they said, and should only hinder them- 
Hours went by—how, I know not—and at last 
neighbor Deane and his four stalwart boys 
came over with Sam. Then the search began 
in earnest. Of course he must be lit the woods 
no one of them all seemed to have tv doubt of 
that—and guns were hastily loaded, torches 
prepared, (for the night was coming on,) and 
the men divided into squads of two, ouch to go 
In a different direction. They would signal 
each other by firing guns. 
They hail gone, every one, and I walked up 
and down the floors of an empty house. I shall 
not try to tell you how thoso awful hours passed 
—how In every shadowy corner I seemed to see 
inypoor baby's wide-open, frightened eyes, or 
fancied In every' sound of the night my baby's 
cries for •* minima." 
By-and-by the moon came up ; it was nearly 
full, and there wasn't a cloud In all the sky, so 
that out of doors It. was almost as light as day. 
The lonely, darkened house seemed so full of 
haunting shadows that I could stay in it. no 
longer, and 1 went out into the bright, cold 
light outside. There was Just the least breath 
of air stirring; I could see the willows at the 
foot of the ten-acre lot movo their branches 
la*Hy as the light breeze swept through them. 
Down at the foot of the ten-acre lot. But 
What beside the willows was there? And a 
thought came that almost took my breath away 
a terrible, sickening dread. A narrow, slug¬ 
gish brook, more like a muddy ditch than any¬ 
thing olse, ran clear across that lot first at the 
foot, and the willows grew thick on either side 
—so thick Mint, a child could hardly force his 
way through to the water and that was why, 
no doubt, Josiah and the boys had overlooked 
the plane. 
But. my II ATUU.Y was a dating little follow and 
a pretty persevering one as well. How could I 
be sure that he had not struggled through the 
low-hanging willow bushes ami found his way 
to the water? And if lie had—good OrGU 1 he 
was drowned, he was dead—tuy poor little baby! 
It seemed as if I almost flew at ross the garden 
and the Imy-Meld till I stood beside the water. 
It was a dark, dirty stream, full of slimy, crawl¬ 
ing things, and frogs croaked dismally along 
the hanks. 
Mow I shivered as I thought or my blue-eyed 
boy, who might be lying beneath the hideous 
green scum that covered the water, r could 
not bear the thought; but the awful dread of 
It, wouldn’t let me rest till I knew for certain, 
and I tore off shoes and stockings and stopped 
down In the water. It, crept like a living thing 
around my ankles and above them half way to 
my knees. It was thick with mud, and I could 
not see an inch below' the surface. So I stooped 
down and scooped my arms along on either side 
of me, reaching to the bottom and out to each 
slippery bank. 
It was awful work. Nowand then my hand 
touched a frog's cold, clammy back, and f only 
knew It was not my darling's dead hand or face 
when It, jumped from beneath my lingers. 
Heeds and long grasses brushed against my 
ankles, and my heart stood still while J bent to 
lift my baby's flaxen curls. Once a sharp stone 
cut my foot and I fancied it must be the ruotal 
buckles of HakRT’h little shoe. Once, too, n 
water-snake coiled about my arm, and for a 
moment I dreamed of my baby's clinging fin¬ 
gers, Then I shook off the hideous tiling arid 
went on w'earily. yet wl;li resolute patience. 
After what seomed to me long hours, the 
bottom or thostroam grew thick with pebbles, 
the water grew clearer and shallower, ami the 
willows were gone from the banks. I could 
w’alk upright now, and I could sec. through the 
clear water all that lay beneath. So I went on 
faster, but more hopeful. I had entered the 
edge of the woods by this time, and the moon¬ 
shine penetrated but dimly. 
Still I kept on. 1 hoped for nothing. My 
veart was sick with utter despair, and yet when 
I came out Into a little open whore the water, 
sweeping round the foot of an Immense pine 
tree, made the tiniest, of little bays, and I saw 
my boy lying fast asleep on the very brink of 
the water, I felt no surprise. 
Vea, it was my buy—my baby—wet, hungry 
and cold, but safe—safe in his mother's longing 
,'irins. I did not faint. 1 shed no tears. 1 only 
gathered my sleeping boy close to my heart 
and turned toward home. I had come far out 
of sight of tb« house, but I knew the direction 
in which it lay and I felt no fear of not reaching 
it safely. And I did get home at last, with 
clothes torn by the underbrush and Imre feet 
cut and bleeding from stones and rocks over 
which I had walked unheeding, 1 went across 
the threshold of my own door at last, and laid 
my precious burden down on the settee before 
t,ho still smouldering tire. Then l took down 
the great dinner horn and, going Into the yard, 
blew it long and often, till at length the answer¬ 
ing-hots told me l was heard and understood. 
Then I raked down the fire and built, it up 
anew, and warmed and dried und fed my baby, 
the While his eager prattle told me how ho had 
wandered away and away till the path was lost 
and papa's house could not be seen, nor any 
place that looked familiar to the baby eyes; 
and bow he was hungry and by-and-by so tired! 
and then It grew dark and he said his little 
rSrayer and laydown to sleep—sure, In his child 
lsh faith, that papa or mamma would come for 
him bofore morning; “because I knew you'd 
be afraid to have me out-doors all night, mam¬ 
ma,’' he said, In his childish fashion. 
And then I heard the hurried steps of the 
Coining itieu. I went to the door to meet them 
with Hahky iu my arms. Josiah and the boys 
came first, and 1 gave my baby Into bis father’s 
arms and fell down at his feet—for the first 
time In my life l had fainted dead away. 
Afterwards I had brain fever, and when at 
last I went about the house again the snow was 
lying deep upon the ground and my hair, so 
dark bofore, rivalled the snow In hue. 
I heard a blackbird at the close of day 
Trill out its song against the amber west; 
I said, “ Oh, bird, my love is far away! 
Tell her my thought ami I shall be at rest." 
the mellow-throated singer loft Its bough 
And flew away amid tho twilight's fall; 
And as I thought of voting tove's burning vow, 
I wondered tl that bird would tell her all. 
I plucked n red rose from Its parent tree ; 
I threw it in the stream that flowed along, 
And suld. “Sweet roso, oh, take a smile from me 
To wit ere the blackbird spec doth with its song! ” 
t watched 11 take its way far down the stream, 
w itli perfumed thoughts to herao young and fair, 
And wondered oft If e'er its crimson gleam 
Would mingle with her locks of golden hair. 
HIS LUCKY HUMBER 
l dreamed t heard her voice, so low and sweet. 
fling those grand songs that all the spirit till, 
t knelt and worshipped at her feet; 
I woke and found my loved one singing still. 
And then I knew the blackbird In Its song 
Had told her all the love my soul had sent; 
And that the red rose had been borne along 
And found herero its fragrance yet was spent 
“ Every one has a lucky number," said the 
old gentleman. “ Mine is twenty-one. Twenty- 
nine might have been—would have been—an 
unlucky number for me. Vet I didn't know It. 
Both were painted in black letters on a white 
oval. Twenty-one — twenty-nine. Not much 
difference, you see- :I1, L’D-very like indeed; 
and yet, because I chose the number without a 
flourish and a long leg, 1 am here to-day, and 
have had a long and happy life, t should have 
been the ocoupdnt of a suicide's grave ever so 
many years ago had I chosen twenty-nine.” 
“ i really can't understand," said I. ** Was it 
a. lottery or a draft, a conscription, or what? 
Was it a game—was it.? ” 
“ It was the number on a door," said the old 
gentleman. “Wait a minute; I'll tell you all 
about it. 
“I was very much In love; everybody is at 
some time in his life. At twenty-five I was 
desperate. Talk about Borneo! Ho was noth¬ 
ing compared to me. 
“I’m not ashamed of it. Hhe was a worthy 
object—not only because she was beautiful, but 
she was good and amiable, and such a singer! 
She sang soprano In the church choir. And 
I've heard strangers whisper to each other, * is 
there really an angel up there?' When she 
sang her part alone, clear and sweet and flute¬ 
like her voice was. I never heard Its equal. 
“Well, i loved her, and thought she liked 
me; but wasn't sure. 1 courted her a good 
while, but she was shy as any bird, and I 
couldn't satisfy myself as to her reelings. So I 
made up my mind to ask and know for certain. 
Some old poet says : 
4 Mo either fears ills fate too much. 
Or his deserts nra Small, 
WIhj fears to nut If, to flic touch 
And win or lose It all.' 
“I agreed with him ; and one evening, as I 
walked home with a little party where we had 
met, with her on my arm, I stopped unde r 
a great willow tree, and took her hand in 
mine, and said c 
‘Jessie, I loveyou hotter than my life— 
will you marry me ? ' 
“ I waited for an answer. She gave none. 
“‘Jessie,’ I said, ‘won’t yon speak to 
me?" 
“Then she did speak : 
“ 4 No—oh, dear, no! ’ 
“I offered her ray arm again, and took 
her home without a word. She did not 
^ speak either. She had told me before that, 
fl bo should start with the dawn to visit an 
aunt In New York; but I did not evon say 
good-by at tho door. 1 bowed; that was 
all. Then, when she was out of sight, and 
I stood alone in the village street, I felt 
desperate enough to kill myself. 
“ What had I done to have so cold a re¬ 
fusal ? Why should she scorn me so? 4 Oil, 
dear, no 1 4 I grew furious m J repeated 
the words. 
44 Yet it stung me all the same. I tossed 
from side to side on my bod all night, and 
I thought I could endure it no longer. But 
l would not pain and digrace my respect¬ 
able relatives by committing suicide in the 
place wherein they dwelt and were well 
known and thought of. I would go to 
Vow York—oven then a very large city— 
and, seeking some hotel, register an as¬ 
sumed name and, retiring at night with a 
bottle of laudanum and a brace of pistols, 
awake no more, and so be rid of my misery, 
i arranged my affairs to the best of my 
ability, and received an imaginary letter 
trom a friend in Now York, requesting my 
presence on a matter of business. I bur¬ 
dened myself with no unnecessary luggage. 
■Vhat did an 4 unknown suioldo’ want of 
another coat and a change of linen? 
44 1 klwod my mother aud sister, and 
startled my grandmother by an embrace, 
and started upon what I m.cutally called 
my last Journey, with a determined spirit. 
"There was a certain hotel to which 
many of the people of our village were In 
the habit of going. This I avoided. An¬ 
other, chosen at a hazard, seemed to be 
mtter. Thither I walked, determined to 
leave no truce of my destination to those 
who knew me—no clue to mr friant.ltv tr. 
WHEN HARRY WAS LOST 
BV JULIA A. ABBOTT 
Harry was my youngest and, may-be, my 
dearest. Mothers are apt to be a little partial 
to the “baby,” you know; but 1 had some ex 
cuse for being fond of him. Heth and Sam 
were grown-up men, and of the five that came 
between them and H arry only tho row of little 
headstones In the graveyard yonder is left to 
tell the story. So it was we all petted and, 
may-lie, spoiled the child; nobody could help 
it, he was so sweet and cunning. 
It’s nigh upon thirty years agu, that day when 
Josiah— that was my husband—aud tho boys 
came upfront the haylleld and my baby was not 
with them. He had followed them down In the 
morning, und as he did not come back I never 
once thought but that, they’d let him stay to 
play about in tho drying grass till dinner-time. 
“Where’s Harry, pa?” I said, not worried, 
but thinking may-lie he had stopped to pick 
borries by the way, or to hido for Carlo to find 
him. 
“Ain’t he home?" was all pa said, as he 
scrubbed Ills face with the towel. 
“No,” I said, and then I choked a tittle and 
couldn't say no more. 
“What makes you so white, ma?" and 
“ Don’t be scared ; Harry’s round some¬ 
where all right, I’ll warrant," said Seth 
and Sam, both talking together. And 
Josiah he said a word or two of comfort, 
too, but I wasn’t contented till I’d took 
a look around the house and hunted It all 
over and called, “Harry! Harry!" all 
the while they three eat their dinner. But 
I didn't find him, though T went clear to 
the hay-field and back, and looked in the 
barn and the shed-chamber, and every¬ 
where I thought he could be hid away. 
By the time I got back to the house again 
Josiah was out on the back stoop to meet 
me. 
“ Didn’t you find him, mother?" he said, 
as quick as 1 came near, and I see he 
looked a little worried, too. 
“No," I said. “When did he leave the 
hay-field ? " 
44 He hain't been there to-day," he an¬ 
swered, sort of surprlsed-like. 44 When did 
he go away?” 
“Early this morning—eight o’clock or 
so;” and then I felt all through me that 
the boy was lost. 
You see, we hadn't a neighbor forever 
so far around—the nearest was six miles 
away, 'cross lots at that, and thors wasn’t 
but that one till you come to tho Cross- 
Roads—ten miles, If it. wa.s a foot. So I 
knew he couldn’t be gone to any house, 
the mite—he was only; five years old, and 
small of his age, too. 
We’d been on the farm six years that 
spring, so we'd had a chance to add con¬ 
siderable to the original clearing, but for 
all that It wasn’t much of a walk to the 
thick woods that, a quarter or a half mile 
back of the house, stretched away miles 
towards the distant mountains. 
Well, I felt sure the bby was lo6t—and |J5N 
just tho thought of my baby wandering 
alone through those thick, dark woods, 
living on berries, in danger from wild ^ 
beasts—for bears and wildcats were still 
middlin’ plenty round about— crying for "S® 
me when the night came on and dying at 
last, starved and worn, out with hunger 
and weariness — why, It seemed as if I 
should go crazy—such horrible sights came 
up before me. 
Pa and the boys wouldn’t give In to it at 
first, but finally when they’d hunted every¬ 
where around the farm, where even a cat 
could hide, they came back to me with 
white faces; but stopped only long enough 
to say Sam was going to Neighbor Deane’s 
to get their men-folksto help in the search, 
while Sktu and pa looked along the edge 
of tho woods back of the house. Mean¬ 
while I was to wait, with what pationee I 
might, till my baby was found or they had 
given up the search. I could not help. 
