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;'V -iv, .;. ., ' h i - -.'cr--v''-r .V it '.." :H it v - t to n, ... m SP MP R Of . .T -w-;' '-"V :msgassses . asa-aaa-ggisgsgagsga , i , i eaaeeMBa3Baegaagesg8SBagBaBg-a . ; JAS. R. MORRIS, Editor and Proprietor. : - ' PUBLISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY MORNING. - TERMS $1,50 per Annnm, in AdFanci . . , . ; VOLUME Xlr :. . WOODSFIELD, MOIEOE COUNTY, OHIO, JULY 5, 1851. : . UMBEE, 16." 5 li:'. .. ... r s - I: "'-J: r is Mi a THE REPflOOfV.- f" ?! ' V ben nobody's near, ' '. j-.ll- : Jj6t not those acoents J'Ji.-.0-':r't'r . , FalJ. harsh on the ear. 1L x. 9:y tSbe is a blossom' ! : ' Vv Sk':?ea1 fiTo tender and frail, I-'F - ''SsTV" : -:Tor the keen blast '.'Whisper' it gentlyv ;; - , ': y 'v'JTwtll cost thee no paia; : :"'4 f WiTOtle words, rarely ' ; . '. '' -,1-1 'Aw spoken i vain; , ; i J -'Threats and reproaches. . t - .' ;:a"" ' The stubborn may more -.' Noble the conquest, --.--'c1 Aided by love.' ' ' . :' '. . V vWhiaper it kindly, , .: . 'Twin Vky thee to know . C?? Penitent tear-drops r ;-..-,V7 .' Down her cheeks flow.- ' ' . .r. f;-. IIas she from virtue . Wandered astray? Guide her ieet gently, - -- v ' . ?;. - Ko'ugh is the way. i " J . She has no parent, ; ; hu&tsur None her kin; i: ' 1 : '.?. in Lead her from error,' '" : ; 1 Ar.f ja.eep;nec iroin am. . n ' jPes she .lean on .thee? ... ' Cherish the trust; . .. ; God to the merciful " - " V .-Ever is just. : v ". ; .JOHN BIG OS. 'T"-Tj r.vv-. V "1 " . " " i J . ' " . .. 8T-TEE UTHOB OF "THK ATTOEHET,' ETC. Many' year's since, there' was- a seques tered little town about twenty-five miles from the city bf . New York,' and situated iq.the 'inost unfrequented part of; that re mote quarter of the world called Queens county. '. It was at that time an out of the .Srey unexplored region, utterly unknown to the world at large, and half smothered in fable and Indian tradition. Long after ghosts had been exorcised and laid a(rst - in other parts of the world, they maintain ed their foothold here.' . ' 7; A quiet, shadowy lane, which ran thro' .wood near the village, had a goblin rep- : VM(i?a, n4 was said to be haunted by the ;host of a hard, drinking miller, who had finished his life and his bottle at he foot of a larger tak -tree f which grew there. Whether this. last tradition be true or not. it is certain that this' little town was jnore 4sutjectto supernatural visitations than any Other town oi us size on Juong isianu. In these d ays, too' there was an old mill . on .the border, of a tree-fringed lake on v ; which the village stands. It belonged to I , St Daransiea. nara-swesnng, roysienngiei low named Billy Harold, who feared neith erghost rior devil, but had a peculiar eye to his interest, fit was a ruinous building, , Toefless and without sashes, the water - wheel had .rotted and fallen, into the pool . below it; and the race-way had become -- broken, and discharged its foaming waters at-randem." The heavy beams'of the build- in gL had" sagged and ssttled away; and pilar of rubbish caused by the tumbling in f the roof, and. the gradual decay of the 1 tructare, had gathered in hV Dark gran- arios ,nd store-rooms, anil gloomy pas sages, made for no one knows what, were till standing. v. Vi '.... v ; ,The 'mill, however, bore the same gob ling reputation with the lane: On certain niehtsin the year,-when the wind howled through the trees, and a storm was raging atahge and unearthly sounas were neara 'issuing from it, and it became rumored about that it was tenanted ;by unearthly visitants' of -rather cracked reputation: '- '"These reports at last reached Billy's sj'nd fairly1 excited his oholrr; for al .... though he felt personally indifferent to the , character -of those who occupied his mill, ? yet as tenants of that description are very apt to omit -the payment oi rem, ne naa ' -to idea of having his property depreciat ed by their presence. Accordingly, on ; one; stormy night when the thunder was . . crashing through the sky, the blue lights ' 7 dancing about the old" ruin,- and the hob C gobIin.a.7 were said, to be in high revel, he ; sallied out with his cudgeL, and disappear ' . Inl in the' thick of the storm," directing his aies toward the mill; "determined," he b -Tkard' to'nut- a stop to such goings on ' What took place .'there was never known; - but above the roar of the elements, the listening neighbors heard Billy's voice bel lowing out execrations; and as the light - niri lighted dp the interior of the roofless buHding, they caught sight of the undaunt : ed 'Billy lavinz lustily about bim, as if be set by, a leeion of adversaries. He did . Dot desert his post until the bellowing of the Storm had sunk into dtstsnt mutterings. and the forked lightning had subsided into : a dim1 fliokerine in the distant horizon Then-Billy returned with his cudgel under his arm.: and his -hands in his breeches .' Dockets, ' He eave no account of his ad venture -but merely shook his head, and r aid:,'thal if they come to his mill again, "they'd catch it : : J Whether the fer of r"catching it"; kept - : off his visitors or pot, we cannot tell; but " v intr'lost much'of Its wizard reputation and r...-gubiided'i5tft''Vnere"Co'mmoh'plaoe-ruin. V , But-this'ia a history of the. past. .Billy f " lone since went swearing to his grave . Lake ell iron-souled characters, he left his mark m the memories of those about him; ;,ands the green hillock which rested over nisvnoa amuy oreasi w puimnu t, nv 'simple villagers seemed to wonder that the ,' grass could grow so quietly oyer the grave : of one so redoubted; and not a few of the "vDinrint ' who"' remembered Billy,, in his prirflewhen'they were boys, ventured the ' prediction: that when vOld Nick'got hold of him. he'd meet Jiiaf match." j -i . .' - ;f V' After. Billy's days, the mill became more t ; napidated. ' Time and Storm Wrote their I ini uVnri it m'atrnnir characters.' ' Every ; v t Atog ibout it ran wild; ih. graaa formediwoi into a creen sod in its chambers; and parasitic plants clambered creepers and over its walls: the trees which had been young in the days of Harold, grew to be gi ants, and dropped over the ruin; and the willows trailed their thread-like branches in the lake whose waters once turned its wheel. Things remained thus until a new comer arrived in the village. ; He was a plain unpretending man, a blacksmith by trade. He took a fancy to the ruin be cause he ' found that it could be got at a low rant, and his means were limited. He paid no attention .to the tales attached to it, but hired it of the descendants of Billy Harold, and in good earnest set about con verting it into a smithy. In a very short time the black smoke from the chimney and the roar of his forge told that he had commenced bis work, and the clink of his hammer could be heard from morning till night. lie was a stalwart, powerful man, heavily hung together, slow of motion, and earnest of speech. His hair - was short and slightly grizzled, and his features were heavy and massive, and bore a harsh and forbidding expression that belied his char acter.: . The traditions respecting -the mill were still fresh in his memory, and many look ed askance- at one who - could thus reck lessly venture to plant himself in such an ill omened- spot;- and rumors became rife that he and the ghostly frequenters of the place were on better terms than they should be. He however took no notice of the rumors, nor of the cold looks that frequent ly met him, but went on with his business, hammering away at his horse-shoes, and patiently waiting -for better times. His only companion was a child of about sev en years ot-ase.- who seemed eslonelv and unpretending as the old man. He took no part in the plays of the other boys of the place, but sat patiently-at the door of the forge,- -watching - his father at his work, and helping him in -such things as his strength - would allow; and when the days labor - was- over -he would put his hand in that of the old man, and walk with him quietly to a-small house-which he had hired in - the- outskirts of the - village. As time waned, and the shop was daily open ed, and the Smith-was seen at work at his forge, and.it was also seen that-he remain ed unmolested,-the tide -of- public opinion changed, and then it was openly asserted that none but a -man of good repute could thus stand his groond against the powers of darkness; that it was a shame ihat he should not be encouraged. And thus by degrees John Biggs became one of them selves; part and parcel of the town;' and his shop became the gathering place of ell the idlers and gossips of the village. Grad ually', too, the urchins of the place began to . Seek the " acauaintance of -titrta -Toiri ' BiggS for so the boy was named and his quiet,- gentle ways soon won them. They saw that he was . but a feeble sickly little fellow, and when he stood looking patiently on at their boisterous games, they not unfrequently changed them to those of a more quiet description,' in order that he might join. them. There seemed one tie however, to link him to his father more close than that-which usually exists be tween parent and child; and although his actions were unchecked, and he came and went as he pleased, he usually stole away from his play-fellows, and passed his time at the forge watching his father at work, with eyes that seemed never to weary. The shop was dusty arid dark and be- grimmed with soot and smoke, and full of dim . corners and odd eneels. in which were heaped old iron, and broken barrels, and odds and ends of rubbish, which had remained there from the time when the place had been used as a mill, and which, as, there was much more room than he knew what to do with, John never remov ed. In the midst of it rose the huge chim ney of the forge, built upon the bare earth. and extending upward until its end wss lost in . the smoke which eddied about the rafters of the roof. Horse-shoes, hinges, bolts, and various articles of iron-ware were hune on neos. or ranged about in different parts of the places ' In the dim recesses of the shop, and in the old ruined chambers, the boy used to pass much of his time, until he seemed to grow almost as strange and goblin-like as the former unearthly tenants who had made the place their haunt.' ' 'Time waned, and he grew more quiet and still. He no longer joined the other boys at their play, but was seen the most of the time sitting at the door of the smithy, or lying beneath the shade of the trees which overhang it. His pale cheek and feeble gait, and the painfully patient look which sat upon his young face, told that all was not well with him. John, too, worked less assiduously at his forge, for he might be seen at times sitting under the trees, with the child's head resting on his knee, endeavoring to amuse him with tales of other times and other lands for John had lived abroad, t v ., ? . By degrees summe passed away, and the brown shade of autumn crept among the leaves. Little Tom no longer walked to' the. forge, but -his father carried him there in his arms; and as yet they were as much together as before, but the child's cheek grew more and more wan, his eye more lustrous, and the sad, quiet expres sion on his face deepened, but he never complained.'. Time passed by, and .John came to his work alone, for little Tom had taken to his bed. ?i v, . - It was about 8 o'clock on a bright star light - night at this time, that John Biggs was at work in his shop. ' He had a heavy job on hand, and was laboring earnestly to finish it; his face fairly glowing with ex", ertion with the reflection of the fire. ; Gath ered about the forge, but far enough off to be out of reach of the red sparks as they flew from beneath the blows of the pon deious hammer might be seen the'indis. t'net forms.of two or three idlers, whb had dropped in to chat over the news of the place,' and to watch the labors of the un tiring artisan, who,-with his arms bare to the elbow, and a thick leather apron en to keep off the sparks, kept steadily at his work.' It might have been observed that bis whole manner was restless and uneasy, and there was occasionally an anxious glance at the door, as if he expected or feared the arrival ol some one. "How is little Tom?" inquired one of his visitors, upon whom his look was not lost. 'It's a long time since he was here.' "A month," replied John; "but he's bet ter now. He'll be out soon, very soon." As he spoke, he struck a heavy blow upon the red-hot iron which he held, and bent his head down as if to examine it; then turning away, went back into the shop to search for something. A meaning glance passed between the former speaker and one of the group, but nothing more was said. When John came back he did not go to the fire, but went to the door and looked up at the sky. "The night has set in dark, haa'nt it?" John, said the other. "Yes;1 very dark dark, indeed," said John partly to himself and partly in reply to the question. He stood al the door for some time, and was turning to re-enter, when the sharp sound of a galloping horse caught his ear. and he stopped to listen. - In a minute afterwards, a horseman checked his horse in front of the door, and holding his hand before his eyes to shut out the bright light of the forge, called out: "John Biggs, are you here?" "Aye," replied John, laconically. "Mr.' Lindsey wants to see you to-night. He's very ill. Can you come?" . "Aye," replied John, in the same lacon ic way. "And can you bring Harry Lindsey with you? . He's been with little Tom all day." ; "Has he? God blesa him!" ejaculated John. I'll bring him." ' . .' The man gave his horse a sharp cut of the whip, and galloped off. John walked into the shop and took up' his ponderous hammer but he had struck but one or two blows with it before he rested on the anvil, and stood gazing in the fire. : There was a movement to go in the group, for they saw that there was some thing weighing heavily on the mind of the blacksmith, and with an instinctive feeling of delicacy they left him to himself. He did not observe their departure, but long after they had gone continued absorbed in thought. ' ' '. "The good have gone, and are going," said he sadly, "while I, a poor useless hulk, am left. He was a good man! God bless him, and little Harry. God bless the boy!"' - "'': .The fire-in Jelm'a forge became dim, and At last went out. John looked round for those who had loitered there, but (hey had gone, and he closed the shutters of his shop, bolted the heavy door, and went 1rk;lng : : , - i ,, , He walked with a sturdy step untH he came to the door of his house; but it might have been observed that there he hesita ted, and the expression of. anxiety deep ened on his face as he entered it. He crossed a narrow hall and went inioa small room, whioh had usually been occu pied by himself and his child before Tom had taken to his bed. - He looked anxiously about. There was a little chair drawn near the fire; the well worn hat and coat of the boy hung on a peg, and beneath was a pair of . small shoes'. John took the shoes in his hand and eyed them wistfully then placed them gently down, and going to the hearth, stood with his arms folded and looked into the fire. i , , , . At that moment, the door of an inner room opened and a woman entered. "How is he?" inquired John in a subdu ed voice.1 ; "He's better," was the reply. "Harry Lindsey is with him " John followed her into the child's room. His eye rested for a moment on Harry, and then wandered to the bed on which lay little Tom, wasted by disease. The bright look of childhood was gone, and had given place to an expression of patient suffering. He seemed prematurely old. His dark eyes brightened, however, as he caught sight of the blacksmith, " and he streached put his arms to him. "How is it with you, my little boy?" said John, aa he got on his knees by the bed-side, so as to bring his face on a level with that of the child. The boy placed his thin arms about his father's neck, and drew his face down on the pillow, and nestled his cheek against it. "I'm better, father," he said endeavor ing to smile, and turning his face so as to look into the kind eyes which were gazing upon him. - ; - ' .- . '; . ."And you'll be well soon, wont you, Tom?"said John, cheerily. "Oh, very soon, very soon," replied the boy." ' "' ' ' " " " ' ' "And when you get stronger," said John, "I'll carry you down to the old wil lows, and I'll make a bed of fresh hay, and you can lie there near the forge, and watch the fish swimming about in the pond; and you'll be near me, and I can see you all day long, and the fresh air will soon make you quite well again." The child's face bightened as he listen ed. . "And Harry he'll go with us?" said he, pointing to the boy at the bed-side. "Aye, replied John, "that he will; and we'll have fine times." ' "Aye, ' said Tom, echoing with his fee ble voice something of his father's cheery tones, "that we will." ' Harry Lindsey said nothing, but looked earnestly into the eyes of the boy, and then into the face of the black-smith, as if endeavoring .to read there ah explanation of some nemlexinc thought. "And how is the pain which troubled you so?" inauired John. "It was there. wasn't it?'! said he, placing his hand upon the breast of the child. - "Just there it was," replied little Tom; tbutit's gone now. .I'm goring-well now. Ha! that's right, that's right, loml" said join, joyouaijr. nuu u added he, rising from the bed, ."I've been sent for by Mr. Lindsey, and I must go; but ni be back Quite soon, uome, mas ter Harry, you are to go with mei for it's a dark night. Tom, won't you thank him for coming to see you?" "That I will," replied the child, in the same feeble imitation of his father's heart iness. "That I do. Good night," said he, earnestly; "you'll come again to-morrow, Harry?" "Oh yes," replied the boy. "Good night.',' He turned and looked once more into the face of his play-fellow, and again into that of the old man, and went out without speaking. "Father, kiss me before you go," said Tom. John stooped and kissed him, and then, gently unclasping the arms which encir cled his neck, said: "I'll be back very soon. Come, Master Harry." CHAPTER II. "The House." as Mr. Lindsey s resi dence was usually called, was a large, rambling brick building, which stood in the centre of, a amall park. It gave it a pic turesque appearance.- It had been built more than a century. Each successive owner had made such addition as suited his fancy, until, at the present lime.it cov ered a great deal of ground, and had an imposing appearance from its size. Vines and creeping-plants over-ran its walls, clambering along its eaves, and in a great measure shrouded a number of small dor mer windows, which, like ao many eyes, were staring out of the roof. The trees had been mere shrubs when the house was in its prime; but as it grew old they grew old, they grew strong, until in its age they stood like giants flinging their broad arms over it, and sheltering it from, sun and storm. From father to son, it had been in the family of Lindseys since it was built. From father to son they had been a noble race, pure, high-minded, fearing God, but fearless of man; and thus had they con tinued down to the present owner, who now broken down by illness and age, had summoned the blacksmith to his presence. John liiggs buttoned his coat closely about him as he left his house. He turned for a moment to look at it as he went out, then, taking his ydung companion by the hand, walked briskly along. The road was overshadowed by trees making it pitch dark. John, however, was too much en grossed by his own thoughts to observe the gloom. He knew every inch of the way. and walked steadily on without hesitation. He was in a taciturn mood, too, for, with the exception of a word of caution to his young companion to keep in the path, or a causual'and brief remark, they went on in silence. - They had proceeded some distance, and had come to where the wood was dense and the road most dreary. A small ani mal, frightened at their approach, scam pered off, rustling the dry leaves as he went. The boy drew closer to the side bf his sturdy companion.for he was too young to be altogether unimpressed by the wizard reputation of the lane: and aa he drew near the blacksmith, he grasped his hand more closely, ' "It's but a hare, lad," said John, in re ply to the action of the boy, "more fright ened than you are." : , VHave you heard the stories about this lane John!". inquired the boy anxiously. .'Aye lad," replied the blacksmith; 'but the dead rise 'not again here; when the earth covers them, they are at rest for ever.", ,.. ..;.'' j The boy made no . response, for there was something in the solemn tone of the speaker that seemed to repress all further remark. The smith did not continue the subject, and they proceeded in silence until they entered the park-gate, and were in front of the "House," which now loomed up a great black mass, with its peaks and gables defined in sharp outline against the sky. The baying of a large dog that sallied out to meet them, showed that there was at least one watcher amid the dead silence which reigned around; and the sudden ohange from a fierce bark to a whine, showed that those who approached were recognized. . The noise of the dog brought a servant to the door just as the two reach ed it. ..... "I'm glad you've come, Mr. Biggs," said the servant, ushering them in. "The old gentlemen has been 'quite anxious to see you." " Will you tell him I'm here?" said John; "for I am in haste to get home." The man went off and left John stand ing in the hall. It was wide and almost square, and wainscotted with spme dark colored wood. Guns and fishing rods, and two or three old pictures, were hook ed up against the wall. . The floor was of oak and highly polished, and the staircase which ascended from it was massive and wide. , .; . John, however, had seen these things oltan and if his eye rested on them, he did not think of them. Nor had he much time to do so, for almost immediately the man returned and summoned him. "That's the room. You can go 'in don't knock," said he pointing to a door at the head of the flight of steps. - John bade the boy, who had remained with him, "good night," and ascending the stairs, entered the room. It waslarge, and by the light of a single lamp which was burning at the far end of it. had a dreary appearance, -ft was handsomely furnished, but the furniture seemed made more for comfort than for show. It consisted of couches and easy chairs. ana other comforts and conveniences adapted to the use of an invalid. In an easy chair in front of the fire, partly supported by ehushions, was Mr. lindsey. He w.as a noble-looking old man, with a fine massive head, but he was only the wreck of what he had been. His features finely formed, aa they were, were sharpened and wasted by disease: his cheeks were thin and sunken, and he la bored heavily for breath - John bowed as he paused iust inside of me aoor nut wr. Lindsey beckoned him to corns nearer. "How is it with you, John?" said he; "and how is your child?" "I am well," said John, respeotfully, "and Tom is doing better now, sir." "I'm glad of it: that's well." lie spoke feebly, and paused for breath; then turning to the blacksmith, he said: "John, I am too feeble to waste words, and will come to the point at once. I have sent for you to speak about a matter which weighs heavily upon my mind." He paused, but John remained silent. "How many years is it since we first -met?" inquired he. "Six years, sir," replied John; "two years here, and four before I come here." "And do you recollect how we first met, John," asked Mr.. Lindsey. "I shall never forget it while God gives me memory," replied John. You could not save her who is gone, but you gave comfort and happiness to her last hours." "Can it be but six years!" said Mr. Lindsey. "It seems as if I had known you always. - Coma nearer, John." The blacksmith approached, and Mr. Lindsey took his hard hand between his own attenuated fingers. "The time that I have known you, is in deed abort," said he, "but in that time I have found you true in all that you did; and although our spheres in life have been different I speak it with the full conscious ness which the near approach of eternity always brings of the utter hollo wness of all earthly distinctions between man and man yet I have learned to regard you as a valued friend." "It was a great honor that you did me," said John, in a choaked voice: "a very great honor. I always endeavored to de serve the good opinion you had of me." "It was no honor to respect truth and fair-dealing, no matter in what rank of life they are found, the poor should respect them in the rich, and the rich ahould not overlook them in the poor, for their temp tation to swerve is great. But, John, I did not send for you to talk of things like these. I have a monitor here," said he, placing his hand upon his heart, "whose dull, slug gish movements tell me that what I have to do with earth must be done soon."; : John looked anxiously in the face of the old man, but he made no reply. "You know my boy Harry?" said Mr. Lindsey. . "A noble lad, sir," replied John, "and very kind to poor litttle Tom." "I have sent for you," said Mr. Lindsey, still struggling with his labored breathing, "to put Harry under your oharge when 1 shall be dead." He spoke earnestly, and the last words were uttered in a clear, calm tone- '.' "My charge!" echoed John Biggs. "My charge! I'm but a poor blacksmith, sir." '' Yet,"- repeated Mr. : Lindsey,' in . the same calm, clear tone, under your charge henceforth, until you or he goes to your grave." . John eyed him with a bewildered look, and he went on: "I do not mean to make you. his guar dian, but I want you to be his friend; to shield him from harm; to warn him against folly; and to keep him from those tempta tions and crimes which will beset his path in life. With me earth is passed. To you and to you only do I commit my son. 1 expect you to protect him, even as I would have protected your child, had you been taken and had 1 been left." ,, A sudden spasmodic sensation in the throat prevented John from speaking, and Mr. Lindsey continued: "He will have guardians and protectors who will look after his education, and will take charge of his property, until he will be able to do so himself. . But to you I give the charge to keep him pure from sin and stain., You know the world and its hoi lowness. You know that my boy will have wealth, and how many will gather about him to lure him on to crime, while it lasts, and to abandon him when it is gone. You have felt how few of those on whose faith man has been led to trust are to be found true in the hour of trial and need." John shook his head, and was silent. "Teach him to distrust all these: to look at man beyond his words; to judge him by his deeds alone; and, above all, to dis trust words of kindness." "Is that right, sir?" asked John, firmly, but respectfully. "Would it be right to fill his mind with suspicion of all about him? I'm but an unlearned man, but it strikes me that it's wrong." "Better that, John, than that he Bhould reap the bitter fruit of deception from those whom he loved and , trusted," said Mr. Lindsey, warmly. ; "Better that he should suffer wrong than do it, sir," replied John, earnestly, extend ing his hand toward the old man, and his harsh features lighted up as he spoke. "He may yet find one trure heart who will be with him in the. hour of trial. Do not let him wound that one, or turn away from it, although others may betray him. Oh! let him go on trusting to the end, no mat ter how often he may be deceived. Do not ask me to teach him to suspect. His heart will harden fast enough without any lesson from me." . John spoke warmly, and there was a supplicating earnestness in his tone which seemed to make a deep impression on Mr. Lindsey, for he kept silent for some time; at last he said: - "JoTln, you are right! - Heaven, hot earth, is the goal. '. I would have spared him the bitterness of heart which I have suffered; but you are right; no man should turn from the path , before him. Let him acoept the lot in life awarded him. If it be a hard one let him bear bravely; if a pleasant one, let him thank God for it." . "Ay, sir," said John, "you're right now. I'll accept the trust." - - Mr. Lindsey looked up, and a smile of pleasure lighted up his face at this expres sion of approbation from the earnest yet unpretending man before him; at the same time he inquired, in a tone of some sur prise: -: ' - - ' ' "John where were'you educated? Sure ly you were not always a' blacksmith!" ' ' John drew back abashed, and the mus cles of his face worked. , ; ; i ."The past is past," said he in a low tone; but that was all that he aaid. . "Be it so, John," said Mr. Lindsey, af ter a. pause. ."Most unreservedly, do J trust you; most unreservedly do I commit my child to your care.". "I'll watch over him aa I will watch over little Tom," replied John, in a husky voice, "I will, so help me God!" , "It's well," said Mr. Lindsey, sinking back in his chair, "and I thank you." . , John stood awhile, as if expecting him to say more, but Mr. Lindsey seemed ex hausted by the effort he had already made. "I think I'll go, sir v" said he, when he was fully satisfied that the old man had said all that he desired. "Tom's not well and I may be wanted." . " Well, good-night, John, I have already exerted myself too much. Good-night, but remember, I jrely on you," said Mr. Lindsey, feebly. "You may, sir," replied John; and bow ing to Mr. Lindsey, he went out and left the House. :'". . John paused as he stepped out into the open air, and surveyed the massive build ing. How dark and dreary it seemed! and there was a aad sound sighing through the old trees which overhung it, that seem' ed to predict sorrow. . , - . , V - "The good are going," muttered he, re peating the words which he had used in his shop. "God help those who are left!" . John Biggs wss not a man to yield to idle fancies. He had been dragged through the rough paths of life, and had battled his way against stern and stubborn realities: but an overpowering sense of sadness stole over him.. In vain he tried to shake it off, and to struggle against it. He thought that it might be caused by the chill air of the night. . He buttoned his coat more closely about him and walked rapidly on:, but it grew darker and darker as he went; and dark and more gloomy the dreary feeling gathered about his heart. Everything seemed to grow cold and cheer less; the dim trees stretching out their great branches between him and the sky, seem ed so many shadowy spectres throwing a pall over his pathway. ,. . "God grant that this foreboding may mean nothing!" said. John, as he hurried on.' "God protect my little boy! my heart is very heavy." . - The distance to his house was about two miles) but he walked ao rapidly that he soon reached his own door. : What was it that whispered its forebo dings in his ear? .What was the strange wailing cry that reached him? There was a stir in the inner room as he entered, a quick step and the nurse with a blanched lace hurried out. ' . ,. , John. lMBrt.diediwilhin tered not a word, but crossed the outer room, and wect straight to the bed where his child lay. A fearful change had oome over the boy since they had parted; his features had become pinched and shsrp; his eyes were partly closed; . and .his breathing was slow and heavy.' "' K ?; "How is it with thee, my "own little Tom," cried John Biggs, taking the tiny wasted hand in his, while he bent over the boy. . '.".;; v ' The child clasped his ' fingers around those of his father, and raised his dark eyes to his face; but oh! their patient, cheerful look was gone, and they were fix ed upon him with a long,' searching and unfathonable gaze, his breath was growing more and more faint: and the pulse in that little hand was becoming more and more slow; and the grasp of those small fingers were more feeble; and gradually those eyes grew dim, as if a shadow were falling upon them. " " 1 ' : " ' ' "Tom, my own dear little Tom, 'speak to me," said the old man, in a low, trem ulous tone, kneeling at his bedside.' Evem in the struggle with the Great Enemy,' the words reached the heart of the child. His eyes opened, and rested with a something of their old expression upon his father's face; there was an effort to speak, but no words followed. . He was too young to fear the terrors of the Dark Valley, but not ' too young to love those who had cherished him on earth.' "Tom! Tom! my dear, dear, little child, but one word to say that you loved me to the last!" - - 1 " Once more that old look of patience and of love but no words. He bent his face forward until his lips pressed the hard hand which clasped his; then his head fell back and the tiny fingers relaxed their hold.--- " - ' ';'; " j John leaned oyer him, but the breath had stopped, and the heart had ceased to beat. He clasped the little wasted form in his arms and burying his face in the bosom of his child, bitter sobs burst from him. Ay, weep cn, John Biggs; for 'never more may thy brawny arms shelter thy boy, or thy cheery voice call a bright smile up on his face. To him. earth, and joy; and sorrow are past. Wain a lather a fondness, and more than a father s devotion,? hast thou followed him to the borders of the Dark Sea, but solitary and alone has he launched his bark upon, the silent ocean which leads to the Unknown Land. Aim High, Boys but remember the top of the ladder is not to be reaohed by one mighty jump, some ' day,: after you. are men. The path of the hill of science be gins, just where you now are in .your school room and every lesson well learn ed is a step. - Do .you see that little blue eyed fellow in the corner looking so steadi ly upon his book? " His body is still, but his soul, if you could only see it,' is taking stepa along an unseen, but real path, which leads through the broad and beauti ful fields of knowledge, and up the heights of fame, . and wealth, and honor.. Per haps he is on his way even now to Con gross ay ! just as fast now as when, twenty years hence, thousands shall be delighted at. his wisdom and elqquenoe, and vote for him as their representative in the na tional council. . .. v . V . -; ; V CtrWe pardon as long as we lore. 4 -1 t' ' A THHILLIN9 HISTOBICAL HAYBATtYBV .-,vi.,- :!-' ' Early in the spring of 1780, Mr. Alex' : snder McConnell.of Lexington, Ky.', went- . into the woods on foot to bunt deer. Her : soon killed a large buck, and returned? . home for a horse in order to bring it ' v During his absence a party of five Indians' in one of their 'skulking, expeditions ao- ciden tally . stumbled on the body 6f thief- deer, and perceiving that it had been re-' cently killed, they naturally eopposed that : the hunter would return to secure the flesh.' Three of them, therefore,-took their sta- tions within olose rifle shot of the deet; while the other two -followed the trail tf the hunter, and waylaid the path? by whioh . he was expected to return. & MoConnell thinking not of dangerj roda carelessly along the path, which the scouts' were watching, -until he had come ' withitt view of the deer when he was fired upony by the whole party, and his horse killed. While laboring to extricate1 himself fronta the dying animal, he was seized by hie enemies, overpowered, and borne ,ff a, prisoner. His captors, however, seemed a merry good natured sort of fellows, .and permitted him to accompany them uni bound "-and what was rather extraordi( nary, allowed him to retain his gun andV c huoting accoutrements. : He accompanied. them - with great apparent cheerfulness! . The Escape. through the day, and: displayed hie- dexi ' terity by shooting deer for the use cf ther. company, until they , began to regard hum with great partiality. 'Having, traveled. with him in this manner '. for aeveral days they at length reached the bank f y tha Ohio rivers :X j .i.:.- fij n'C , . . Heretofore 'the Indians had , taken., the: precaution to bind him at nighty although; not very securely, but on that evening he ' remonstrated : with them on .the-1 subject ! and complained; so strongly, of the painc which .the cord gave- him, that they mereljri wrapped the buffalo tug about:, his wrists,, and having tied it in;. an easy, knot- and, then attached the extremeties of. the rope, to their: bodies, in, order to-, prevent his ' ' moving without : awakenings them,, tbeyb very composedly went to sleep, leaviagr the prisoner to follow their example ornpt) as he pleased. . rf s :,, .i'Kl'.eW--'-: loConnel determined to effect his;e. " cape that night if possible, as op the (oh ' lowing morning they would oross the xir-r.i ' er, which . would . render it mqre 't difficult v .'. He therefore Jay quietly . until rnidnigh.i: anxiously .ruminating on the beat means, of effecting his escape- Accidentally cast-1 ing his eyes in the . direction of hie feett they fell on the glittering blade of anife ; which had escaped , from its. sheath and " was now lying near the feet of one'of the . Indians. .... . . i l, -. .. s rToaachJi. with his wjthout dlsv - turbine the two Indians to whom, he was. fastened was .impossible, and it was very t . hazardous to attempt to djraw. .it up with, his feef. - ( This ..however be attempted,) . With much difficulty he grasped the blade, ' between ' his toes,- and after repeated .and t long continued efforts, succeeded in bring-j ' ing it within reaoh of his hands, y.; To cut the cord was. .but the work of , moment and- gradually- and' silently extricating', ;: himself he walked to - the, fire, and 'sat; down. He felt that? his work ,wa, half . done. ...That if be should attempt , tore- turn home without destroying his enenuVsy he would be pursued and probably j oyer-, .': taken when his fate would be. certain, .Oa v? the other hand, it would be.impossble for'. , a single individual to succeed in a conflict : with five ; Indians even though; ufiarriied ". and asleep.' He could not hope to deal a - ' blow with a knife so silently and fatally .' as to destroy each of bis enemies in iurr -without awakening the rest. . Their alum- bars were proverbially, light nd ' resales . and '.if he failed with a single lone, he) must ipevitably be overpowered" by Vthe survivors. . The' knife was therefore outl of the Question. .'.After ' anxious rpflactTnn fnv A faut mAm&nfo ka'n.m.il t!aVT..'k . ri. . e .L. j?. . ' V; . ' V'-U t ue guna ui me iiiumns were siacKea near the fire. Their, knives and toma T3'; hawka were sheathed ; by their sides, The latter he dare not touch for fear of arousing their owners, but the former he ' oarpfullv rmovAl with ' tWmr Mnantinn nf removed 4" two, and hid them in the woods, he knew j v- -r.- .-,.. the Indiana were still sleeping,, perfectly ignorant of 4he ( fate preparing yfortheni - and taking one iri each hand and resting : on a log, within six feet of his victims. " uu iiBTiug iineu uouueraia aimei mo , ... . head of one .end the heart of another, he4 '. Eulled both triggers at the same moment, loth shots were fatal. l T v At the report of the guns. the bthenrf sprang to their feet glancing wildly ar-" 3 round them.- MCConnell, who bad run to the spot where the other rifles were hid--"' hastily eiezed one of them - and fired -a "v ' two of his enemies who happened to be" : standing in a line with eaoh other.' "The nearest fell ' dead, being shot through thai' centre of the body; the second fell also bellowing loudly, but Boon recovering lim pea on as last as possible. i hfiuiv, the v. only one that, remained unhurt, darted off" like a deer, with a yell that announced-' '.v equal terror and, astonishment1 - McCoa " nell not wishing to fight any -more such , battles, selected bis ova. rifle, from tb' vt ' rest, end made the best of hieway4o Lex- r -1 ington where he arrived in two days. ? Vir -A short time afterwards, Mra,-Dunlap,...a . of Fayette, who had been several month t -a prisoner, among the- Indians on Mad river, made her escape aad, returned- tew J. Lexington. She reported, that the suiyi-T -i vor returned to hia tribe .with a lamenta'- ble tale. He stated that they had taken a ? fine young hunter, near Lexington and . brought him as far aa the Ohio that whila -encamped on'the bank of. the. river a party V t of white men had fallen upon them in tha .1 , night, and killed bis companions, together with the poor defenceless prisoner who, lay bound hand end foot, unable' to resist' . orescspe. ' -' V! ' :"': '-- : v He that walketh with wise eaR oa5 wise; but a companion of fools tliall be t;-4V destroyed. Svlomdt ' l; ' 'fv .S. 'r i! - -