exercise of my best faculties, ami when my 
sense of duty has been chastened aud soft¬ 
ened by reason and affection. 
“ I devoted myself to poor Charley from 
the Lime he left his bed, and we came to un¬ 
derstand one another as I think but few 
fathers and sons ever do. The poor boy 
never blamed me for blighting so much 
happiness for him, aud I have sometimes 
tried to think that his life is happier, on the 
whole, than it would have been had I not 
been taught my duty through his sacrifice. 
“ Still, neighbor During, T should he sorry 
to have vou aud your son William pass 
watching for the coming of a beloved one, 
and sauntered into the. parlor. One of her 
hands was in his vest pocket , and one of his 
arms was around her waist, and they were 
chatting in the most innocent and confiding 
manner possible. So absorbed were they 
with each other, that for a moment they 
were unaware of the presence of a third par¬ 
ty, who stared at, them in unfeigned aston¬ 
ishment. Great was their surprise on dis¬ 
covering him seated on the sola. 
“ Why, Mr. Huggins, when did you ar¬ 
rive ?” exclaimed Poca, and scarcely wai ting 
for a reply, she introduced Mr. Jones, and 
informed him that Mr. Huggins was acousin 
of the friend she visited in the summer. 
Then she made voluble inquiries, and regret¬ 
ted the absence of her parents, with whom 
his cousin Rhea was a favorite, and who 
Would have been so glad to have met him. 
At this juncture Charlie rose hastily, and 
telling Poca that lie must “ see to that dog,” 
excused himself and disappeared—into the 
back pal lor. There was a moment’s silence, 
and Anderson began: 
“ Miss Jones, is Mr. Jones your brother V” 
Poca, voluble, “ O, no, my brothers died 
in infancy. He’s a relation, cousin Charlie. 
You must have heard me mention him.” 
She looked down, confused, and began twist¬ 
ing the diamond ring. 
“ A relation,” said Anderson severely; 
“a nmr'rclation, 1 should think ; rather too 
near, considering your relation to me. A 
reasonable flirtation I am the last man to 
object to; but, really, this seems to be rather 
more serious.” He was getting angry, to 
Poca’s secret delight. 
“Mr. Huggins,” she said, with spirit, “I 
am beginning to understand you. I must be 
off with the old love before I am on with the 
new. Two at a time won’t answer; but no 
matter how rapidly they succeed each other. 
You got well rid of Miss Fairchild before 
you began with me. Let me advise you to 
return to the true heart that is breaking for 
you, and above all, if you flirt with another 
strange lady, ascertain betimes if her cousin 
may not also he her husband, which, you 
will admit, is quite a near relation. I re- 
re your ring with pleasure,” handing it to 
him “ and have the honor of wishing you a 
• r y good evening.” 
Ynderso.s took the ring, bowed and re- 
ated. He wrote home that he had an ad¬ 
vantageous offer to go South, and should 
, til himself of it aud spend the winter iu 
Virginia. \ 
vIollik Fairchild drooped and drooped, 
nil began to think that the earliest violets 
would bloom over her, when lo! in the 
l re ary month of February she regained her 
roses, and by May, when Anderson came 
hi ne, she was as blooming as ever. 
He looked dirks and bowie-knives at me 
when he first came home, but when I found 
that Moli.ik was wearing the diamond 
again, 1 bestowed a chaste salute on the 
corner of his left mustache, (I am over thirty, 
you know,) aud said, “ It's all right between 
us now, Anderson,” and he replied, “ Cou¬ 
sin Rhea, it took a pretty severe lesson to 
teach me that two can play at that game.” 
to avoid arousing the suspicion of our victim, 
the duo became a trio, but instead of sing¬ 
ing we rode, or walked, or played croquet, 
or sat in the parlor and read the “ Idyls of 
the King,” or Mrs. Browning’s passionate 
Portuguese sonnets, or discussed in our deep 
metaphysical manner political and social 
topics. 
Anderson is no fool, although in refer¬ 
ence to women he acts like one, and he 
acquitted himself creditably in these discus¬ 
sions, taking Poca’s side when we disagreed, 
but looking a little nettled at her frequent 
reference to “ Charlie ” as authority, when 
he discovered from some Incidental remark 
of mine that he w as her cousin, and a fine 
young man in my estimation. 
'Hie time hurried by, and the last day of 
Poca’s visit arrived. “ Poca,” I said anx¬ 
iously, “ will he come round ?” 
You should have seen her look of disdain. 
“ Rhea, you don’t think I’d have him 
dangling after ine with all the privileges of 
an engaged lover for more than one half 
hour, do you ? I might have had the ring 
three days ago, but I kept out of the net as 
long as possible. But to-night I’ll get it, 
ami as I leave at five o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing, the engagement will be no more than a 
dream.” 
That evening Anderson was entirely de¬ 
voted to Miss Jones. I intercepted several 
most killing glances from his brown eyes on 
the w ay to her blue ones, aud felt myself de 
trap with a most delightful sense of triumph. 
Presently Anderson went out on the piazza, 
and after a moment asked Poca to come out 
and smell the roses. She went, and on pass¬ 
ing she shrugged her shoulders with a ges¬ 
ture more French than American, and said, 
loud enough for him to hear, “ Come, Rhea.” 
“ O, no,” I answered, “ I’ll stay here and 
play that new’ music. If 1 wasn’t so old, I 
would sing, ‘Come into the garden, Maud.' 
But I’m afraid 1 have forgotten the expres¬ 
sion.” 
A foolish speech, but I couldn’t resist giv¬ 
ing it air. But Anderson was so infatuated 
with liis Indian princess that he took no no¬ 
tice. I played with one ear open to their 
movements, and soon had the satisfaction of 
■ ig them descend to the garden. ’ 
i i sohiy a lit tie while, thc-u went on 
i and culled “ Poca ?” 
play the same role with another. Cau one 
imagine any conduct more heartless and 
contemptible ? 
Sybil Green was the first of the trio 
who wore the diamond ring, although I 
shrewdly suspect it has done duty in a 
neighboring city, where my cousin read law. 
Sybil was a bright, saucy brunette, whose 
numerous flirtations may have hardened her 
heart, for she showed no regret at the loss of 
the lover whose tactics she may have under¬ 
stood and very likely have practised. But 
Alice Hayes was harder to win, more con¬ 
stant, and more womanly. When Ander¬ 
son began to exhibit Ids unaraiable qualities 
of character, a sorrow ful amazement settled 
upon her, and she bore his vagaries with a 
patience born only of love. At length a 
light seemed to dawn upon her. She scan¬ 
ned him closely, weighed him carefully and 
deliberately, and after an engagement of 
four months returned his diamond with the 
ironical information that “ She had discov¬ 
ered that he was too good for her,” and went 
South to teach the freedmen. 
But Mollie, pretty Mollie, would be 
less philosophical. Tier whole heart was 
Anderson’s, and she lived, moved, and had 
her being in him. 1 had been confined at 
home for several weeks with Uncle James, 
who had been quite ill, aud had not seen 
Mollie during the time. 1 asked Ander¬ 
son twice to bring her over to see us after 
uncle was able to spend an evening in the 
sitting-room, hut he put me off with some 
excuse. He was wounding, grieving, and 
harassing the poor little soul, and a whole¬ 
some dread of Cousin Rhea’s sharp tongue 
induced him to keep her out of the way. 
The news was not unexpected; In fact, I 
had calculated upon it, but I was no less 
angry on that account. How the girls could 
be so infatuated with Anderson passed my 
comprehension. True, he could sing; so 
could .Tim Reeves— but the girls did not 
care for him. I did not think him hand¬ 
some, with his auburn hair and beard, and 
eyes the same color, and quite too close to¬ 
gether to suit my taste. True, he was a 
tall, well-grown fellow, but what of that? 
The biggest pumpkins are not always the 
best ones. But he had a way of looking 
women which conveyed to each one the 
pression that in his opinion she was the o 
one worth looking at. I saw him best 
that killing glance upon these ladies : 
cessively, os we sauntered down town 
afternoon, and each one blushed aud s' 
pered, all unconscious of the stalenes 
the compliment. I detested his dupli 
and despised their weakness; but then 1 on 
past thirty, aud young men never look • 
me in that way. 
After Anderson went, I put my el! 
on t he table, my head in my hands, and , 
dered long and deeply, and the result ( 
cogitations will become apparent as 
story progresses. 
The next day my friend arrived shortly 
after dinner, prettier and brighter than ever. 
Fancy her roses, red and white, her beauti¬ 
ful, golden hair, her deep blue eyes. She 
was iu mourning for her grand mother, who 
had died recently, and that formed an excuse 
for declining invitations while she was with 
us. I lost no time in describing Anderson, 
and soliciting her assistance iu giving him a 
lesson I was persuaded he sorely needed. 
She resisted coaxing, threats and bribes; but. 
when I described poor Mollie Fairchild, 
her winning ways, her adoration of Ander¬ 
son, and her utter wretchedness, (for 1 had 
been to see her, and her woeful face haunted 
me,) it brought her over, and she determined 
to avenge Mollik’b wrongs, even at the ex¬ 
pense of some deceit on her part. Forgive 
her, she was naughty only at my instigation; 
and as for my share of the deceit, I am quite 
willing to shoulder it, holding, in this par¬ 
ticular instance, to a doctrine of the most 
ancient Church, that “ the end justifies the 
means.” 
At tea time Anderson was introduced to 
Miss Jones, and bestowed on her a mihl and 
guarded edition of his irresistible glance, to 
which she responded with a delicate blush. 
I turned away to smile, but looked quickly 
at her, alarmed lest she had been guilty of 
the same full}'. But no, her face was sweet 
and serious, and her gentle voice was admit¬ 
ting that the weather wan very warm. I saw 
before the evening was over lb at Anderson 
was struck. I knew he would be; he always 
was with new and pretty faces, whenever his 
diamond was in his own possession. 
Poca could stay but two weeks, but much 
courting may be done in a limited time if the 
gentleman is auxious to improve the time, 
the lady willing he should, and the friend of 
both parties eager to promote the mutual 
exercises. After breakfast each day I dis¬ 
appeared to attend Uncle James, look after 
my household affairs, for I was and am 
house mistress, and leave a fail - field to An¬ 
derson. We occupied it fully, if I may be¬ 
lieve the report of my ally, when we retired 
to my room at night to compare notes and 
lay plans for the following day.- Poca sings 
divinely, and the mornings were usually de¬ 
voted to the piano, duets of a sentimental 
character predominating. In the afternoon, 
THE THISTLE, 
BY CHARLOTTE CORONER. 
A type of love In It* lowest forms, 
Yet crowned with the purple of power; 
What n pity its Jacket is studded with thorns 
When It has such a royal (lower! 
For some It will charm who too lute will learn 
How It wounds with Its u«ly spurs ; 
Or And, alas! If they throw it aalde, 
That nothing clings closor than burrs. 
But when Autumn unbuttons Its vest at last 
We And, ’neath its purple crown. 
That Nature bus hidden quite deftly away 
A soft little bed of down. 
Thus, love In its lowest form may hide 
A peace 'neath its purple dower. 
Which, out of its Trinity gives ua two 
Bright virtues to love In the flower. 
torus 
A GAME TWO CAN PLAY AT 
BY LUCY L. STOUT. 
“ Shades of the aborigines, what a name ?” 
groaned my fastidious cousin Anderson 
Huggins. 
“ I never call her Pocahontas, on lyPocA. 
But ‘ what’s in a name,’ to any one as good 
and pretty as Poca Jones?" 
“ O, pretty, is she?” said Anderson, with 
a suddenly illuminated countenance. “ Is 
she young?” 
I resented that question, for Anderson 
was five years my junior, and I could never 
see the bright side of thirty again. Of course 
to him I was only a fossil, and any woman, 
mature as myself, would be totally Ignored 
by the exquisite, us quite too ancient for his 
pretty compliments and killing glances. He 
was not llu* “ flower” to “waste ” his “ sweet¬ 
ness on ” such " desert air.” So I deigned 
him no reply, but continued to read the let¬ 
ter in my band. When T had finished the 
perusal, 1 put it in my pocket, and returned 
composedly to my dinner. 
“ I say, cousin Urea, when is Miss Jones 
coming?" presently Inquired Anderson. 
“She isn’t"—I began, then stopped sud¬ 
denly, stricken dumb by a thought. 
“ Isn’t coming ?” he persisted. “ You said 
she was.” 
“ Wait until I get ready to finish my sen¬ 
tence, Anderson. She isn’t coming until 
to-morrow.” 
“Is she a young lady, Rhea?" he askefd. 
lie put it that way to entrap me into telling 
how old she was. But “ grizzling locks the 
brain doth clear,’ and 1 said, “ You can wait 
until to-morrow to learn that.” 
I glanced at the hand, shapely and white, 
which was raising a glass of water to bis lips. 
On the little finger blazed a splendid solitaire 
diamond ring. “Anderson Huggins,” I 
exclaimed iu wrath, “ have you broken with 
Mollie Fairchild?" An expression of in¬ 
tense self-complacency overspread his face, 
as setLiugdown the tumbler he contemplated 
the ring. 
“ No, Rhea ” stroking his mustache, “ she 
threw me over.” 
“ There’s a true heart,” I said, and sighed. 
“ Mine, cousin ?” he asked in an insinuat¬ 
ing voiee. 
“ Anderson,” I answered sadly and 
solemnly, “Mollie Fairchild will never 
be light-hearted again, never, never, and you 
have put the lead in her bosom. 1 grieved 
to see the pretty and loving little moth flying 
around the candle, but warning of mine 
would avail naught. I should have thought. 
Sybil Green and Alice Hayes would have 
been warning enough,” 
“But. Rhea,” lie persisted pettishly,“I 
tell you she threw me over.” 
“I know what that means,” I said con¬ 
temptuous^. “ When you were tired of her 
and wanted j r our diamond again you began 
a series of petty annoyances and imperti¬ 
nences which even mild Mollie Fairchild 
could not misunderstand or avoid resenting. 
O Anderson,” I continued bitterly, “ what 
business for a manj” 
His faced flushed angrily, and rising hastily 
from the table where we two were dining 
alone, he left the room without a word. 
Mollie Fairchild was the third young 
lady to whom this irresistible young man 
had paid his addresses during the short space 
of one year. He devoted himself assiduous¬ 
ly to each in succession, gained her regard, 
pledged himself to her and sealed the com¬ 
pact with the diamond ring mentioned. 
That ceremony completed, he begun to tan¬ 
talize bis victim by exhibitions of character 
entirely foreign to his nature, and the result 
of cool deliberation. Sometimes an insane 
jealousy seemed to take possession of him 
and the object of his affection (?) was tor¬ 
mented with suspicion implicating every 
man she addressed. Again, his haughty ex¬ 
clusiveness forbade her nearly all her friends 
and old associates, or au obtuseness of per¬ 
ception led him to wound her constantly in 
her most susceptible feelings, ail the time 
professing the most ardent love aud devo¬ 
tion. Wounded, angrj r at she hardly knew 
what, the crisis soon came, and Anderson 
found himself agaiu at liberty aud ready to 
“Shan’t I bring you a shawl?” 
“ l’ui coming in immediately;” and she 
hurried in with a “ good night” to Ander¬ 
son, and hastened me up to my room. She 
took a towel, dipped uu end In water, and 
li .audiug before ihu ‘gloss, carefully vyiped 
tier loft chock. 
■ Chere’s nothing on it, Is there?” 
d, turning it towards me tor close, n 
spection. 
“ Nothing whatever,” I replied, promptly. 
“ I couldn’t help it,” she explained, rue¬ 
fully ; “ no one ever kisses that side.” The 
other “ side” had the prettiest of dimples in 
it. Bhe held up her left; forefinger adorned 
with the ring. The next morning she left 
for home, Anderson escorting her to the 
depot. I made no allusion to his flirtation 
with her or the absence of hisring, pretend¬ 
ing to he absorbed in anxiety about Uncle 
James, who continued in feeble health. In 
a few days 1 received.a letter from her an¬ 
nouncing her safe arrival, and excusing the 
brevity of the epistle by the information 
that her mother had decided, at the last mo* 
inent, to accompany her father to Europe, 
and the whole family were in an unwonted 
bustle of excitement. All of which I read 
aloud to Anderson, being confident that it 
was all the news he would hear of t lie lovely 
Pocahontas until he went in pursuit of her. 
Two, three, four weeks passed, and I per¬ 
ceived that lie was becoming anxious. He 
scanned my letters closely, but asked uo 
questions, and I maintained an imperturba¬ 
ble silence. Miss Jones might have been 
dead, buried aud forgotten for all mention 
that was made of her. 
At last Anderson came in hurriedly one 
day, and informed me that important busi¬ 
ness called him from home, and he might be 
absent several days. 
“ He’s going to look after Poca and his 
1 portable property,’ ” I said to myself, and 
bade him an affectionate farewell. 
Ilis important business took him directly 
to the city, the street and the house where 
dwelt my lovely friend He rang the bell; 
inquired if Miss Jones was at home, nnd re¬ 
ceiving information that she was, handed his 
card to the servant, who showed him into the 
parlor. She was in the garden with one Mr. 
Charlie Jones, a far-away cousin of hers, 
inspecting the ripening of a choice kind of 
gooseberries, when the card was handed her. 
“ Anderson Huggins,” he read over her 
shoulder. “ Well, what are you going to do 
now'?" 
“ Why, I’m going into the house to see 
him. We’ll go up the back stairs and down 
the front, and into the parlor. Now you do 
just as I told you, Charlie, won’t you?” 
“ Try me, my dear.” 
So they went up the back stairs and down 
the front, a view of which was commanded 
from the parlor door, by any one anxiously 
STRIKING A CHILD IN ANGER, 
(We do not know who la the author ot the follow¬ 
ing story, nor where it Hrst appeared; hut we do 
know that, it contains a lesson every parent, should 
learn and remember—hence we give it.—E ijs. Rubai, 
New-Yorker. 1 
“What do you mean by such careless¬ 
ness?” exclaimed John Doring to his son 
William, a young lad of twelve years. 
“Take that!” he added, striking the boy a 
heavy blow on the side of the head, “ and 
that, and that!” repeating the blows as he 
spoke, the last of which knocked the boy 
over the plow that was standing at his side. 
“Get up, now, and go into the house,” con¬ 
tinued the father, “ and see if you can’t keep 
out of mischief for a while, and stop that 
crying, or I’ll give you something to cry 
fori" The boy started for the bouse, strug¬ 
gling to suppress bis sobs as he went. 
“ It is astonishing,” said Doling, address¬ 
ing a neighbor named Hanford, who was 
near, and of course had seen and heard all 
that had passed, “how troublesome boys 
are! J ust see these oats, now, that 1 have 
got to pick up for that boy’s carelessness,” 
and he pointed to a measure of oats which 
William had accidentally overturned. 
"And was it for that trifle that you as¬ 
saulted your child, and knocked him down ?” 
replied Mr. Hanford, in a sorrowful tone. 
Doring looked up from the oats in sur¬ 
prise, and repeated— 
“Assaulted my child and knocked him 
down 1 Why, what do you mean, neighbor 
Hanford?” 
“ Just what I say. Did you not knock the 
child over that plow?” 
“ Why—well—no. He kiutl of stumbled 
and fell over It,” doggedly replied Doring. 
“Do you go against parental authority? 
Have I not a right to punish my own child?” 
“ Certainly you have,” responded Han¬ 
ford, “ in a proper manner and in a proper 
spirit, but not otherwise. Do you think 
that a father has a right to revenge himself 
upon his child ?” 
