AN AUTUMN ROSE. 
MY LUCY It. STOUT. 
Late lingerer from Summer's train. 
Beneath this darkening autumn sky 
Thy petals softly blush In vain, 
For ah, thou cunst not bring again 
The summer sun, the summer ruin. 
Thou breuthost the olden frngrnncc round, 
A faint perfume, the summer'll sigh ; 
Thy nodding bond droops toward tho ground, 
As if, like mortals, thou tmdst found 
Thither thy duys of bloom are bound. 
Tbou fullest the days of June to mind, 
The ulnglng bird, the humming bee; 
When roso leaves ttuttcrod on the wind. 
Now tossed before, now blown behind. 
Like fancies of an Idle mind. 
Ah me. the perfoct days are past, 
The year’s old ago la drawing near; 
The leaves are fulling In the blast. 
The bine of heaven is overcast. 
The darksome months are coming fast. 
And thy late blooming saddens me 
With memories of the summer gone— 
One past whom I no more shall see, . 
When tliy fair sisters blossomed free, ' 
And decked with beauty lawn and lea. 
Oo 
to fits for |luralt5ts. 
THE LITTLE BLUE SHOE : 
on, 
HOW IT CEMENTED TWO LIVES. 
BY BIO It Til A SIBLEY BCItANTOM. 
The Westcott down train was due. It 
was the night express, and at this season of 
the year, overcrowded, and apt to la; late. 
A bleak, pitiless little station was Westcott, 
on a blustering March evening. Constant 
tramping of feet on the platform, where tho 
guard tried vainly to keep warm against the 
wind; blinking lights and loud talking in 
the gentlemen's room, querulous old ladies, 
and noisy babies in the other. 
Whenever the door opened, a whirl of 
sudden snow, and a raw edge to the air, 
made the stifling odor of bad smoke even 
comfortable; and the rheumatic old stove 
was appropriated by a group of gruff, delayed 
travelers. 
Twenty-five minutes past ten! And the 
down train still behind. 
A man who was sullenly walking up and 
down in an impatient way, pulled ills trav¬ 
eling cap closer over his eyes, and opened 
the platform door. Jle was the best dressed 
man among them; with an easy, careless 
carriage, a clear, dark profile, and a travel¬ 
er’s rug with a scarlet border, hanging over 
his shoulder. You would notice the tall, 
muscular frame, the easy swing in bis gait, 
the absorbed look in his eye, anywhere. 
The Westcott ticket agent knew the tall 
man by sight; he knew lie would say “ tick¬ 
et for Boston,” before lie asked for it. The 
men huddled about the sulky stove, eyed 
him respectfully. As he walked up and 
down outside there in the fierce March night, 
turning short cuts at the end of the plat¬ 
form, a cynical, queer look came over his 
face. It was a face old and worn in certain 
lights, despite its handsome features, its high¬ 
bred outline. He whistled sotlly, under his 
breath, a Spanish lovesong, redolent of June 
roses, of perfume-laden nights, and a low- 
banging tropical moon. 
The guard with his lantern, stood looking 
north for the rod Cyclopean eye he so well 
remembered—a dumpy littlo man in a mangy 
fur cap, and an old woolen muffler over bis 
ears. He must have had a perpetual cold, 
tliis little man, for his voice had a gruff jar 
that was chronic in it. 
“Tears like lier’s broke an axle or a valve, 
or run off; never knowed her so late afore 
without cause,” said the little man, as the 
tall figure passed him for the sixth turn or so. 
“Yes?” laconically, 
“ The ’spress—her’s the up train—waited 
a good spell, you know, here. Her’s been 
gone over the usual thirty minutes it, takes 
to rim t*» the Bridge Junction,” the mau said, 
half impatiently. 
A close observer of voices, would have de¬ 
tected the faintest quiver through the growl 
tliis time. Tho tall man, on whom the wind 
and the sleet, boat so pitilessly, slopped short, 
hard at his side, and there was a keened, 
strained, nervousness in his tone. 
“You can’t think—surely?” lie said, a 
horrible, deadening pause, in which the 
laughter from within made him shiver, com¬ 
ing after his words. 
“I liaint said ns I thought nothin’,” dog¬ 
gedly, from the other. 
“And if the express did not reach the 
Junction before the down train had left?” 
said the traveler, slowly. 
“The ’spreas telegraphed to the down 
train, ‘ Will you come on ?’ Her telegraphed 
back, ‘ Come on.’ Pierson's a good, steddy 
feller. I just hinted as bow the rond bein’ 
so much smoother below here, she knew her 
chances fur makin’ lost time the better, and 
how the operator bein’ a new hand, and 
things so late and mixed like, he might a left 
k off the ‘ will ’ afore the return message. But 
Pierson’s a good, steddy feller; he’s run 
the ’spress this twelve year on the road. It’s 
usual to say ‘come ahead,’ and her two 
hours late, due here at 8:30. Pierson 
larfed, and said he’d waited so long fur the 
I lazy fellers, he’d show ’em how he’d pass 
’em, so he swung his lantern to the head 
lights so quick that a woman who’d been in 
the settin’ room a waitin' for friends, and 
who was goin’ on was left, and I’ve bad a 
peck o’ trouble with her botherin’ about 
trains ever soncc.” 
“If the down train doesn’t come in another 
thirty minutes?” asked the man in the trav¬ 
eling cap, in a forced way. 
The dump)’ man didn’t speak. 
Something between an oath and a groan 
came to the traveler’s lips. He was not one 
of the godly sort. A man with little over¬ 
plus of soul, a man who knew the world 
and distrusted it; but in the face of this 
storm be bcL bis teeth and wondered if God 
pitied the poor fools singing and laughing 
inside yonder, lie turned and walked to the 
other end of the platform, out of sound of 
the noise and merriment, to the uncurtained 
window of the other waiting room. 
Few were the travelers who took the 
Boston night mail from Westcott. 
He bad waited here since dusk. He knew 
the faces well. Old and faded, and plain ; 
sickly and bold. A few children gone to 
sleep on a hard, uninviting couch, ready to 
be snatched up at a moment’s warning lie 
saw, and shivered; one young face that 
might have been pretty, but was rude and 
coarse; lie had seen plenty such in all the 
cities of the world. Poor thing! She was 
fast asleep under her tawdry veil. 
He thought of the curtained, luxurious 
home library, where the bronze clock kept 
tardy watch for his coming, wondered if he 
had better telegraph when lie would be down, 
the cynical Smile vanishing fast. But no; 
business had not detained him so long ; he 
had posted across country, taken a way 
train, reached Westcott at dark, all to get 
the Boston mail in time, and as it was a sur¬ 
prise, his coming two days ahead, lie would 
wait, without sending word. It made no 
difference ; “ Mary wouldn’t care,” he 
thought, cynically again. And yet, twenty 
minutes ago, in the cursed smoke inside, lie 
was thinking eagerly of how glad her eyes 
might grow at seeing him return so soon, 
this same quiet little face of hers. Pshaw ! 
women were all alike, the world over! 
Mary had a fit. of the sulks, because that 
stately woman whom three years ago he had 
fancied lie loved, and who had toyed with 
his heart and thrown it back to him, had 
been in Boston society again. And that 
evening when they first met, Mary and she, 
three months ago, lie had snug an old Span¬ 
ish duett with her. When the applause died 
away, lie had looked, instinctively, for tin* 
little while face in some corner, (she always 
looked on proudly, lie knew how, when lie 
snug,) ami there it. was; but, so old, and 
drawn and changed, as to be plainer than 
ever. Miss Lebois and Mary had never 
met; and when the elegant, woman, turning 
in her bewitching way, said,“ And now you 
will introduce me to your wife?” it was a 
feeling of pity for the pain lie read in 
Mary’s girlishly open face,—a jealous pain 
lie laughed to sec—that made him answer, 
“ 0, Mary? Yes, presently ; she is some¬ 
where in the crowd. We will find her when 
you are rested after an ice.” 
There bad been a frightened, white little 
figure close at bis side, which hail worked 
its way there, persistently through the crowd¬ 
ed rooms, and lie had not noticed it. 
When Miss Lebois was languidly sipping 
ices, and talking in the old way that he was 
secretly wondering lie ever found so fasci¬ 
nating, as lie watched her face, and confess¬ 
ing to its glorious beauty, found no thrill of 
power in it beyond his admiration for a 
beautiful woman, suddenly the host bent 
down to them. 
“You will allow me to take Mr.‘W ar- 
ham’s place? llis wife wishes to go. She 
is in the dressing room, Wariiam; 1 believe 
she fainted; the rooms were so fearfully 
close 1 do not wonder,” lie said, in a lower 
lone to the man, as lie saw his impatient 
frown ; “ she is better now, only she wishes 
to go, and your carriage is spoken.” 
The man on I lie plat form to-night turned 
quickly in his monotonous walk as he re¬ 
membered the half sneer on the woman’s 
well-bred face and her haughty dismissal of 
hint; and be bad known that night that she 
read the silly secret before she ever saw the 
true little face that held it. 
He looked bock a little over Ins life as he 
walked through the storm, stopping to light, 
a cigar impatiently; anything was belter 
than taring the noise anil glare now, and the 
the gilt of the dumpy man with the jarring 
VO x made Him shiver. So lie paced his 
c.d of the platform over and over, mid the 
guard watching His cigar glow, wondered if 
lie had friends on the down train, still keep¬ 
ing that anxious watch of eye and ear for 
the first thud of sound through the cut, for 
the first, gleam of light or fiery train of 
sparks through the night, with a sense of 
dull horror biting into bis senses as every 
moment, lengthened. 
And Wariiam was thinking of his wan¬ 
dering, travel-stained existence, of the years 
when money seemed a curse and talent a 
bitter inheritance ; when ambition died and 
I stagnated, and Inst and luxury and idle 
pleasurcaiice became his second nature, till 
meeting, five years back, that quiet, simple, 
plain little face, it haunted him; try as lie 
would, no other face could come between, 
however beautiful; it would not be forgot¬ 
ten ; it dragged the old belter self from out 
its grave; it stopped rough words on his 
lips; it made him shrink from women’s 
faces whose look would soil and mar its 
purity; und when he called himself a fool, 
ami vowed to bo rid of it, suddenly the quiet 
eyes found him, clung to him, till he came 
back, willing to be led by them forever; 
willing to die lor them ; till, without know¬ 
ing it, all the metamorphosis philosophy, 
religion, friends had failed to call forth, bad 
been wrought by a pair of gray, wide, true 
eyes, in a girl’s innocent face. And then lie 
had taken her from her home, her widowed 
mother, her sturdy brothers in the little vil¬ 
lage among New England bills, bad brought 
Her to Boston anil act her in his own vast 
House— home now, for tin first time,—and 
she had kept on, purifying elevating his life, 
till he scarce knew all she had wrought. 
The dear little ways, the stately, matronly 
dignity with which she received his friends, 
and which he was prouder of than any 
charm of polished society, till the sensitive 
delicacy of life, that was his, to keep. 
Then their new close revelation in their 
boy—a sturdy little beauty not yet grown to 
liis second birthday! Their baby! — He 
thought of him, moist and warm in his crib 
to-night, ns beset Ids teeth against the wind, 
IIow happy Mary Avas! how glad, how 
proud ! And the new picture at the window, 
every twilight, Mary holding her toy, made 
his steps quicken, kept his bauds cleaner as 
lie went among his fellow men. 
And then, this peaceful life had known 
sudden darkening, since,—lie thought bit¬ 
terly—since that evening three months ago, 
when he sang that duett with Miss Lebois. 
He remembered t lie white, scared look on 
Mary’s face; it had made him speak coldly 
to her ns he took Ids seat beside her in the 
carriage. All the way home lie was think¬ 
ing how incomparably dear the woman at. 
Ids side liad grown ; bow all the repressed 
goodness in Ids life bad wakened to the 
touch of her slender little fingers; thinking 
of the dainty trim figure, wiLlt the satiny 
brown hair and the wide grey eyes; and 
then of the radiant tropical beauty of Miss 
Lebois, Avilli her dark eyes and the diamonds 
at her throat, thinking, and finding a differ¬ 
ence lie would not have bad altered, between 
them. 
e Mary, nestling in Ids home like a wood 
violet; Mary, in her sweet, low voice, 
bushing their boy to sleep in the twilight; 
the profile of her face bending over the 
baby’s, bringing a sweeter thrill than any of 
Raphael’s or Correggio’s Madonnas to the 
man who stood and watched both awhile, 
then paced the room below, for lie dared not 
enter with all the fever of regret for his past 
in his veins where she was singing her 
lullaby. Then, when the sound of her voice 
died away in the chamber above, be crept 
in, and stood at her side, lie knew how she 
would turn, her eyes eloquent, her face 
trembling with sweet joy, and put her bead 
in the old place, as they stood looking down 
at the round, rosy little rogue, with pink toes 
kicked bare, and fat fingers buried in the 
golden line of flossy hair against the pillow. 
“ Our boy,” slie would say, a tear or two on 
her long lashes for him to kiss away, Avith a 
choking sense of sin in his heart no sermon 
ever wrought. 
As he tramped through the sleet, to-night, 
his thoughts flying so fast, and so joyously, 
the tenderness died out, a9 though lie had 
stabbed it. And what was the change? 
Three mouths ago, lie had not worn that 
smile, that queer, cynical smile on his lips, 
thinking of Mary. 
Only a Avoman’s jealousy, lie thought; 
only a petty, revengeful spirit, he had not 
thought the gentle little girl had in her 
heart. Yet how it had grown ! Till a gulf, 
narrow, to be sure, but still a gulf lay be¬ 
tween them. And all since the night they 
rode home together, silent and hurt If he 
had taken the while, faint little figure to his 
heart, Avilli one sweep of his broad arm, 
laughed at her fears, kissed down her doubts, 
all would have been saved, and the man on 
the station platform to-night would have 
bad bis picture of the twilight, sacred, sweet, 
unchanged still. 
But in liis haughty way he was grieved at 
what lie deemed Avant of confidence; and 
which Avas simply the nervous fear of a girl 
before a beautiful woman who was once a 
rival; and so be determined upon what 
seemed a very manly course, to cure Mary 
of her folly. And in her corner of the car¬ 
riage she sat and thought of the proud, ele¬ 
gant face, Avith the clmrm of tropical beauty 
in it,—that to her simple eyes Seemed more 
fascinating than any face she had ever 
known,—thought, and trembled before it. 
“ How can lie love so plain, so quiet, so 
simple a Avoraan us I? lie will, lie must 
grow tired of me, and then-? When lie 
sees and knows liow slie could meet bis 
Avislies, how she could ornament his life, en¬ 
tertain Ids grand friends, will he not be a 
little sorry? And will not this sorrow groAv 
to a dull, separating Avail.” 
Thus the tempter came to Mary. And in 
her new pain she strove to be more like this 
other woman, and so lost tlie sweet fresh¬ 
ness so inexpressibly dear to the man to 
Avliom dusky Spanish faces and finely curved 
brows were as nothing to that subtle, chang¬ 
ing freshness v\ liich could chain him forever 
to Her side. 
And thus the first step had been taken, 
and Mart bad not said—" 1 beard you, for 
I Avas at your side to-night when you took 
Miss Lebois away; and 1 fancied it was 
because you Avcre ashamed of me, plain as 
I am.” 
Thus daily he met this other woman, at 
evening parties, in concert halls, and then 
he asked Mary to give a grand reception 
party, to which she came. And little Mary, 
in her plain, quiet homo ways, and Mary 
in elaborate evening dress, Avith the family 
diamonds, looked two different beings. 
“ I wauled her to see her as I loved her, 
to find thul childlike simple goodness that 
charmed every one, and tliat she is burying 
under all tliis rubbish of. a fashionable avo- 
man,” lie thought. 
Then lie wondered at the change, and 
sighed, thinking of how gay she Avas becom¬ 
ing; they were kept going so constantly of 
late, never an evening to themselves; never 
that picture of mother and baby at the east 
window, in the twilight now. Well, per¬ 
haps all women were alike, and Mary Avas 
dazzled by the glare and excitement of party 
giving and party going. Whereas the girl 
in the nursery stood and smiled—and it Avas 
a sad little smile—as the baby laughed at 
the gems on her bosom, and bid her face an 
instant to say, “ Baby, it’s for him ; be 
mustn’t be ashamed of us, but we are so 
tired of it all!’’ and going down stairs to 
await her guests in her new, stalely way. 
I Avondcr at bis short-sightedness most of 
all. For these three months bad found him 
at the other woman’s side so constantly. 
True, Mary was always in the opera box, 
but leaning back, pale, weary looking, while 
Miss Lebois grew brilliant listening to his 
talk ; and Mary was on the back seat be¬ 
side her, Avith the contrast of her plain little 
face greater than ever, as they drove in the 
afternoon sunlight. And still the inevitable 
little arrows Avere bitting the mark. And 
this avos Miss Lebois’ last party. It was 
announced that she left Boston for home in 
a Aveek. 
As the evening Avore away, Mary left the 
crowded parlors, and avoiding the dancing 
rooms, passed through the ball to the stair¬ 
case. 
“ She must have one look at baby, poor 
little fellow, shut off in the back nursery,” 
she thought. Whether the glance in at the 
dancers, where she saw that other woman 
whirling in her husband's arms to that most 
exquisite of Von Weber’s waltzes,(a waltz! 
when Robert had been so glad she could not 
dance these round dances!) made her face 
sot, and brought the hard lines into it, I can¬ 
not tell. Certain it was, that the face bend¬ 
ing over baby’s Avas not the samu that Rob¬ 
ert Wariiam had thanked God, down in 
the depths of his worldly soul, for having on 
his shoulder. She only stayed a moment, 
till the music sounded less far away as it 
floated up the grand staircase. Then as she 
passed through the floAvcr-wreathed rooms, 
two voices caught her ear, talking earnestly 
in the dressing-room. 
It is not the first time a woman’s words 
Have pierced another woman deeper than 
steel can drive. 
“ Yes, it is a lovely house, and so she was 
fortunate in getting such a catch. She’s a 
simple little thing, though, and 1 wouldn’t 
be in her place. Every one thought lie Avas 
the most devoted of husbands; but now, it 
is plain to see, the old love is better limn the 
new. It is just shameful the way lie is flirt¬ 
ing with Laure Lebois ! For my part, 
I’m glad slie leaves so soon ; for perhaps 
somejmly will lose Iter Avliite cheeks now. 
She’s plain enough, poor little thing! with¬ 
out being ghastly-” 
“Hush! not so loud; some one might 
overbear ns ! But you’ll see; tliis isn’t the 
last of this little game. Laure Lebois is 
going West next week. Robert Wariiam 
will find plenty of business in tliat direction, 
1 promise you!” 
It may be observed that tliis last speaker 
Avas one of the many who played high and 
lost, in the game of winning Robert War- 
ham and this lovely house,” many years be¬ 
fore. 
Whether the miserable little Avoman who 
leaned against the balustrade, losing music, 
liglits, and the subdued murmur of many 
voices, knew this, again I cannot tell. 
There was a noiseless rustle of stiff silk as 
she passed into her own room, thence into 
hoi' own inner dressing room. A closet door 
stood open to the left, the light under its 
porcelain shade burned yellowly and dim. 
Here was lier medicine case. Site searched 
for brandy, and found her band closing over 
a small phial of colorless liquid Avith a suffo¬ 
cating odor that filled the little room. 
Again and again Mary Wariiam held 
the phial between lier gray eyes and the 
light; again and again she measured me¬ 
chanically Avilli her eyes Hie fluid, and 
turned faint irom the stifling - odor. 
The waltz still crept dreamily up; the 
odor of tuberoses and heliotrope clung to 
her, and in the half light the diamonds at 
her throat quivered tumultuously to her 
breathing. EveryAvherc upon the world slie 
saAv th«se words written; saw her future 
life of misery—jeered, despised and mocked. 
And then the farm house in the moonlit 
hollow, to-night, the sturdy brothers, the 
gray-liaired, tender woman, and her life 
then came back. Their early marriage days 
here, the solemn, “ Till death us do part,” 
of her av cabling voays; and still slie turned 
and looked at the liquid, between lier wide 
gray eyes and the light, hesitatingly* 
You may say it was an overwrought 
brain; it was the frenzy wherein the mys¬ 
tery of many a life has been solved in a hor¬ 
rible, undreamed of manner. 
Suddenly lier eyes fell. Doavu on the 
floor at her feet lay tsvo tiny, blue shoes, 
Where that very night two little feet had 
kicked them off! 
The little phial was replaced. She stooped 
over the little shoes and kissed them tcar- 
lessly and hungrily. Then she held them to 
her bosom as she prayed that her sin might 
be expiated, and strong in the sudden salva¬ 
tion she had regained, she went out again, 
doAvn the staircase with a child’s blue shoe 
in her pocket. 
Saved by so small a straw 1 
Saved by the link of a chain stronger than 
human hands can forge, mightier than time, 
vast as eternity. 
Robert met her at the foot of the stair¬ 
case, a bright light in her eyes, and a sweet 
hinting, too, of lier old warm smile. 
lie did not know what went just before. 
He only remembered in the fcAV fierce mo¬ 
ments to night, as he paced the station plat¬ 
form, how the words of chiding lie had 
ready for her delay died unspoken on liis 
lips ns she drew a child’s shoe from her 
pocket and showed it to him an instant. 
“I’\ r e been to see baby l He is sleeping 
so quietly,” passing him without another 
Avord. 
“ Dear little mother! ” he had said, softly, 
to himself, liis eyes following her, and lie 
Avalized no more. 
And Mary, — “to-morrow I mil tell 
Robert all, even the dreadful past,” she 
had said, her warm, white fingers tightening 
over tho little shoe.—[To be continued. 
v 4 
ft 
up 
A 
1 
wtar 
CM) 
13 
THE FIIANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR. 
The “OI<l "Woman” limbering Sticks. 
A correspondent near Metz writes: 
“ An old woman Avas seen by a Prussian 
1 Doppelpost,’ or double sentry, of the Thir¬ 
ty-third Regiment, engaged in an orchard 
picking up sticks. Suddenly the old woman 
takes refuge behind a tree, disengages a car¬ 
bine from her petticoats, and taking aim at 
the nearest Prussian sentry, shoots and 
wounds him severely. The action, however, 
bad not been so quick but tliat His comrade 
saw it, and raising liis rifle to bis shoulder, 
lie fired and killed the supposed woman, 
lie had just lime to advance und discover a 
French tirailleur so disguised, when an ad¬ 
vance of the French compelled him to re¬ 
tire, taking his wounded comrade Avilli him. 
A proclamation of Gun. Von Goben, posted 
in Ars this evening, informs the French in¬ 
habitants that ait}' of them found with arms, 
either in their dwellings or upon their per¬ 
sons, whether they belong to the Garde Mo¬ 
bile or the Garde Nationnle, Aviil be taken 
out and shot upon the spot.” 
iqiitrlnunt 
The lli'ltiuu Hotel nt which the Prince Im¬ 
perial Stopped. 
In liis flight from France through Bel¬ 
gium, the Prince Imperial stayed in the city 
of Mods, at the Hotel de la Couroune. This 
hotel has a curious history. In 1781 the 
Emperor Joseph stopped there in his visit 
to the provinces, so soon after annexed to 
republican and Imperial France, The Count 
de Provence, afterward Louis XVTI1., stop¬ 
ped there when lie ran away from France in 
1791. Louis Napoleon, King of Holland, 
stopped there in 1800, on his way to his go\ r - 
eruotenL Napoleon L and ihe Empress 
Marie Louise were there in 1810, while on 
an imperial progress. In 1815 the allied 
sovereigns rested there on their Avay to Paris. 
And in 1831 the Orleans Princes, on their 
way to the memorable siege of Antwerp, 
Avere guests of the Crown. 
American* and the Eiivopenu Wav. 
A correspondent av rites from ParisI 
have not yet heard of any American who 
lias been arrested as a “Prussian spy ’—a 
fate which, in the city or provinces, has be¬ 
fallen about ten out of every dozen English¬ 
men I have met here. Moreover, our Ameri¬ 
can cousins, Avhen traveling in Europe, do 
not habitually encumber themselves ; and so 
everything is very nice and comfortable. 
