1900 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
5i9 
Iti Old Manomet Village. 
Part I. 
The wooden church at Manomet was 
old and weather-worn. On Summer Sab¬ 
baths the swallows would dart In 
through its open windows, and twitter 
softly during service. Often I’ve seen 
Elizabeth leaning back in her mother’s 
high, hard pew, her beautiful eyes fol¬ 
lowing the bright winged things while 
the minister prayed and exhorted. He 
was a good man, that minister. He wore 
a threadbare coat, and a high stock that 
seemed always choking him, and he car¬ 
ried his own bag of corn on his back to 
the mill. The miller never took any toll 
for the minister’s corn. My father kept 
the village store, and one night at early 
candle lighting, the minister entered our 
place and asked for a gallon of molasses. 
My father filled his jug even with the 
stopper. “What is to pay?” said the 
good man, as he drew out his thin purse. 
“I’ll take my pay in preaching, Par¬ 
son,” answered my father promptly. 
“That will he receiving hitter for 
sweet,” said the minister with a smile. 
Next to the church stood the school 
house. Elizabeth sat near me on one of 
its wooden benches. Sometimes we 
studied from the same dog-eared spell¬ 
ing book. She was all pink and white, 
like mayflowers under the pine needles 
in Spring. Her brown hair curled thick 
about her shoulders, and her eyes were 
dark like the sea in a storm. I wasn’t 
10 years old when I fell in love with 
Elizabeth. My head is white now, but I 
love her memory still. Besides keeping 
the village store, my father made fish 
lines, and sold them at different places 
along Cape Cod, where, naturally, they 
were in demand. At certain times he 
would harness his horse and start off to 
collect payment for the lines, and often 
I went in the wagon with him. One day, 
on a journey of this kind, we stopped at 
a little store in a sandy wind-blown cape 
town, and found that the proprietor had 
just died. His widow, behind closed 
doors, was crying as though her heart 
would break. 
“Jonas was carried out only yester¬ 
day,” she said to my father. “We sold 
all your lines but I’ve had to spend the 
money for his sickness and burial. I 
want to pay you, but there isn’t a dollar 
left. Will you look around the store, 
sir, and take goods enough to square 
our account?” My father consented to 
the plan, and cast about to see what he 
could find. At last he stopped before a 
shelf piled with bonnets—big scoops, fit¬ 
ting into each other like spoons. 
“They came from a ship,” said the 
widow, “that was wrecked out here on 
the shoals, just before Jonas fell sick. 
They are good, foreign straw, you see, 
and all the latest fashion. I brushed the 
sand from them myself, and dried them 
well. They’re not hurt one bit, sir, and 
they’ll be sure to sell.” 
My father stood awhile looking at the 
queer things. Then he answered, ‘We’ve 
a lot of girls at Manomet. I’ll take the 
bonnets, ma’am, and call your debt can¬ 
celed.” He bundled the scoops into the 
wagon and covered them with a horse 
blanket. The next morning they were 
spread out for sale in our store window, 
and that same day Captain Jack Rolfe 
came home from sea. Perhaps you don’t 
see the connection betwixt the bonnets 
and the Captain. But my father saw it, 
when all the marriageable girls in town 
came hurrying to our store for the latest 
fashion 'in scoops. Captain Jack was 
Manomet-born, but he had gone early to 
sea, and was now master of a New Bed¬ 
ford whaler. He had doubled the Horn 
again and again, and chased Greenland 
whales In Arctic seas, and sailed far 
south for sperm. Whale oil was worth 
money in those days—everybody employ¬ 
ed it for artificial light and the lubrica¬ 
tion of machinery, and whaling masters 
made handsome fortunes. Captain Rolfe 
was just the man to have a hand in such 
luck when it was going; and being also 
a handsome, dashing fellow, mighty 
gay and good natured, his arrival in the 
town set the girls in a flutter. It was 
of a Friday, I remember, and the rush 
for the bonnets continued till the last 
one was sold. My sister, Lucinda, had 
the first choice. She took a black and 
white straw, and loaded it with flowers 
and ribbons till it looked like nothing 
earthly. Cindy had hair as red as fire, 
and the whitest teeth in the world. 
“When he was last in Manomet,” said 
she, “Jack Rolfe used to see me home 
regularly from singing school; and when 
he went away, he promised to bring me 
a present from Greenland.” 
“I wonder what he’s got for you,” said 
I, “a whale’s tooth or a barrel of blub¬ 
ber?” 
“I always liked Jack,” confessed Cin¬ 
dy, ignoring my curiosity. “Father says 
if he makes another voyage like the last, 
he can quit the sea and settle down at 
his ease.” 
“My eyes!” said I, deeply 'impressed, 
“he must have harpooned a lot of 
whales!” 
“Yes, and the captain of a four-boat 
ship like Jack’s, with spare boats on the 
hurricane deck, is entitled to one punch¬ 
eon of oil out of every-” 
“Lucindy!” interrupted my mother, 
“you are going on scandalous. Stop that 
talk, and put the suet in the puddling.” 
About noon the door of our store opened 
again, and a new customer fluttered in. 
It was Elizabeth, panting hard, and 
grasping a silver piece in her hand. 
Father was at dinner, so he sent me be¬ 
hind the counter to serve. Elizabeth 
and I were of the same age—16—but her 
shining head stood an inch or two high¬ 
er than mine. 
“Joey,” she said, breathlessly, “I want 
to buy one of those new bonnets.” 
“They’re all gone,” I answered. 
“Mother sold the last before the clock 
struck 12.” 
Her face fell. “Oh, Joey, are you 
suret Haven’t you one left?” I made a 
pretence of rummaging through the win¬ 
dow, though I knew no bonnet was 
there. 
“All the girls in town seem possessed 
to-day,” I explained. “They’ve trooped 
to this store ever since daylight-” 
“But Mother never heard of the bon¬ 
nets till well into the morning,” grieved 
Elizabeth. “Then she gave me this 
money, and I ran every step of the way 
here to get one.” Fired with sudden 
jealousy, I answered, “Good Lord! girls 
are awful fools, ’Lisbeth! What a fuss 
you are all making over one oily whale¬ 
man, to be sure!” Now it happened 
that the news of Rolfe’s return had not 
yet reached the Miller house, and Eliza¬ 
beth looked bewildered. 
“I don’t know what you mean, Joey.” 
I wasn’t going to enlighten her, so I 
went on poking through the window. 
“Mother can’t afford me many new 
things,” she explained in a trembling 
voice, “but this time she said I should, 
for once, be like the other girls. My old 
hat is very shabby—not fit for Sunday 
wear any longer. Oh, I suppose you 
haven’t overlooked one bonnet in some 
corner, Joey?” 
“No,” I answered, “here’s salt and tea, 
and calico, and shingle nails, and cod¬ 
fish, but not the ghost of a bonnet, ’Lis¬ 
beth. I wish I’d known it in time, 
though—I’d have saved the whole batch 
for you.” 
She was awfully disappointed. “Never 
mind,” she tried to say, “thank you, 
Joey.” But she choked up suddenly, and 
hurried out of the store. I looked 
through the window, and, as she went 
down the street, I saw that she was cry¬ 
ing. I waited till I heard Cindy rattling 
the dinner things in the kitchen, and 
then I sneaked out to her. 
“I’ll wipe the dishes for you, Cindy,” 
I said. 
She stared at me, with her nose in the 
air, as though scenting secrets. 
“Good boy!” said she, “you’re not 
often taken this way.” I wiped the 
dishes, smashing a cup and saucer, and 
some dinner plates, and cutting my fin¬ 
ger half through with the carving kn'ife; 
then I began: 
“Say, Cindy, what price did father put 
on them Cape Cod bonnets?” 
“A dollar each,” said Cindy. 
“I’ve got two silver dollars, and some 
tame rabbits, and an old gun—I’ll give 
the whole business for that coal scuttle 
of yours, Cindy.” The dish cloth drop¬ 
ped from her hand. 
“The boy is clean crazy!” said she. 
“Oh, come now!” I urged, “you’ll never 
get another offer like it—two dollars in 
money, and the rabbits, and the gun.” 
Cindy skipped to a cupboard, and, before 
I was aware, whipped out her new head 
gear, and plumped it squarely on my 
Shock head, tying the ribbons tight un¬ 
der my chin. I was a brawny, freckled 
lad, and there was cause, no doubt, for 
her shrieks of laughter as she danced 
around me. 
“Oh, Joey, you are a show!” she cried. 
“Would you like to go to church in it 
Sunday morning? You must have my 
petticoat, too, and my new mantle, and 
my turkey tail fan! Father, father!” 
raising her voice to a terrible pitch, 
“come quick, and see our Joey!” This 
was too much. The kitchen door stood 
open—with a leap I gained the garden. 
My first thought was to strike a bee-liine 
for the Miller house, and give my prize 
openly to Elizabeth; but Cindy was close 
on my heels. As I dodged through the 
currant bushes and bean poles, and 
trampled mother’s sage bed, I found that 
pesky girl gaining on me. I tugged at 
her infernal bonnet, but the ribbons were 
in a knot and I couldn’t loose them. At 
the foot of the garden was an old, dis¬ 
used well that father had partly covered. 
The curb was gone, and the mouth most¬ 
ly concealed in brushwood. In my haste 
I forgot the thing, and blundered 
straight into it. The water was like ice, 
and I gave a yell as I went down, strik¬ 
ing knees and elbows on the mossy 
stones. Cindy flew for a rope and a pole, 
and fished me out of the well, and 
when she had taken off the scoop and 
rolled me on the grass she cuffed me 
handsomely. I gathered myself up and 
watched her shaking the wet from her 
flowers and ribbons. 
“Hang your bonnet!” said I. “First 
’twas wrecked in salt water, and now it’s 
got a plunge in fresh. In its present 
state, Cindy, I wouldn’t give more than 
the gun for it.” 
“You limb!” cried Cindy, and she scur¬ 
ried back to the house to dry the scoop, 
and I was forced to abandon all further 
attempt to console Elizabeth.—‘Frank 
Leslie’s Popular Monthly. 
With the Procession. 
Rise, if the past detains you, 
Her sunshine and storms forget, 
No chains so unworthy to hold you, 
As those of a vain regret. 
Sad or bright, she is lifeless for ever, 
Cast her phantom arms away, 
Nor look back, save to learn the lesson 
Of a nobler strife to-day. 
—Adelaide Anne Proctor. 
Virtue best loves those children that 
she beats.—Herrick. 
The luxury of doing good surpasses 
every other personal enjoyment.—Gay. 
God gives every bird its food, but He 
does not throw it into the nest.—J. G. 
Holland. 
Let anyone set his heart to do what 
is right, and ere long his brow is 
stamped with all that goes to make up 
heroic expression.—Charles Kingsley. 
Tiie degree of virtue anyone possesses 
is best manifested in times of adversity. 
Trials do not cause human frailty, but 
they serve to display what a man really 
is.—Thomas a Kempis. 
MOTHERS.—Be sure to use “Mrs. Wins¬ 
low’s Soothing Syrup” for your children 
while Teething. It is the Best— Adv. 
There is no killing the suspicion that 
deceit has once begotten.—George Eliot. 
Be wise and teach, but do not punish, 
for God’s in His Heaven, and all’s right 
with the world.—Fra Elbertus. 
Let your zeal begin upon yourself, 
and then you may with justice extend it 
to your neighbors.—Thomas a Kempis. 
There are no persons more solicitous 
about the preservation of rank than 
those who have no rank at all.—Shen- 
stone. 
The man without a purpose is like a 
ship without a rudder—a waif, a noth¬ 
ing, a no man. Have a purpose in life, 
and, having it, throw such strength of 
mind and muscle into your work as God 
has given you.—Carlyle. 
Profaneness is a brutal vice. He who 
indulges in it is no gentleman—I care 
not what his stamp may be in society, or 
what clothes he wears, or what culture 
he boasts. Despite all his refinement, 
the light and habitual taking of God’s 
name in vain betrays a coarse and 
brutal will.—E. H. Chapin. 
He who wishes to exert a useful in¬ 
fluence must be careful to insult noth¬ 
ing. Let him not be troubled with what 
seems absurd, but consecrate his ener¬ 
gies to the creation of what is good. He 
must not demolish, but buikl. He must 
raise temples where mankind may come 
and partaae of the purest pleasures.— 
Goethe. 
Fate served me meanly, but I looked at her 
and laughed, 
That none might know how bitter was the 
cup I quaffed. 
Along came joy and paused beside me 
where I sat, 
Saying, “I came to see what you were 
laughing at.” —Credit Lost. 
II R ” it I Min rapny, . ... 
etc., taught by mail 
or In person at Eastman, Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 
We secure positions for graduates of complete 
commercial course. Catalogue free. 
C. C. GAINES, Box 817, Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 
B.&B. 
plain black taffetas 
—chance to get fine, rich quality Taf¬ 
fetas, retail, at wholesale prices. 
20 inches wide, 50c. yard. 
20 inches wide, 75c. yard. 
,50 inches wide, $1.00 yard. 
Absolutely superior to any ever sold 
for the money. 
Shelf-emptying being pushed with 
remarkable price-work. 
Lot of plain black genuine Japanese 
Habutai silks 23 inches wide, 40c. yard. 
The large lot of 75c., 551 and $1.25 
Dress goods at SOc., greatest shelf¬ 
emptying item yet. Fine woolens— 
suitings and skirtings among them ; and 
plaids and checks. 
Useful Dress Goods reduced, 25c., 15c. 
5,000 yards of good and pretty 10 and 
12%-cent wash goods, 7>£c. yard. 
5,000 yards of 8 and 10-cent wash 
goods 63^c. yard. 
Splendid white goods underprice Okfc., 
10c. 
This is the time to “ speak out ” con¬ 
cerning your Dry goods wants—prices 
lowered beyond all experience. 
BOCCS & BUHL, 
Department C, 
ALLEGHENY, PA, 
COE’S 
ECZEMA CUKE, S>1 at druggists. 25c, 
size of us. Coe Chem. Co., Cleveland. O. 
THE 
JOSEPHINE 
PI IRPQ 
CHILLS.FEVER, 
Malaria and that Tired Feeling. NEVER 
FAILS. Price, $1.50. Half-size bottles, 80 cents, 
prepaid to any address in the United States 
by express. Address 
THE JOSEPHINE COMPANY, 
Salisbury Mills, Orange Co., N. Y. 
