©ST.48 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
257 
BROKEN RHYTHM. 
My oars keep time to half a rhyme 
That slips and slides away from me; 
Across my mind, like Idle wind, 
A lost thought heateth lazily. 
A dream afloat, my little boat 
And I alone steal out to sea. 
One Vanished Year, O, Lost and Dear, 
You rowed the little boat for me. 
Ah ! who can sing of anything 
With none to listen lovingly ? 
Or who can time the years to rhyme, 
When left to row alone to sea 7 
f Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 
<®ur $torg-©filler. 
AFTER MANY YEARS. 
“Well, darling," I said, catching her two 
hands In mine, as we met under the trees in the 
loveliest corner of the square. 1 had no other 
words, and she did not need any. 
“The old story,” looking up at me, just a 
glance that showed her pretty eyes had been 
crying. “I’m—I’m here, Shirley.” 
I)o you guess what those three words meant? 
That Edna Verdery, before the first star looked 
out of the opal sky up above us, would be my 
wife. 
It was the old story, you see—a penniless lov¬ 
er, a true-hearted little woman clinging to her 
faith, and a parental curse impending over both 
our heads, 
I drew her hand tight through my arm, and 
we walked away very quietly, for she was tired, 
and the little band trembled against my side. 
She only told me that she was not afraid, that 
she loved me, and she would bo glad to rest 
when It was all over and we two safe and far 
away together. And so we went on and were 
married. 
Then I took home my wife. It was a poor 
home, but she was not afraid to sweeten It with 
herself, and she had said that she was glad to 
come. She neverspoke of her father and mother 
and never seemed to miss them or regret what 
she had lost In them. I never should have 
known that was a grief to her, but for one day. 
She met me when I came home at night, with 
her face all sparkling and her voice unsteady 
with excitement, and even before she kissed 
mo cried out: 
“ I’ve seen my mother 1” 
“Your mother? lifts she been here?’’ I asked. 
“ Yesl Only think how glad I was— how, sur¬ 
prised ! She came and she kissed me, and for¬ 
gave me," putting her arms around my neck 
and beginning to cry In her gladness, " snd for¬ 
gave you, too; and she said she couldn't live 
ami lose her only daughter. Ob, Shirley, it was 
the only thing more that I wanted on earth 1 
I'm so happy, darling?" 
** And your father ?” 
“ He couldn’t be as kind as she was,” said my 
little wife, with her cheek on mine. “ Fathers 
never are; but she thought—she was sore, she 
said—that he’d forgive it all, and that she loved 
me just as much all the time, and it would be 
all right at last, Shirley, Oh 1 aren't you happy, 
too? Look glad! Toll me you’re glad, dear; 
you don’t know how I wanted It." 
I was glad, for her sake, God knows; for my 
own, 1 would never have eared to look on their 
faces again. 
But all that was changed now. Mrs. Verdery’s 
carriage rattled, day after day, down the little 
dull street and stood at Mrs. I.ecomptc’s door, 
and Edna Lecoropte was D&rdoned and petted, 
and caressed fis It Edna Verdery had never dis¬ 
obeyed. And then we were asked to dine “ at 
home," she and I; and the old man greeted us 
both kindly and kissed his daughter with two 
rears In his cold eyos, and seemed to bury our 
old enmity as he shook my hand ; and after that 
night it was all sunshine between us. 
But I never ceased to feel an odd chill In my 
heart like a prophecy or something hitter com¬ 
ing between ns. Perhaps it was because Instead 
of growing richer since I married a wife, I only 
grew poorer, and the world outside our little 
room got dark and threatening over head and 
seemed only a cold place for my unborn child 
to Inherit. 
He came to test Its tender mercies just with 
the early winter and, as he came, Edna was very 
nigh going out forever. She was a delicate little 
thing and needed so much petting and nursing 
and tender care, my heart ached as many a poor 
man’s has done before me, when I looked in 
the white little face that had been so rosy when 
1 flrst took her from her home. And instead of 
growing stronger, she only drooped more, like a 
flower In the flrst frost; and the child was as 
pale as she. 
There was a season of business losses and 
heavy failures; firm after Arm gave way and 
men went home Idle, and my turn oamo with 
the rest. And I knelt down by my wife’s bed, 
looked into her eyes, and told her and asked 
her to forgive me for the wrong I had done In 
loving her. 
"Don't feel so badly, Shirley," she whispered, 
moving her head on my shoulder. “I know 1 
am a burden to you, darling; but I—I can’t wish 
It undone; we are so happy still—we’ve got each 
other and baby and such a long life yet, for all 
these little troubles to pass away Ini And It 
Can’t last long; you'll get something better 
than what you lost. Perhaps It will be the very 
THE OLD OUT-DOOR OYEiT. 
WRITTEN FOR MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER BY PER8IK VERB. 
An Out-Door Oven, built of brick ; 
Good solid walls, four inches thick ; 
The doorway fastened with a stick. 
A slant board roof, on notched poles, 
Bright risks of golden corn upholds, 
A nd long wood shovel, for tho coals. 
On heaps of ashes, wisely placed. 
Lines of strange lore, by chickens traced, 
With each fresh baking are erased. 
Grand friends would come, that afternoon, 
One ne’er forgotten day in Juno ; 
Skies, birds und breezes were In tune. 
Closely was packed that oven floor, 
From fnr hack depths up to the door, 
White bread, brown bread, bnkod beans, and more, 
Ruff custard pies, and cokes of gold. 
Crisp, snowy biscuit, lightly roilod, 
And " fluffs,” Just bursting from their fold. 
Tired out., with molding, mixing, beating, 
With ceaseless care of oven heating, 
Through all the morning hours so fleeting, 
Denr mother paused, tor one look more, 
Smiled to hex-self, and fixed the door, 
Just as a thousand times bofore. 
" So far, so good,” she softly said— 
“ Such lovely biscuits, and such bread !” 
Then sought the house with gentle tread. 
Meanwhile three pigs, with noses long, 
Adowrx the green lane strolled along. 
Just grunting to the bluebird’s song. 
" What's that 1 smolJ says hungry Rough, 
Raising his nose, with lengthened snuff, 
"Come through this gate—there’s room enough.’’ 
These pigs, well known as wild and violous, 
Stopped slowly through, with grunt suspicious; 
But Oh, that, smell was .10 delicious. 
It lured them on, in eager race. 
Yes. that old oven was the place— 
Round It they pitched, in hungry chase. 
One knocked the stick; down came the door, 
Disclosing all that luscious store. 
Wild with delight, Rough vaulted o’er 
The others' backs, and set his feet 
In scalding bread ; began to eat, 
Choked, squealed, and struggled to retreat. 
Alas! behind, the others pushed. 
One moment, cakes and pies were crushed, 
Thon, desperate, at the wall he rushed. 
Call it momentum, force, despair. 
Ho hurst a hole, and went out there, 
Once more a free pig, in free air. 
Just thon, mamma, with nerves all stirred 
At squeals of anguish she had hoard, 
And, as she evermore averred, 
A sense of dread, of ill impending. 
Rushed out, her fearful glances sending 
There, where her baking dreams were blending. 
8he saw the pigs, like rockets shooting, 
TRie from the front, one rearward scooting, 
One In a broken pie was rooting. 
Too deep for words was her despair. 
Tho oven reached, the ruin I here 
She scanned with scorning careless air. 
But Oh ! her heart was full of sorrow. 
What should she do, to-day, to-morrow 7 
House full—no place to buy, or borrow 
One cake, one loaf ot bread, one pie. 
Unbroken, only met her eye. 
** Chickens must oat tho rost." One sigh. 
Stopping the holes, scarce knowing how. 
Brushing the trouble from her brow, 
" Who’ll mind, n hundred years from now 7” 
best thing for us, after all, that you should lose 
this place and be forced to make a change.” 
“ Perhaps ! It’s all a chance," I said, bitterly, 
“ and I must sit with my bauds tied, and you— 
Edna, they were right! I was a selfish brute to 
draw you down to this.” 
She clasped her arms around my neok ami 
kissed me and stopped my mouth, and we were 
silent for awhile and the room grew dark In the 
twilight. 
“Shirley,” she said, softlv at last, “would 
you let my father help you ?” 
“ What do you mean ?" 
“Mamma asked me a month ago If you would 
leave New Orleans and take a position in my 
uncle's house In Now York. 1 never told you, 
because—she wanted me to come home then, 
Shirley,and let you go alone, and I couldn't.” 
“ Go home 1" I gathered her closer—the baby 
In her arms, too. “ Child, has it come to that?” 
“No,” she whispered softly. **It never will. 
I’ll go with you there, or anywhere else on 
earth, Shirley.” 
“ Is It too late to take the offer now ?” I asked, 
starting up. “Why do you ask If I'll let him 
help me, Edna? Better that than taking his 
alms, God knows, and I’ve done that so loug. 
What Is this place? Child, I’d almost beg at 
the street corners for you. If that wafe all 1” 
“Will you go and see papa ?” she cried, light¬ 
ing up all over her wasted little face. “I don’t 
know about It, only that mamma said there 
might be an opening for you, and It would be 
much better than your old place, and papa 
would use his Influence for you. Will you go, 
Shirley?" 
“Yes, I will!" I said, stooping down to kiss 
her. 
Something wasdragging me back allthe while 
—holding me fast to the bedside, within touch 
of her little hot hand and hearing of my baby's 
sleepy-soft breath—but I didn’t heed It. I was 
desperate, and her eyes drove me out Into the 
world, to struggle with It, and win for her sake 
—and I wont. 
So the end of It was that letters went baok 
and forth, and in two weeks from the day that 
I was discharged from my clerkship, I was en¬ 
gaged by the New York bouse, of which Mr. 
Verdery's brother was head, at a salary that 
would keep Edna safe all the winter far enough 
out of the reach of want or the need of alms. 
Only—It was a desperate man’s resources, you 
know-she muBt bo In New Orleans while I was 
In New York. 
A winter at the north, they said, would kill 
her, and 1 must not dream of taking her away 
until she was thoroughly well again. 
This was the way !t happened. They were so 
glad to take her back ; they had “ forgiven” her 
so entirely and wanted her so, and that they 
were so fond of little Shirley, T ought to have 
been willing and glad to leave them both In 
such tender care. I was neither; but I knew It 
was my duty to give her up and I did It. I kissed 
her good-by at the last and dragged tnyself away 
from her arms, that tried to hold me hack even 
then, and the last glimpse I had of wife or ohlld 
was a little, slender figure at an open window, 
half buried in white, soft wrappings, holding 
up a baby, who laughed and sprang In her arms, 
and whose little hand she tried to wave to me. 
Then came the lonely winter at the north— 
the silent starvation of my heart through nights 
and days, the longing Impatience, hope. It only 
lasted a little while. I knew I should have her 
In the Bprlng, In a home of our own that I had 
planned already. 
It was in March when her letters, which had 
come faithfully alt winter on their stated days, 
failed suddenly. A week went by without a 
message from New Orleans; and when it came 
at last it was written In another hand. 
It was a long letterbut I never read It through. 
I only read three lines. That told me that she 
was dead, that my baby was burled In her arms. 
The yellow fever had broken out In the city and 
my two were among the flrst to go ; her parents 
had left New Orleans, and before their letter 
reached me would have sailed for England. 
So I never saw the little, white wrapped figure 
and the laughing baby any more. 
I never saw either of their parents again. 
It was better for us all, Mr. Verdery had said, 
that the intercourse should cease with Edna’s 
and the child’s death ; and God knows, I felt 
so, too. 
So I lived on in New York alone, and rose in 
the firm, traveled, and made money; and wan¬ 
dered from city to city at last, successful in 
everything that 1 touched, without a trouble or 
anxiety In life—only the burden of my empty 
heart. I was thirty years old when my darling 
died ; I had plenty more years to live, and death 
was still a long way off. People called mo a 
young man still, after my lialr was very gray, 
and 1 seemed to have grown old and tired down 
to my heart's core. And the years went by 
wearily; and I was forty-eight, and my hair was 
white. 
It was at Fleming’s IIouisc that l met, Harriet 
Stanhope. She was a cousin of his wile’s and 
an attractive woman—not a girl, Tho sort of 
woman whom everyone calls Interesting; clev¬ 
er, ami cultivated to the utmost; sweet-natur- 
ed, and adapted and good, wit h even more than 
a woman’s share of tact. 
I had not known her very long bofore I could 
talk to her of the story that she knew already, 
and tell her about the day when I looked back 
and saw the little figure In the window holding 
up my child forme to see. 
Well, you have guessed already, I suppose, at 
the end of this beginning. I never loved Har¬ 
riet Stanhope—never. But It. came to me, slow¬ 
ly at flrst, and very reluctantly, nnd then with 
a great, shock, that this woman cared forme. 
And I began t,o think of the possibility of her 
taking—In men’s eyes, at least, and to outward 
seeming— Edna’s empty place. 
She weis lonely, too, as I was, with no near 
relatives, no home, and a sorrowful outlook be¬ 
fore her. 1 never could bear the sight of a sol¬ 
itary and uncared-for woman, and this woman 
touched all my ptty and sympathy. I gave her 
that and my friendship most freely und sin¬ 
cerely, and that was all. But I began to think 
that even without love life might be sweetened 
a little, and so I said to myself that I would 
marry her. 
I did uot resolve hastily. I had known her 
for two years before I had thought of It at all, 
and then it was long before the idan took a 
definite shape. I was traveling In the West, 
and one of the letters reaching me at a large 
town In Ohio, decided the lust doubt that was 
In my mind. I rcud it twice, and then walked 
the floor ell night, nnd lived my life over in 
memory, and reached far Into tho future to 
plnn out what It would be—what it must be If 
God preserved It and then I sat down to write 
to Harriet. 
It was only natural that 1 should dream that 
night of Edna. She oamo to mo at dawn and 
stood by tho bedsldo with the child—my son, 
who b«>fe uiy name and w«s so like mo. And 
she told me that she had never died at all, but 
had been waiting for me all these years, and 
God had kept her young, and tho baby was a 
baby yet—only he would call me “ father,” and 
tho word was ringing In my ears when I woke. 
1 thought of hor while dressing, and I went 
down stairs at last, tbo letter In my breast¬ 
pocket, sealed atul directed to Hnrriot, and 
was dreaming of a woman older and fairer than 
she, when Into my dream stole a voice, and the 
sound of my own name. 
“ Is everything ready, Shirley dear?" 
T looked up. There were two people at the 
little round tablo nonrost mine a lady, quiet¬ 
ly dressed, as If for traveling, in black, without 
a touch of color, and a tall, straight, broad- 
shouldered stripling, with a young face and 
eyes like hers. I knew they were mother and 
boh before he answered her. 
“All roady. The train starts in an hour. 
You’ve got nothing at nil to do, Madame Mere, 
but to sit and read a n >vel, oi look out of the 
window till I call you.” 
And then they laughed together. She had a 
girlish face—and yet it was a sorrowful one, 
too. Her eyes were brown. I looked into 
thom.andall my youth-time looked lmck again- 
and I saw the old house, In the old street in 
New Orleans, and the face in the window, and 
heard the baby hands patting on tho panes. 
Only two brown eyes, and a sweet voice, and 
a man’s name spoken softly to call up all that 
witchery ? 
She arose from the table almost that minute. 
“ I don’t want tho strawberries, Shirley. I’m 
going up to my room, and, If you want to read 
a novel, you must run out and get me one. I’ve 
packed everything, and I want, some light read¬ 
ing for the cars. 
Her dress was sweeping by my chair as she 
spoke, and stirred my senses—fast asleep for 
so long—came a soft, violent scent. I was go¬ 
ing mad, I believe. As if no woman but Edna 
Lecompte had ever used that faint, subtle per¬ 
fume I 
I started up and strode out of the dining 
room, following those two, and saw the moth¬ 
er go up the stair-case--a slight, daintily mov¬ 
ing little figure, with a touch of girlish grace in 
it still—while the sou passed on before me to 
the office of the hotel. He went and leaned 
over the desk and spoke to tbo clerk, In his 
cheery, fresh voice ; and T stood near him, turn¬ 
ing the leaves of the hotel register. 
“ Mrs. Shirley Lecompte." 
“Shirley Lecompte, New York City." 
1 turned and put my two hands on his shoul¬ 
ders. I could have taken him to my heart and 
kissed the child-likeness of bis face, but I did 
not say one word for a minute, while he flashed 
his browu eyes on me with a half angry little 
frown. 
