THE 
MARCH, IN TENNESSEE. 
White, fleecy clouds across the sky are blown 
In rapid course the wild wind flies to-day ; 
But who would sing the praise of March, you say? 
No need, I know; he surely sings his own. 
Now hear him trumpeting hie deede about! 
Nowwhistliug Iowa sweet and merry time. 
Now brea thing soft as any lady June, 
And ending with a wild and Joyous shout. 
He moves the shapely cedar’s heart with sighs, 
He stirs the shining holly leaves and box; 
Now, trilling with the bright blue-birdB. in flocks, 
Now catching up the mocking-birds’ replies. 
He stands in awe of grave magnolia’s wayB, 
But darts his piercing, shilling shafts of gold 
Upon brown buds thatcerlain promise hold 
Of cups of snowy bloom In later days. 
Ho creeps along the grave-yard’s grassy slopes, 
We may not know what whisperings he hears; 
Wliat throbbing hearts of hall-forgotten years: 
What struggling hands of buried loves and hopes. 
He wrests dead leaves from off the parent bough. 
And vainly tries the wretched wrecks entomb; 
They dance with hixu on beds of violet bloom, 
Now kiss the hyacinths, and lips of crocus now. 
So Jolly, rough and wild each passing day. 
So tender, true and < kind in quiet hours. 
So wooing round our pathway birds and flowers. 
Oh, March! we wish you good-speed on your way. 
MY STEP-SON. 
MAKGARET SCOTT M’RITCHIE. 
I had been married just a year when my life 
experienced Its first great trouble—a trouble self- 
increased by the willful pride and rebellion with 
wblch my headstrong girlhood met it. 
Hitherto my path had been particularly sunny. 
The only child of wealthy and Indulgent parents, 
I became engaged when eighteen years old to Ken¬ 
dal Darcy, a rising barrister, some years my senior^ 
whom I loved with a warmth only equaled by my 
satisfaction when I found that the affection was 
mutual. Aly rather warned him that such a spoilt 
child would prove troublesome; but Kendal had 
no fears on that point, and as yet our wedded life 
had cast little enough or shadow upon us. 
Now and then I did Indeed notice upon iny hus¬ 
band’s face a grave, preoccupied expression that 
I failed to understand, but I knew he was intrust¬ 
ed with important Issues, and, loving lxls profes¬ 
sion as he did. It was no wonder that his mind 
should entertain ns concerns even when he rest¬ 
ed from its duties lu his beautiful home at South 
Kensington. I guessed not that scenes in his past 
lire were the phantoms so frequently arising be¬ 
fore him, haunting him even In his present hap¬ 
piness, unsuspected by hts Joyous girl-m re. 
1 was now about twenty years old, and happier 
than ever, fora beautiful infant boy bad crept 
Into life and love. Ah, what marvelous hopes 
clustered round the rose-pink berceawiette where¬ 
in reposed what the papers announced as our 
“son and heir!’’ Kendal used to pinch my cheeks, 
calling us a couple of babies, when he watched ns 
together; but I kuew he was as proud of our little 
Frank as myselt, though his smile was so quiet 
and his looks were so subdued as he held the wee 
dimpled hand in his own. 
Never shall I forget the morning when we be¬ 
came aware that baby was not the “son and 
heir ’’—chat Kendal had a living son, and that I 
was a step-mother. Wo were breakfasting to¬ 
gether in our favorite room, aud the (lowers were 
nodding in at us through the open windows, while 
the canaries sang their sweetest, when my hus¬ 
band received a black-bordered letter that turned 
his face ghastly white as he perused it. I hur¬ 
ried to get. him brandy, fearing he was going to 
faint. I guessed that something was amiss In his 
banking or professional affairs, but I could not 
annoy him with questions, and silently I knelt 
beside him, putting my arms around him. 
The story was told by-and-by, quickly and ab¬ 
ruptly ; but It was very long ere I realized the 
truth—that 1 was a second wire. In the early 
days of our acquaintance Kendal had heard me 
speak disparagingly of a friend’s marriage, vow¬ 
ing that nothlug should Induce me to marry a 
widower; It was then that he had most unfortu¬ 
nately resolved to keep the ract of his previous 
marriage private; and 1 could well understand 
how much suffering the deception had caused 
him. 
As a youth of twenty-one he had met his first 
wife, the pretty daughter ot a yeoman-farmer, 
and the belle ot the village where his guardian 
Col. Grant resided. Home from college ror his 
vacation, he was delighted for so pleasant an ac¬ 
quaintance to beguile r.Ue tedium of hla stay at 
the Hall, and their dance at the harvest-home 
was the prelude to a very warm friendship. Their 
constant mootings in the sunny meadows and 
shady lanes wero a most agreeable change from 
the hard studies In svhlch Kendal had been en¬ 
gaged. No word save sympathetic friendship had 
been exchanged between them when lie returned 
to college; but, while his labors there soon drove 
hi# pretty companion from his mind, her weaker 
nature was completely changed by the past few 
weeks. By-and-by he was recalled to tbe village 
by a stern note from his guardian, who informed 
him on arrival that Alice Graham was believed to 
be In a hopeless consumption, and that she had 
despairingly betrayed the secret of her love to her 
mother, who had, unknown to herself, appealed 
to Col. Grant for his advice. Kendal was shocked 
Indeed when he saw the change In the girl he had 
left so rosy and blooming; and, though he knew 
he did not deserve all the blame ills guardian and 
her friends evidently considered his due, he could 
not hold himself entirely innocent, lu the matter. 
It was a sad affair. My husband spoke of It 
with trembling voice, aud In deep agitation. It 
seemed as though the very tendrils of Alice Gra¬ 
ham’s life wero twiued round one who realized 
now that pity was the utmost fooling of his heart 
towards her, Her father Insisted on marriage; 
Ms strictly honorable guardian advised the same 
course, seeing that “ the dirfereuee of station had 
not. prevented the courting.” Her mother “ dldna 
speak, but she looked in his face till his heart was 
like to break,” while the village doctor believed 
It was the one chance for her cure, and Alice her¬ 
self, on hearing whispers of such a scheme, ap¬ 
peared quite a Dew creature. 
Kendal was married then In obedience to 
Colonel Grant’s wishes and the promptings of his 
own good feeling, and, on his guardian’s death 
from a fall in the hunting-field, he came into pos¬ 
session of a substantial provision. Uls legal 
studies had kept him much away from home, but 
he always treated his wife with the kindest con¬ 
sideration, and it. was a real grief to him when, 
inconsequence of the sudden tidings of colonel 
Grant’s accident., a premature birth cost the 
young mother her lire. The baby-hoy became 
Kendal’s otic solace In his double loss. I knew too 
well what he felt when he held his first-born In 
his aims, and my heart grew dry and hard at the 
thought that such emotions had been excited by 
another than my little Frank. 
As Kendal's duties called him away from the 
village, Alice’s mother proposed to take charge of 
the baby; and, seeing that she had lately 
adopted an orphan baby ot a late neighbor and 
that It was thriving most admirably, he readily 
agreed to allow her a certain sum for the child’s 
support. In a year or two however ho Intended 
to take a London house for himself, and he made 
It distinctly understood that the child, was to 
leave his grandparents then to be brought up 
under his father’s roof. 
About nine months had elapsed, when he heard 
from Mrs. Graham that the child had succumbed 
to an attack of croup. Wifeless and childless, he 
hurried down to look upon the tiny new-made 
grave, close to that of the mother—for little 
Willie was already burled. The farmer was lu 
with rheumatic fever, and Mrs. Graham was so 
worried and upset that Kendal did not speak with 
her long. He put away the past from him as a 
dream, aud from that day to this he had never 
brought himself to visit the neighborhood again. 
What, then, were his feelings on reading the 
letter received this morning ? It was from the 
vicar of Sprlngmoad, announcing the death of 
the aged woman Graham, who had been long a 
widow, and inclosing a letter addressed to 
“Willie's Father.” During her last illness she 
had fully confessed to the clergyman the Im¬ 
posture or which she had been guilty, begging 
however that It might not be revealed to her son- 
in-law till she had passed beyond Ills wrath. 
Kendal’s boy was still alive and nearly seven 
years old; It was her neighbor’s child that had 
died In Infancy, but her great love for her grand¬ 
son and dread of loBlng him had tempted her to 
take advantage of the circumstance to retain her 
darling with her. The Vicar had soon traced 
Mr. Darcy, the barrister, to his abode, and he 
wrote that Mrs. Graham, even at the last, did not 
seem to realize the extent of her wrong-doing; It 
seemed to her partly excused by the Indulgent 
cure lavished on the child she had taught to call 
her “ grannie,” and by the fact that she had 
never accepted the help of a farthing from her 
son-in-law since she had Imposed upon him. 
Since her husband's death the small farm had 
suffered great misfortunes; It appeared that It 
was now to be sold, and the proceeds were to pay 
the debts the widow’s slender means had forced 
her to contract. 
“ My blue-eyed baby alive,” cried Kendal, as If 
speaking to himself—“ given back to me as It 
were from the grave! 1 oan even forgive the 
cruel wrong in the joy that Is swallowing up 
every other feeling—the Joy to know that my son 
Is not dead 1” 
At that moment 1 almost hated my husband; 
his heart seemed so far from me and my baby 
that a passion of jealous anger seemed rending 
rny soul. With bitter cutting words did I re¬ 
proach him for his deceit, and his only answer 
was a silent look ot pain ; but when, incensed oy 
his quiet manner, I began to hint that the child’s 
training had not been such as to fit him for our 
house, I saw my husband angry with me for the 
first time in his life. 
“A child of six or seven,” said he, “can 
scarcely be considered as trained to perfection- 
even Frank at that age will sometimes need our 
fond correction; but I suppose he will be no less 
our much-loved son.” 
“ Frank has nothing to do with the present," 
was my naughty reply ; “ my son will always be 
a gentleman.’’ 
1 was ashamed of my words as soon as spoken, 
but Kendal made uo reply. He walked up and 
down the room lor several minutes ere he said— 
“lam going down to Sprlngmead to-day, and 
shall probably bring WllUe home on Wednesday 
evening. Come, mamma," he added tenderly', 
“ I know I can trust your woman’s heart towards 
him.” 
“You are mistaken," rejoined I quickly, “if 
yousupposo 1 shall (rouble myself In ihe least 
concerning him. I never arranged for the trying 
life of a step-mother. Frank’s nurse has quite 
enough to do. But the boy Is old enough to attend 
to himself now. If you take my advice, you will 
send him to a thoroughly select school for some 
time before you bring him home.” 
“ You must allow mo to decide that matter,’ 
said Kendal coldly. “My house is my son’s 
home. I will take care that no trouble concern- 
lug him shall fall upon yourself or nurse. Mllll- 
cent "—and he tried to take my hand—” do not 
let us prolong our first disagreement. You mast 
kuow how deep la my love for my wife and our 
baby, but you would despise me lu your heart if I 
felt no yearning towards my first-born." 
“ I have no wish to make matters unpleasant,” 
returned I. withdrawing my hand. “ I only wish 
to know where the child is to sleep, for nurse win 
object to have another In tho nursery, and the 
rooms are all disposed of." 
“ He can have the small red room for a bed¬ 
room.” answered Kendal curtly. 
I had always meant to turn this room into a 
day-nursery ^y-and-by, and I was not at all 
pleased to find my plans frustrated. Without 
another word or look towards my husband, I 
hurried up stairs to my baby to pour Into hLs un¬ 
conscious ears all my Indignant and tumultuous 
feelings. 
My husband tried no more to reconcile me to 
the fact of the child’s residence with us. I saw 
that he was as displeased with my conduct as I 
was with his. But surely I had reason to be 
angry. Not only was T a second wife—a position 
to which I had a strong objection—but a vulgar 
farm-bred boy was to come among among us, 
stealing from my baby the father’s love and tho 
rights of the first-born that should have been bis. 
Bitter tears did I shed that day beside the 
cradle when Kendal had left for Sprlngrnead with 
a “ Good-by, Mllllcent,” called from the bottom 
of the stairs. I imagined that I had already be¬ 
come less dear t.o him, and laid the whole blame 
of the unpleasantness upon the boy who had 
come between us. 
“Never mind, my baby!” I cried, pressing my 
lips to little Frank’s velvet oheek. “ We will love 
and comfort one another through It all.” 
On Wednesday morning I received a long fond 
letter from my husband, full of tender words for 
myself and baby, blaming himself for his secrecy, 
and pleading very hard for a mother’s love for 
his son, however troublesome he might prove at 
first. He said that he had already seen my 
parents, having stopped for that purpose when 
half-way to Sprlngmead, and that they had 
treated him with forbearing kindness he could 
never forget. Instead of adding this letter to the 
precious packet in my dressing-case, I tore It up 
after the first perusal; I was far too angry with 
my fate to be Just towards my husband. 
I asked my cousin Mrs. Tudor to spend the day 
with me, and she eame to lunch, accompanied by 
her two children, and her sister Miss Clemence- 
their presence would take away some of the awk¬ 
ward nervousness with which I looked forward to 
Kendal’s return. I did not enlarge on the facts 
of the case, but told them simply that Mr. Darcy 
had been deceived as to the death or his first 
wife’s child, taking It for granted that they were 
aware i»t a previous marriage. My cousins showed 
neither surprise nor curiosity, whatever their 
feelings may have been. Mis3 Clamenee hoped 
Willie would be a good boy, and give me no annoy¬ 
ance; aud Mrs. Tudor, turning to her boy and 
girl, expensively dressed in the hlght of fashion, 
hoped they would bo good friends with the new 
cousin that they would see that evening. 
It was nearly six o'clock when a cab drove up 
to the door, and I heard my husband’s voice 
through the open wlneow. A tastefully-spread 
tea waited upon the table—for we had made the 
luncheon our dinner, as Archie and Beatrice 
Tudor could not be kept out late. Wo were 
laughing and chatting pleasantly when Kendal 
came in; little Frank, in his very best lace robe, 
lay fast asleep in my lap, and l had no intention 
of waking him by disturbing my position In aoy 
way. 
My husband greeted my relatives very cordially, 
though I fancy he was disagreeably surprised at 
their presence; at any rate, he went, back Into 
tbe hall, saying, “ Run up stairs with Martha. 
Willie, and get yourself tidy, for the tea Is quite 
ready.” 
“I have engaged a nurse for Willie at a 
registry-office,” said Kendal to me In an under¬ 
tone; “he Is far from strong, and Martha will 
see to him entirely. Sturdy fellow this!” he 
added, turning to Mis8 Clemence as he bent to 
kiss the baby. 
I knew that he wanted me to look at him, that 
he might read my feelings in my eyes, bur.I kept 
my race resolutely bent down, in deep displeasure 
that a servant had been added to our household 
Independently or my own will and choice. 
Kendal was thoroughly nervous when he 
brought his son into the room, and bade him 
shake hands h 1 l round. My careless glance as I 
touched his hand revealed a thin, pale child, very 
awkward and frightened, in a black sailor-suit of 
country make, presenting a marked contrast to 
the self-possessed little Tudors who stared at him 
with the curiosity incident to their age. It was a 
relief that he was not vulgar-tooklng; however I 
chose to mistake his shyness for 111-breedlQg, and 
determined to punish Kendal thoroughly through 
the child. Little Willie sat beside hts father at 
tea, and, finding his child so ilttle noticed, Kendal 
lavished upon him a fondness that Inti lined my 
jealousy every moment. His first choice at table 
being a slice of very rich cake, of wblch the 
smallest morsel was sufficient for chlldreu, my 
husband, with tho thoughtlessness of a man, 
heaped hla plate with It. I knew that such a 
meal after a long journey would certainly harm 
the boy, but I had not the grace to clothe my 
remonstrance pleasantly. I turned to Kendal 
with the cold remark— 
“ That slice should he divided between the 
three children; no child should eat so much rich 
cake.” 
“ It won’t hurt Wiuie,” said Kendal obstinately; 
and, without noticing me further, he turned to 
converse with Mrs. Tudor. 
r noticed however that after the first taste 
little Willie only crumbled his food, gazing round 
the table with crimsoning cheeks, and gulping 
down his tea as though forcing back something 
in ids throat. I was becoming as nervous as the 
child, for I had a horror of scenes, and I knew 
very well what was coming. 
“Eat your cake, Willie, like a man,” said my 
husband, as a lull in the conversation took place. 
"I am afraid he has a very poor appetite,” 
remarked Miss Clemence; “ he has oaten nothing 
as yet.” 
Dismayed to find himself the object of general 
attention. Willie hastily swallowed a piece of 
cake, and then what I had forseen took place 
He buried hts face In his small thin hands, and 
pushing away his plate, burst out crying. If my 
husband had been absent,, I must have taken the 
motherless boy In my arms and hushed him as I 
did my own Frank; as It was, I looked at the 
sleeping child on the couch, and remarked that 
he would be ill all night lr suddenly awakened. 
Miss Clemenoe told Willie nobody would love bltu 
If be was not well-behaved; Mrs. Tudor said some¬ 
thing about "spoilt children;” Archie abruptly 
produced a stick of chocolate from his pocket and 
forced it between Willie’s fingers, and little Bea¬ 
trice twined her arms around his neck, whisper¬ 
ing, “ Please, don’t cry cousin.” 
“The child Ls tired.” said I; “he cries only 
from fatigue. He had better go to bed and have 
something to eat there.” 
Kendal was very much annoyed at this public 
manifestation, ne gave me a look almost of dis¬ 
gust at the Indifference of ray tones, and then, 
raising Willie gently In his arms, he carried him 
away. The last sound I heard was, *• Grannie ! 
I do waut grannie!’’ and the walling cry haunted 
me throughout the evening. 
From that time a great coldness arose between 
rny husband and myself; while outwardly the 
same united couple, both were conscious thatja 
barrier. In tbe shape of little WllUe, really sepa¬ 
rated us. It so happened that this was terra-time, 
when Kendal was constantly occupied Horn 
home; but, when we were together, I easily re¬ 
cognized the absence of his former little tender¬ 
nesses, and my heart grew harder and harder 
against the child who, r chose to believe, had 
usurped my place. 
WUUe was left entirely to the management of 
hla nurse, a person whose cringing manners tow. 
ard myself at once prejudiced me against her. 
She was constantly complaining to me of the 
willfulness or her charge, and I told her at last 
that he had been uuder her sole control for sev¬ 
eral weeks, and I had hoped for a report of a 
slight Improvement at least. My great wish was 
to get the child away to school; evil pas¬ 
sions once encouraged pervert the better na¬ 
ture, and, despite the occasional whispers of con¬ 
science, i threw off all responsibility concerning 
him, disliking even the sound of his voice or the 
mention of his name- It Kendal was displeased 
with tils home-training, why did he not send him 
away? 
“ That boy Is always crying,” said my husband 
Irritably one morning, as he puUed on his gloves 
In the hall. “ r wonder what 13 the matter 
no ft.” 
“ It Is perfectly dreadful at his age,” returned 
I. “Mamma wiu be here next week, and lam 
sure the noise wfil quite upset her." 
" Willie must go to school next quarter,” said 
he; “ it will be altogether better for. him than 
this house.” 
He turned toward the door, for our fond adleux 
were things of the past; but i saw before us a re¬ 
turn ot the old happy days, vv hen WUlle should 
no longer he au ever-present source of disagree¬ 
ment, and my heart went out yearningly toward 
my husband. 
“ You might spare me a kiss said I, coloring 
and I put my hand on his arm. 
There was a sort of affection In his look, as he 
answered sternly — 
“When I have once seen you kiss my child, I 
shall know you care for such tokens from me. 
Till then, let neither of us pretend regard, Mllll¬ 
cent.” 
"Be It so,” said I, white with angry pride. 
“ You will never see me kiss that boy. I hate tho 
very sight ot him!” 
“ Take care of what you are saying,” remarked 
Kendal quietly; “those are dangerous words to 
utter." 
He nad Just left the house when wi file’s scream¬ 
ing reached a higher pitch than ever, and I hur¬ 
ried up-statrs in a rage, determined to exercise 
my authority for ouce, to show the child such an 
annoyance was unbearable. Pushing open the 
door of the room where Martha gave him his 
meals, I beheld a scene that fully accounted for 
his cries. The nurse held both his wrists In a 
cruel grasp, and was beating him unmercifully 
about, the head. 
“Say I’m tipsy agalu, you rascal!” said she in 
thick, stupid tones. “You’ll tell your pa I was 
tipsy all night, will you. when I was rolling In 
agony with the spasms? I've half a mind to kiu 
you, I have—and 1 will too, if you go tale-bearing 
to your pa 1” 
I wrenched the child from her hold, and con¬ 
fronted the astonished woman. My fear of intox¬ 
ication was completely overpowered by my indig¬ 
nation, aud l spoke calmly and decisively. 
“Go to bed, Martha; you are unfit for your 
duties to-day. When you are better, I shall see 
you agalu.” 
