SEPT 3© 
9 
673 
THE STORY OF STONY BROOK FARM. 
HENRY STEWART. 
CHAPTER XT. 
(Continued from page 657 ) 
“ Oh! I wish that man had me to deal with. 
I’d like to see him twist me round his finger 
in that wa 5 r ,” she remarked one day at the 
village sewing circle. “Not that I think my 
brother Jonas ira’t as good as Patience 
Bartlett any day, but her father never did 
use her well, and made a perfect slave of her 
mother. Why it’s well known be was the 
death of her. But all men are alike, I do be¬ 
lieve. There’s young Merritt gone off with 
an Injun squaw, and never sent a word to his 
lone mother for nigh a year. How the poor 
old woman is fretting over it, too.” 
“You haven’t heard about the old lady 
getting a package of money sent her; left 
under the front door the other night then,” 
said Mis3 Dorcas Plainlv. 
“Why.no! du tell! You don’t say!” chimed 
a chorus of listeners. “ Who could’ve sent 
it?” 
“Well it came anyhow; a lot of hundred- 
dollar bills done up in a paper, with ‘ Sent 
from the Lord ’ written on it." 
“ Th i Lord, indeed!” sneered Miss Sally 
Pratt, but without lifting her eyes from her 
work “ No one could have sent it but her 
boy, Barley. Mebbe he’s doin’ well among 
the Injuns. They do say they make a deal of 
money catchin’ fur and makin’ little knick- 
knacks with beads and things. Bat they do 
drink awfully and fight like tigers and make 
the women do all the work, with the babies 
tied onto their backs.” 
“Do you think young Merritt has gone 
with them?” asked one of the ladies 
“To be sure 1 do,” snapped out Miss Sally. 
“Brother Sam seen him wit i his squaw, dead 
drunk, when the Inj ms came in to trade 
furs for liquor. They lay round drunk like 
hogs until the liquor was all used up, and 
then they begged for more. That’s the way 
they all do.” 
“Not all of them, I believe, Miss Pratt,” 
said a quiet member of the circle, without 
looking up from her sewing. “ My sister’s 
husband, you know, is a missionary among 
the Chippaway3 at L'Ans>, not far from Iron- 
burg, and he writes that the Indians have a 
church there with 70 members, a Sunday- 
school and a day-school, both well attended; 
they can nearly all read and write; some 
have farms well stocked, and some are em¬ 
ploy d by the raining companies as messen¬ 
gers and mail carriers, and are thoroughly 
trusted by the busiaess men and the agents 
of the mines He says there is uo truth in the 
report about young Merritt, but that the 
general impression is that he was killed in a 
great storm, for it is known that he wa9 out 
in it in the woods. The fact is, I believe, that 
the poor Indians are generally very badly 
used and very much maligned.” 
“Well there’s alius two sides to a story I 
know, but what brother 8am has seen I’d 
believe, as soon as what nobody else has seen, 
andoDly takes on hearsay,” replied Miss Bally. 
“Some folks are too good to believe any bad.” 
“Yes that’s true Miss Pratt, and some 
people are too 1 ad to believe any good,” 
retorted the quiet lady. 
This threatened breach was averted by a 
tudden enquiry from a corner of the room: 
“Qid yen say Patience Battlett is going to 
marry your brother Jona*, Miss 8 illy?" 
“So I expect, at least, so I’ve been told and 
I believe its true.” 
“Whv he’s old enough to be her father.” 
“Ob! I gue snot; Jonas Is in the prime of 
life, I’m his sister and ought to know.” 
“Well you’re over fifty if you’re a day,” spite¬ 
fully remarked a lady in another corner. 
“I beg your pardon marm, and I don’t know 
what my age has to do with it anyhow.” 
“Ob, nothing at all, its your brother we 
were talking about. But is it true he’s going 
to marry Patience Bartlett? if so I tbiuk it’s 
a great pity'—for Patience I mean—and an 
ill assorted marriage; although your brother 
is concerned in it Miss Pratt." 
“Well, I can’t help it. 1 don’t excuse the 
girl’s father for his share of it, but if she’s 
willin’ I don’t see as itsanyoue ’s husiness. I 
only know he’s a dreadful obstinate man 
when he’s set on anything, and they do say 
he’s set on this marriage. I don’t know what 
for, he and brother Jonas were always close 
friends since they w ere neighbors. What will 
he do himself alone without Patience I 
wonder?” 
“That’s a good chance for you to marry 
him yourself,” chimed in a th/n faced young 
woman who was busy at a quilting frame. 
“Thank'ee marm not if 1 know it; but he'd 
make a first rate match br you; two balky 
horses make a good team I've heard say, for 
when one won’t go the other wants to.” 
“Come, come, ladies this won’t do; this 
ain’t the Christian conversation that ought to 
occupy your time hero.” said the minister who 
just then came in, in time to quench the fire 
brands which were being tossed about. “Let 
your conversation be w ithout malice and be 
ye kind one to another!” 
And there was silence in the sewing circle 
for the space of half a minute. 
While this was going on at the meeting 
house, Bartlett and Pratt were having at? in¬ 
terview at the accustomed fence corner and 
trying to make arrangements for working the 
farm together. 
“The farm oughter never a bin divided,” 
remarked Bartlett. “I’ve all the uplands and 
you’ve all the interval, vou’ve no paster and 
I’ve too much of it. Paster is all very well 
but butter don’t pay like terbacker and 
terbacker don’t ef you’ve got to buy manure. 
And if Patience gets married I’ve no butter 
maker. ” 
“That’s so," said Jonas, “terbacker sells 
well but so does manure, and what you make 
outer the crop goes out for manure, that’s a 
fact. With your hay medders and my ter¬ 
backer land I guess we kin get double what 
we’re doin now.” 
“What yer goin to do with that iron on the 
hill Jonas, there’s a lot o’ money in that? 
Squire Barney ’ll take all you kin git out at a 
good price, and it’s easy got out.” 
“I’ve bin thinkio o’ borrerin some money 
from Judge Bates. They say he’s a pardner 
in the furnace to Salsburg. I guess if you’d 
back my note for two or three thousand the 
Judge’d give me the money,seein as the iron’d 
go to the furnace." 
“I never backed a note for anybody and 
what’s more I never will; you’d better giv the 
judge a morgeMge, you’ll get the interest a 
sight 1 iwer ’n if you give a note.” 
“Mebbe that would be better. I tell you 
what I’ll do Birtlett. You work the farm 
and I’ll work the ore bed and we’ll divide, 
share and share alike. Patience kin do all 
there’s to be done with a few more cows and 
you can tend ten acres in terbacker, with a 
little help.” 
“Call it a bargain Jonas and we’ll get the 
Squire to draw up a paper so as there’ll be no 
mistakes about it. I’d get the other cows and 
you get the money to open the ore bed.” 
So the two men made the bargain and 
Patience was thrown in without even the 
formality of being included in the paper. 
Defiance Bartlett chuckled over his part of 
the bargain and Pratt was equally pleased 
with his. 
“Thete’ll he the terbacker as ’ll bring two 
tbousind at least, and mebbe three,” said 
Bartlett, “and there’ll be the low medder for 
early and late paster and all my uplands ’ll 
do fer hay ami corn. That’ll make another 
thousand. Then that ore bed is a fortin’ in 
itself and I’ll get half o’ that. What a blamed 
fool Jonas is surely.” 
And Jonas reasoned on his part too. “I’ve 
got the bitch on the old man I guess. The 
manure fer that terbacker land’s worth 500 a 
year; that’s saved anyhow; and I’ll get half o’ 
the dairy sure. Ef the ore bed don’t turn out 
well I’m all right, and ef it does I’ll have the 
figgerin, an if I can’t get ahead of the old 
mau a figgerin, why,—drat me—that’s all.” 
CHAPTER XII. 
The Summer was fast drawing to a close. 
The deepening shadows came across the val¬ 
ley earlier day by day; the yellow leaves be¬ 
gan to appear on the fringe of shrubbery 
wLich bordered the woods on the hills, the 
corn tassels nodded low in the breeze and the 
great ears, filled until they burst out at the 
►eps of the husk, showed golden graiu ripen¬ 
ing fast within. Already the newly sown 
fields of rye and wheat were green, and made 
the well worn pastures sere and brown by 
comparison; the orchards were bowed with 
their burdens of crimson fruit and heavy 
laden branches rested upon the ground to 
ease themselves. Looking over to the Stone 
House Farm one might have seen early on a 
bright morning, a tall flag pole and the stars 
and stripes hauled to the peak and unfolded 
to the breeze. Something unusual was about 
to happen. This was the arrival of the pa¬ 
rents of George and Emily Bates from their 
European tour and the visit of Uncle John 
and his family who came to meet the return¬ 
ing travelers. Great preparations had been 
made to welcome them. The house was 
dressed out with evergreen branches; a grand 
arch of hemlock boughs spaoned the gateway 
and wreathed flowers of golden rod formiog 
the words WELCOME HOME stood out 
conspicuously from the dark green back 
ground. The path to the house was strewn 
likewise with fragrant branches of hemlock 
and the doorway was wholly wreathed with 
cords and festoons of wild flowers of varied 
colors, the spoils of a day’s hard work by Ja- 
bez who, as he complained, was forced to go 
a mile away because every weed had been 
cut and cleared out of the fences at ho me and 
not even an aster showed its purple eye any¬ 
where on the Stone House farm. “It’s a 
poor farm as can’t afford to have a few flow¬ 
ers in the fence rows Miss Emily,” said 
Jabez often enough; “they don’t do any 
harm, an l it goss agin the grai n to kill 
every pretty thing just because you don’t 
have to pay for ’em, and th ey comes 
free to poor and rich. What ’ll the poor 
hees do when all the w ild flewrrs is 
killed off and nary a weed can be fo und in a 
fence row, or a daisy in a field. I’d far 
sooner want a gold dol lar in my pocket than 
miss the bright golden rod from the road 
sides and the fences. Th ere’s a place for the 
poor folks in the world Miss Emily and these 
wild flowers is like the poor folks and the 
roses ud the gladiolers in the garden is like 
the rich folks. But the world can’t get on 
without the poor folks anyhow, Miss Emily.” 
Everything was now ready, the smoke of 
the coming locomotive could be seen down the 
lower valley as it wound about the hillsides 
some miles away, and gradually approaching 
until it disappeared on the other side of the 
nearest hills, and parsed on outside of this 
Stony Brook Valley, but leaving its shril 
screech as a parting salutation a« it left the 
gap in which the little station lay. By and 
by the carriages were seen on the road, and 
in a few miautes parents and children and 
uncles and aunts and cousins were in a perfect 
melee of embraces and kisses. Never was a 
party so well pleased. They shook hands, and 
the girls danced around and bugged each 
other over and over again, and said so often 
how glad they were. The parents were greatly 
improved by their long rest and change of 
scene, and were agreeably surprised to find 
the farm in so good a condition. Mrs. Bates 
was especially pleased to find her daughter so 
good a housekeeper and the house so comfort¬ 
able. 
“ Oh! Emily,this is home; how quiet and 
restful It is; it seems as if my girlhood had 
come back again with all its freedom from 
care. How I have to thank you, my dear 
child.” 
(To be continued.) 
“MARCY HARDWICK.” 
We rarely meet with anything more touch¬ 
ingly, tenderly, beautiful than this that we 
quote from “ Marcy Hardwick," in Lippin- 
cott's for August.—Eds. 
“ Marcy’s face began to q liver, and her pa. 
thetic eyes grew moist. So would theirs had 
they known how she was struggling to pre¬ 
vent the contortions of her facial muscles, 
and how she yearned to make clear to them 
a mental condition she could not find any 
words to express. 
St. Vitus's dance was not an alarming mal¬ 
ady. She would outgrow it as other children 
did. It subjected her to remarks and rude star¬ 
ing from the really kind people who came to the 
house. One or two wrinkled old women 
studied her mysteriously, and conferred con¬ 
fidentially concerning her in a way that 
aroused her apprehensions. Her mother dis¬ 
cussed with these disfavored women some 
secret relating to her. She was too sensitive 
to bear all this. She was gtad to flee at the 
approach of a neighbor. A natural shyness 
was so stimulated by the torture she under¬ 
went when the movements of her face ex¬ 
cited comment, that she preferred to hide from 
even her parents, and was learning to love 
darkness better than light. 
****** 
They had consulted the country doctor, 
and done what they oould in their homely 
way. But the Winter passed, and in the 
Spring the affection continued. As the warm 
days came on, Mr. Hardwick was busy in his 
clearing, and was seldom about borne be¬ 
tween breakfast and supper-time. Here was 
Mrs. Hardwick’s opportunity. Her husband’s 
incredulity should no longer stand in the 
way of her child’B good. She dared not let 
him know, for once or twice when she had 
hinted at the infallible remedy, she had met 
with a refusal which partook of anger. Sun¬ 
dry consultations were furtively held with 
sundry people she had known beyond the 
AUeghanies. Marcy was assured that, if she 
would never let her father know how it was 
done, she should be cured. 
A crooked old neighhor—Mr. Helburger— 
and his toothless wife appeared one day, bear¬ 
ing a small auger and a cork. The awe¬ 
stricken child was led to the willow. Her 
back was placed against it. A hole was bored 
in the trunk, exactly as high up as the top of 
her head. A golden tress of her hair was 
shorn, wrapped carefully, and inserted as 
far as the heart of the tree. The cork was 
driven after it, and the bark so nicely patched 
with grafting-wax that even Mr. Hard¬ 
wick’s eyes never discovered the abrasion. 
From this time his favorite tree grew faster. 
Soon the closest inspection oould not have led 
to a suspicion that it was holding, close to 
its heart, the glossy tress of a little maiden’s 
hair. 
****** 
The day came in June. The woods were 
resonant with music. The meadow was 
sweet with clever and br'ght with butter¬ 
cups. The blue heavens were flecked with 
soft clouds. The sprays of the willow, as 
bright and graceful as if they bad been woven 
of the glpamfDg tress imprisoned in its heart, 
swung daintily in the breeze. The oxen 
waited patiently at the bars, but no master 
came to yoke them. She who loved them 
most was leaving all these forever. One 
strange, sicklv child dying in the country—a 
child of the ohscure and poor—a little shat¬ 
tered. drifting flower passing out of sight on 
the great river of life. She was entering 
alone, with ^er tender feet, the dark valley 
that appalls the world. In her short life she 
had loved every beautiful thing—had played 
with the flowers, made friend-* of the birds, 
and confided in the trees. What sympathy 
had they with her now ? 
A cluster of white clover blossoms was laid 
on her breast. Her rich hair enveloped her 
to the waist. Her face was still at last. The 
curious, coarse, kind women might talk 
about it now. She would not hear. 
The cheap coffin was placed on two chairs. 
The women found improvised benches inside 
the house. Most of the men stood outside 
the door. All within hearing waited with 
uncovered heads. An itinerant preacher 
faithfully following the light he possessed, 
added what be could to the general discom¬ 
fort, and did what he could to put out 
such poor hope of happiness as the sad parents 
had. Four sunburnt youths, laying their 
straw hats reverently on the coffin, bore it 
out. Several farm wagons were slowly 
filled with stolid hut sorrowful friends, and 
Marcy went down the damp road among the 
yellow butterflies for the last time. 
In the evening the Hardwicks found their 
chores attended to by kind neighbors. They 
made no reply when these tried the standing 
consolation that their daughter was better off. 
After setting the rude table, the friends with¬ 
drew to their o vn homes. There was no plate 
at Marcy’s place. The two sat down me¬ 
chanically at the board, Mrs. Hardwick, 
after pouring the tea, arose, buried her face 
in her apron, and took her place by the hearth. 
Mr, Hardwick bowed his head on the table, 
and wept as a strong man may do, ia hovel 
or mamion, when the first n'ght cornea on 
after he has buried his only child. 
He could not sit by his hearthstone. He could 
notstay in the hushed cabin; there stood her 
chair, her cap, her snoes. He went out in the 
darkness, on some trifling pretext, and wan¬ 
dered up and down from the house to the 
spring. He slowly found the willow, not 
hearing the owl that brushed out from its 
branches as he approached. He laid his throb¬ 
bing forehead against it. The whispering of 
the sprays above him but added to his un¬ 
rest. He bad done the best he could for his 
suffering, sensitive Marcy, yet he thought 
now that he mignt have made her short life a 
little happier. He wondered if she could be 
looki ng down on him to scon from the stars.” 
--- 
A JUDICIOUS WIFE. 
A JUDicrous wife, says Ruskin, is always 
nipping off from her hu band’s moral nature 
little twigs that are growing in wrong direc¬ 
tions. She keeps him in ebape by continued 
pruning. If you say anything silly she will 
affectionately tell you so. If you declare 
that you will do some absurd thing, she 
will find some means of preventing you from 
doing it. And by far the chief part of all 
the common sense there is in this world 
belongs unquestionably to women. The wisest 
things a man commonly does are those which 
his wife counsels him to do. A wife is 
a grand wielder of the moral pruning 
knife. If Johnson’s wife had lived, there would 
have been no hoarding up of orange peel, no 
touching all the posts in walking along the 
streets, no eating and drinking with disgust¬ 
ing voracity. If Oliver Goldsmith had been 
married, he never would have worn that 
memorable and ridiculous coat. Whenever 
you find a man whom you know but little 
about oddly dressed, or talking absurdly, or 
exhibiting eccentricity of manner, you may 
be sure that he is not a married man, for the 
corners are rounded off, the little shoots 
pared away, in married men. Wives have 
generally much more sense than their hus¬ 
bands, even though they may be clever men. 
The wife's advice is like the ballast that keeps 
the ship steady. 
-- 
A KISS ON THE SLY. 
There is to be found much refreshment in 
a well-proportioned kiss. This much every¬ 
body acknowledges, though only a frank few 
have the courage to acknowledge it 
openly. And it is a curious fact, as yet unex¬ 
plained by the philosopher, that the slyer the 
kiss is the more there is in it of refreshment. 
