atkd In a lowered voice asked her, “ Was she 
little Jenny?” with many more questions 
about the aged mother, whom, In spite <if years 
of silence and absence, the girl felt that he 
loved and reverenced. 
When Granny opened her eyes she allowed no 
surprise at tho sight which met them. She 
just said, "My Will!" and seemed to think it 
the most natural thing in the world to have 
her boy back again. 
thoro for tho month after her old friend's 
death, and then the cottage being given up, the 
moat of the furniture sold, she went quietly to 
church with cousin Will, and came back Mrs. 
Blake. 
Granny knew of this plan, and wished It to 
be. Will was no longer the rough lad, but a 
prosperous man, whose kind heart, had out¬ 
lived his wild youth, and Jenny found It harder 
to stay In New England without him than to 
go to California with him. So one pleasant 
summer’s day they hid adieu to their neigh¬ 
bors, who shook their heads for the last time 
at Jenny over tho perils of a long voyage, 
bound for Will's home full of hope for their 
future life. 
It may seem strange that Mrs. Blake had let 
all these years go by without trying to discover 
her lost son, but the poor cannot employ tele¬ 
graphs and secret inquiry offices like the rich; 
and each year as it passed only made Mrs. 
Blake feel sure that the next would bring her 
Wdl back again; and then, as time still went 
on and he never came, she half believed what 
the neighbors all said, that ho was dead. She 
only half believed it, though ; for in her dozes 
A LITERARY CURIOSITY 
A writer in Appletons’ Journal presents what he 
rightly calls a curiosity of inter-lingual literature. 
It consists of two stanzas of Longfellow's " Psalm 
of Life,” which were translated Into elegant Chinese 
to adorn a fan, and then translated literally into 
English. The transformation is something amazing. 
The original runs thus: 
“ Tell ine not. In mournful numbers. 
Life is but an empty dream ; 
For the soul Is dead that slumbers. 
And tilings arc not what they seem. 
“ Life is real! Life Is earnest! 
And the grave Is not its goal; 
‘ Dust thou art, to dust returnest,’ 
Was not spoken of the soul.” 
Tho re-nilrrr into English, from Celestial language, 
of the sturdy thought of tlie American poet, is made 
in the following garb : 
THAT OTHER WILLIE 
BY BELLA FRENCH 
“ Willie, why don’t you go aud play with the 
boys and not be forever stuck at my feet?” 
Such was Mrs. Gray's Impatient question, one 
day, when hor little son came and seated him¬ 
self in tho parlor, when his mother was con¬ 
versing with a visitor. 
" l would rather bo with you than with the 
boys," he answered, timidly. 
“ Oh, I never saw such a baby!” 
“ Is It wrong to wish to be near yon, mother ?” 
said the child, ami Ills nether lip trembled as 
he spoke. 
“ Wrong? of course not. But you are old 
enough to have some manliness about you. 
See, yonder are Will and John Gowdy on the 
loo. Run along and keep them company. I 
want to talk to Mrs. Brown.” 
“ Isn’t he a queer child," she asked. 
The other raised tier sad eyes, and fixed them 
with such a painful expression on tho mother’s 
face, that for a moment Mrs. Gray almost felt, 
offended. She was a sorrowful looklngwoman, 
this Mrs. Brown. 
" I had a son once, but bo’s gone now,” she 
said at last, and there were tears In her eyes. 
Mrs. Gray gazed at her wondcrlngly. She had 
not known this before. 
“It Is a bitter thing to tear open partially 
healed wounds,” Mrs. Brown continued. “But 
Jot me tell you my story : 
“Several years ago I was about to give a party; 
a grand affair It was to be, and my head was al¬ 
most turned while making preparations. My 
Willie, (hi* name was Willie, too,) was about 1(1 
years old. lie had never been to school, I had 
educated him myself. At homo, he was all a 
mother’s heart could desire; but he was shy, 
and when I forced him into comfiany he ap¬ 
peared so awkward, that I often felt ashamed 
of him. This was on-; reason of my deciding to 
give a party. If he was obliged to act the part, 
of host he would overcome his bashfulness, I 
thought. But Wiil'e never approved of It. 
“ I shall ba so j<lad when tho party is over,’’ 
he said one day ; “ for since you have got ir. Into 
your head, I have lost my mother.” 
“ Poor little baby!" I responded, slightly pro¬ 
voked at Ills lack of Interest. “ I wonder how 
many years I shall have you tied to my apron 
string ?” 
I spokesneerlugly, and a proud flush instant¬ 
ly overspread his face. 
“ I will be tied there no longer,” he returned, 
“ I will seek other company In the future.” 
I was frightened at the result of my words. 
Still 1 made no rosponse. My son putting on 
his ccatand hat, went. out. It was the first time 
iu his life he had ever went out without in¬ 
forming me where he was going. 
1 n good time the party came off. It was a gay 
affair, and none were gayer than Willie. He 
was a sort of an extremist, and took no medi¬ 
um stand. After that his books and work 
were neglected, and his days, a* well as even¬ 
ings, wero spent abroad. Fast young men be¬ 
came his constant companions. 1 was left 
alone to mourn over the change I had wrought. 
At tlrst he made It a rule to be in at night at ten 
o'clock, but after a time he began to stay oat 
later; and day-break sometimes found him 
from borne. I tried to expostulate, tried to 
win him, back to bis old habits, but my efforts 
were unavailing. Ho bad got a taste of a now 
life and It held him by a charm. Well do I 
remember the first night he came home in a 
state of intoxication. It was his seventeenth 
birthday, just a year from tho time I gave the 
party. I had seen him under the influence of 
wine once or twice before, but on this night he 
drank so deeply that some of his companions 
had to help him home. 
The hours ol that night wore dreadful hours 
of self reproach ami agony. I was so glad when 
morning came to dispel the gloom—so glad 
i when reason returned to my erring child. He 
was very much ashamed. lie said again and 
again he would do better; but his resolves were 
i worthless. Two nights later he was aijsib 
■ brought home intoxicated. After that it was 
l a common occurrence. He felllower and lower, 
squandered all my ready money and. when I 
> refused to mortgage my property, that he might 
have more, he left me with an oath. 
' That night a large firm win robbed and it was 
, discovered that Willie was one of tho perpetra¬ 
tors of the deed. Tho next morning the town 
was alive with excitement, mid I almost crazed 
with anxiety, for ruy boy hud tied. The news 
i passed irom mouth to mouth ; iny house was 
" Do not manifest your discontent in a piece of 
verso; 
A hundred years lor life] arc, in truth, as one sleep 
[so soon arc they gone]; 
The short (lream [early death], the long dream [death 
after long life] 'dike are dreams [so far as the 
body Is concerned, after death 1; 
There still remains the spirit Lwhich Is able] to till 
the universe. 
II. 
“ Tiie material born of heaven and earth [the powers 
of Nature] la In no wise purposeless; 
From of old though tho leopard dies, there is still 
left his skin [for all]; 
Although what comes forth from the ground still 
returns to the ground, 
Tho spirit-nature still lives: there is tio interruption 
to Its days.” 
WIDOW BLAKE’S BOY 
Widow Blake's cottage was a picture of 
neatness and homely comfort, and Widow' 
Blake, with her pale, calm face, her white hair, 
and her quulnt cap tied round with a broad 
black ribbon, was a picture, too. 
The face told of a hard life, or, at least, of a 
troubled one ; and what, perhaps, most deep¬ 
ened tho linos on It waa the loss of her only 
child, who, growing up a wild, unmanageable 
lad, at last ran away to California. For ton 
years no one had heard of him. 
After struggling for some time with extreme 
poverty. Widow Bl.tkc came into a little for¬ 
tune, which made her latter years pretty com¬ 
fortable. She was not left, altogether alone; 
tiic orphan child of a distant cousin, whom she 
had taken into her home nut of pity, had 
grown up a good, loving attendant on her old 
ago. Jenny was, In fact, the mainstay of the 
widow, wno looked upon her as her own child, 
and treated her as such in every way. 
“ Lucky for Jenny to fall on her feet In that 
way," said the neighbors, "lor tho widow 
would bo sure to leuvo her the bit of money 
she had; and only fair, too, since Jenny had 
slaved for her since she was ten years old." 
But Jenny loved Granny, as she called her, 
and never thought of willing service as "sla¬ 
very.” Of late the old woman lookod more 
aged, and people said that It was a sign that 
she would not last long when she talked so 
much of her own early life, of her husband who 
died young, and of her boy Will, the finest 
baby in tho whole parish. Poor old soul I her 
thoughts hardly rested on the long days aud 
months when the line baby, grown Into a head¬ 
strong lad, became a care and a grief to her; 
but they went on farther, and turned Into 
longings to see tho lad again; he would boa 
man now, able to be a comfort to ids poor old 
mother. 
Jenny listened to Granny’s immnurings, and 
asked tho neighbors, “ Was Will Blake dead, 
did they think, or could he be found to com¬ 
fort his mother’s declining years? " The neigh¬ 
bors shook their heads. “DeadBuro enough," 
they said, “or he would have turned up long 
ago, and Jenny must do nothing so foolish as 
make any stir or inquiry after him, as, If so, he 
would take all the widow's money on her death 
as next heir, and leave Jenny a beggar.” 
“I don't want Granny's money," said Jenny. 
‘ I'd give it all to see the poor soul's mind at 
rest, for she’s always fretting after her Will 
now." 
As the neighbors discouraged her, Jenny 
next applied to an old farmer in the parish who 
had a son in California, nut far from the place 
where Will Blake had last been heard of; he 
promised to get this son to advertise for the 
lost young man, and make every effort to find 
him. 
“ Though I doubt," said he, shaking his bead, 
“if he will prove any comfort to the widow; 
and as for you, Jeany, my girl, it will injure 
your prospoots if he turns up.” 
Jenny roddenod, but answered respectfully, 
“ I can get my own living, sir, any day; and if I 
keep my health I've no need to look to any 
one's money,” 
"That's right, my girl," said the farmer. 
“Well, I'll do my best for Mrs. Blake. I’ve 
known her this half century ; and as for Will, 
I don't know what made him go astray ; he was 
the handsomest lad in the parish, aud had a 
kind heart, too; but lads are like crops, you 
never know what they’ll turn out," 
** Boy! ” Jenny laughed at the name, given to 
such a big man as Mr. Blake, the California 
farmer. 
After Granny went to bed that night Will 
told Jenny all about his life, mentioning the 
tidings he had had of his mother’s death, and 
how he had made up his mind never to come 
to New England again. “ f had no one to care 
foi," he said; "My uncles were ashamed nr 
me, only old mother ever had a good word for 
me, and I thought I was nothing but a trouble 
to her, which made me resolve to run away and 
let her forget me. 1 was a thoughtless, wild 
lad, Jenny,” he said, “and it’s more goodness 
than I ought to look for to be let to see my old 
mother again, aud bear her say that her last 
wish on earth Is gratified.” 
When the neighbors beard that Will Blake 
had come back from California, hunted out by 
Farmer Wells and Jenny Blake, they shook 
their heads and said It was all up with Jenny ; 
she must go to the workhouse when Granny 
died, for that lad won Id certainly take all her 
money. 
But they hadn't seen" the lad ” then ; not till 
Sunday, when Widow Blake tottered into 
church, leaning on the arm of a woll-drensed, 
good-looking man, and thanks were offered for 
special mercies vouchsafed to certain members 
of the congregation. 
Jenny was there also, looking as happy, poor 
girl, as if it was her good luck too. After ser¬ 
vice, Farmer Wells went up to Will Blake, and 
shook hands with him, and wished hirn joy of 
his return to New England; and so did Farmer 
Smith and Mr. Wrench of the factory, and Dr. 
Blink, the very old village doctor; in fact, 
wild Will Blake was quite lost in Mr. Blake, the 
California farmer. 
People seemed as proud of owning him as old 
Granny had been. Jenny was quite forgotten 
aod felt perhaps a trifle hurt when Granny 
pushed her aside, coming out of church, and 
clung alone to Will. But the minute after, 
Will turned round and said something kind to 
Jenny, and it was all bright again. 
The few months Granny lived Will never 
left her. On hor death, as there wae no will, 
the money all came to him, and Jenny was left, 
quite unprovided for. The neighbors shook 
their heads, and said Jenny would be sorry now 
for her foolishness; but Jenny didn't seem to 
feel that. She was grieved to lose old Granny, 
and cried * good deal over the grave, on which 
She anjf Will had planted primroses and violets. 
8h^ ^ent to Farmer Wells’house, and lived 
lu her arm-chair such dreams of her boy came 
to her, that, as she told Jenny, she grew to long 
so for him, she felt she couldn't die without 
him. And this was why kind-hearted Jenny 
bestirred herself In the matter. She almost 
forgot all about It when winter passed away, 
aud then spring and summer, and the short, 
chilly evenings of autumn, saw Granny still 
dozing and dreaming by the fireside, weaker 
and older, and loss inclined to talk. 
Great, therefore, was her surprise when she 
was summoned to tho old farmer's house one 
day to see spread out on tho table before him a 
long loiter, lu good, clear handwriting, signed 
"William Blake,” ttiatiking him for his exer¬ 
tions In finding out the writer, and speaking of 
the Joy he should have In seeing his mother 
once again, of whose death he had heard a 
false report long ago. " 1 had meant never to 
return to my birthplace," he said,“for I waa 
ashamed of uly behavior as a wild lad; but 
your communication about my rnothor changes 
all that, aud I mean to start for my old homo 
by the next steamer, arriving iu the village, I 
hope, on Thursday, the Uth io.st. Pleaso do as 
you think best In preparing my mother for my 
arrival. I aaa glad she has a kind daughter in 
my little friend Jenny, whom l only remember 
aa a child.” 
Jenny ran home in a great flutter. This very 
day was Thursday, the 11th inst.; he might ar¬ 
rive any mioute— this unknown or forgotten 
cousin Will. 
What should she do about Granny? How 
break it to her? 
She was so sound asleep In her chair that 
Jenny would not disturb her Immediately, and 
busied herself In putting the cottage-room into 
still trimmer order; Granny's boy snouldllnd 
that little cousin Jenny was really a help to his 
mother. 
And every now and then, duster in hand, she 
stepped softly to the arm-chair, a half smile on 
her face, as she thought of the Joyful surprise 
in store for the old woman, to see if this was 
tho right moment to break It to her. 
Soft murmurlngs of “ Mv Will " once or twice 
met her ear, but still Widow Blake slept, and 
with a fooling of alarm that she hud not told 
the news, Jenny hastened to tho door as a 
knock met her car. 
»* Hush ! ’’ was her first word, pointing to the 
arm-chair, as in stepped a tall, black-iuiired 
man. Ho hardly noticed Jenny, but went to 
the lire, and gazed long and silently at the old 
womau. He beckoned her to him presently, 
V r[| ■' 
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