The weekly Thibodaux sentinel and journal of the 8th Senatorial District. [volume], May 15, 1897, English, Page 4, Image 4

About The weekly Thibodaux sentinel and journal of the 8th Senatorial District. [volume] (Thibodaux, Lna. [i.e. La.]) 1875-1898

Image provided by: Louisiana State University; Baton Rouge, LA

                
Ctpb o v) cu\3E 5 cntuiel.
THE SWEETEST OF MEMORY'S BELLS.
but
Wild is the way through the woodland
* there are the sweet fields of clover,
Theaighing, sad pines and tho Jessamine vines,
and the rill that leaps laughingly over.
The lilies that rim it— the shadows that dim
it—and there, winding v.insoKoIv sweet
Is the path that still leads to the edd home
through rivery ripples of wheat!
And hark! 'tis the song of the reapers, and I
know by its jubilant ringing
There is gold ir. the gleam of the harvest and
love in tho hearts that are singing!
And still as of old to the ether its ^^usic uni"
lifluous swells,
And the wind that sighs wes^*nrtl is swaying
the sweetest of memory's bells.
Let me pass through the wheat r.nd the clover,
O men and rose maidens who reap!
I, who oonio from the sound of the cities, like
a child to its mother would creep,
For through long years of tears and of toiling,
like harlior Ivlls over the foam.
Your voi< os far winging and ringing were
singing roe—singing mo home!
And I: ere. from tho pain and the piesaure—
from the sorrow and sighing, I flee
As t.i 1 birds when the* s*";■ rai winds are blow*
ing, as the ships seel; the haven from sea,
Ar.u T fancy the violets know me ia gardens of
beauty and bliss,
And do tiot the red roses owe me the peaco of
the prodigal's kiss?
Tho sun is still bright r.t the portal. There
the love light all radiant shines.
Heart, heart, there's a face wo remember in
the tangle and 1 'loom of the vines!
Far off the glad reapers are singing—far off in
the rivery wheat.
And tho arms of a mother are clinging and.
the k:s« of n mother is sweet!
—Frank L. Stanton in Ladies' Home Journal.
A WOODLANDS TALE.
The valley ia lined with weeds for a
long distance, but in one place, little
more than two miles from the sea, there
is a clear space, where the big house
stands above its hanging gardens.
Strangers have occupied it for :-o long a
time that they would wonder and be in
dignant did you call them by .that name.
But strung- rs they rauaE-remain for the
sake cf certain memories attaching to
the plr.ee, end the woods that line the
valley as it wanders away inland are
haunted by the gentle ghost cf a woman
Whose beauty lives to this day upon the
lips of lovers throughout all the country
round about.
For 20 years an old man dwelt there,
continually divided betwixt tlie love of
the living, his daughter, and a passion
for his dead wife that was forever draw
ing him toward the land of twilight
wherein he pictured her waiting for his
coming. He had lived hardly in his
youth, an overworked and underpaid
drudge, finding the whole of liis life's
pleasures in the books rf tho great mas
ters and in devoted car;; for his mother.
Apart from these, indeed, ho had no
life. His whole existence was but a
struggle to cam by uncongenial labor
the barest means of substance. His 1
mother had died when he was nearing j
40, and then his condition was oven !
more to be pitied, for it seemed he had j
lived out his life before he bad reached i
the middle of his years and without ex- j
perience of those things that make ex- j
istence glorious. Yet tho gods had much |
of bitter and of sweet in store for him. j
A distant relative—a cousin of his
mother's, a mere name to him hitherto I
—died and left a will whereby he be
came master of the big house, and
i
I
i
j
!
|
!
j
j
1
withal a man of means. At first the
change of circumstance rather detracted
from his comfort than otherwise. But
he was a gentleman, and a person great
ly loved by nil who met him. lie quiet
ly adapted himself to the change and
made himself a place in the hearts and
homes cf the neighboring gentry. He
showed himself a charming host, and in
a wise and quiet way did much to pro
mote the public good.
They suv that (he tale, of how he won
his wife was as pretty as any ever writ
ten. His life hitherto had not been of
the sort to inspire him with any over
weening sense cf his own personal at
tractions, and it did net occur to him
that his present position could make a
difference to the judgment likely to be
passed on him by any young girl whose
hand ho might seek. They say, for (hey
are fond of (he story in those parts,
that the wooing was all hers; that she
saw how gently he was resigning him
self to a burden he deemed inevitable
and made it clear to him that of all her
suitors he alone had touched her heart.
At auy rate, he married a young wife
and lived with her in the big house for
some few months beyond n. year. If he
had died at the end of that time, he
would have thanked the gods for the
best life it was ever given to mar: to en
joy, but that was not the thing ordain
ed. His wife died a clay or two after the
birth of a daughter, the Rachel cf the
story you arc to hear.
The man was not altogether unhappy
during the years that followed. It was
not in his nature to be made morose and
misanthropical by crushing sorrow,
and, though he felt himself somewhat
out of place iu a world that no longer
held his wife—who had drawn to her
every fiber iu Lis bring as a hidden
spring draws the roo*- cf a tree—bis
daughter gave him much happiness,
and, what was even more important, a
reason for existing.
She was a singularly lovable child,
and his continual thoughtfulness on her
behalf had the effect of making a like
carefulness for others mere instinct in
her. She was a child in virtue of her
simplicity of heart, but her intercourse
with others was all made up of little,
kindly courtesies such as are in most of
us the last refinements of art. '
T ' due course she went away to schooL
_ ____
j lier eyes looked out upon tho world with
and it would have boon hard to decide
whether the coming of holiday time,
when she was at home once more,
brought with it more of joy to him or
to her. She grew tall and very beautiful.
Her face was clear cut and of a type sin- '
gnlarly patrician, but the whole expres- '
sion was one of delicate graciousness, and.
________
to dwell in the big house, -and then she
became more and more a companion to i
the frankness of a beautiful child's.
At last the time of her schooling was '
passed. She was 18 when she returned
j her father, being in his company for the
j greater part of every day.
i There came in due season a lover, but 1
j this did nothing to disturb tho harmony
| of the household. In matters cf learn
! '''S' it may bo, Eustace was net a fit j
| companion for the father- of Rachel, but
i - lu ' vvns a gentleman, like the other, and :
| a man so made that you would have
! sworn he would remain a boy at heart :
| no matter how long he should live.
In those days (it was early in the j
j spring) the old man often sat toward
j sunset at the open window of his ground
j floor study, seethe d into some sort of
i happiness by the voices of Rachel and
] k<r lover as they walked bareheaded in
j the gentle western air.
Eustace was a soldier on leave of ab
j seuce visiting the home country, and
| the time was one when every mail of
j that calling knew that the morrow
I might see him ordered abroad. Perhaps
| the courtship progressed more rapidly ■;
j than it would otherwise have done be
j cause Rachel was aware of the shortness
of the time of freedom allowed him and
how ho chafed at it. Yet there was no
binding speech between them until the
order came that he was to return to his
regiment and go to the war. He bad no
particular skill in the use of words, and
his speecii with her was straightforward
and to the point.
"I am leaving in two days to join my
regiment and go out to the Crimea.
Since I have been in the west I have
learned to love you. Will yon let me go
happy because you have promised to be
my wife?"
Twilight was deepening, and only a
few lights shoue yellow in the windows
of the cottages along the valley. Rachel
did not answer for a moment, though he
someliow felt the thrill of pain that shot
through her at the thought he was go
ing to the war. She glanced in the di
rection of the open window where her
father sat iu the twilight. Then she
made answer as direct as the speech of
her love.
"If that will make you happy, " she
said, "I will promise gladly. But, oh,
' ' '
I wish you had not to go!"
Afterward ic was mainly Eustace who
spoke, and his words, when they did no5
express a half delirious joy in her ao
ccptance of his suit, were intended to
convince her that her regrets were need
less. It was his duty not only to go,
but to go gladly, and he would fulfill
that duty to the utmost, though ho
must of necessity leave his heart iu
England with h; r.
The lovers lingered a long time in the
cool and pleasant air, and it was noK
till late that Rachel told her father of
tho thing which had fallen out that
night, and the two received the old
man's blessing. Then there was a part
ing, and Rachel knew that, save for an
hour or two on the next evening, she
had seen the last of her lover for many
a 1<)Ug cla - v -
The garde ns descend the slope of the
valley, and from the orchard at the bot
tom a pathway leads iuto the woods. IS
was this path the lovers took on the
night of their farewells. The spring Lad
come full early, and even the mulber
ries began to think of putting forth their
leaves. In the woods the primros ( 1
shone everywhere, and many an open
space was carpeted with bluebells. ■
There were anemones and frail wood !
sorrel in the shadow of scattered granite
rocks, and the garlic flowered whitely
where the soil was marshy. Innnmer- <
able birds were singing, and every tan
gled bramble bush held a foolish black
bird, that fled with a self betraying I
shriek as they approached, making al
most unconsciously for a glade they had
oft ?u visited together in the heart of (ho
woods.
"Let us stop here," said Eustace
presently. "Do you remember when we
found the place?" ,j
"I have always known it," raid Ra
chel. "It was my playground when I
was a child, and sometimes I chose to
fancy myself the sleeping princess and |
this the palace where I waited for (he
prince. I did not think he would over .
come." 1
"My princess!" cried the man, kiss
ing her as she sat beside him in tie
shade of a huge tree. "Out there I shall:
always think of you as waiting for me j
here. "
"Come hack quickly," she said in a
low voice, "but do not think cf mo as
waiting here. The place will be too
empty without you. We will visit it to
gether when you have come hack. ' '
"But you must not leave it unvisit
ed," he said. "It is too dear to us for
that, and you will be nearer to mo hero
than anywhere else. Look down the
path." -
He pointed in the direction from
which they had come, and her eyes
obeyed the command.
"Some day," he said, "you will hear
that I am coming, and you will make
ready to meet me. But I shall not find
y° u — 1 shall hardly seek you—in the
kcnSP or garden. I shall come
straight down to the wood and along
the old path, and you will be waiting
The time will seem long. You
will think I cannot be coming. Then,
suddenly, a foolish blackbird will shriek
away yonder, and in a moment I shall
be here, ami you will be mine forever. "
Rachel turned her eyes upon him. "I
am that now," she said. "I am yours
forever. But, oh, come back to me
quickly. Waking or sleeping, I shall be
watching that pathway until you are
returned."
"Ami I shall be thinking of you who
are waiting for me here, " he said. "Re
member that, and be sure that I will
come back to you. "
The last of the birds had censed from
singing when the lovers rose and quit
ted Rachel's, bower among the woods.
They traversed the pathway slowly ami
came at last to the terrace. Eustace en
tered and said good by to Rachel's father,
and presently the lovers parted, ami the
young man strode out under the trees of
th<* drive to the highway tind so home.
The time which came after this part
ing may be guessed at by all who know
how the war went. Rachel lived in a
perpetual fever cf expectation, for the
region wherein she dwelt was at that
time isolated, and letters and newspa
pers alike came to hand all too slowly.
She used often to visit the green glade
iu the woods, and, though she main
tained the outward serenity of her as
pect, her father was not a lit < !. troubled
on her behalf, seeing,'despite her efforts
at concealment, how love held back the
pendulum of her life until this man
should Le returned who had gone for an
indefinite period into a place where men
were dying daily.
"I dreamed of you last night," said
the distant lover in one of his letters. ' 'I
dreamed that the day we are hoping for
had come at last and that I was coming
down tho pathway to meet you in the
woods. I found you there, of course,
and I think you had grown me re beauti
ful than ever. Do you wait in the
woods?' '
Rue bed's answer was (his: "I am al
ways in the weeds, whether in dreams
or in the body. You could not coma
back, though it were ever so secretly,
and find me not waiting. "
But there came a time when she had
no need t o go down to the trystiiig place,
since it was certain Em nice could not
como to nieet her (here. The bitter win
t er killed so many had almost gone
* roru Cornwall, but in the Crimea its
8 ri P' vv ' as still unrelaxed. Eustace had
iol!g sillC0 ceased to speak jestingly of
*be hardships suffered by himself and
^ IS brother officers, or indignantly of
those that fell to the lot of the common
s ph]iers. But, though he took refuge in
^ encc » careful lest he should arouse her
fears, the newspapers told her not a lit
tle of what he was suffering, and she
dreaded the news that any moment
might bring.
tiorne verses she had found in a for
eign book were always in her mind:
"AH day, until the day's end, I await
the message that is to come, and every
footstep speaks of death. At night, sleep
less, I say, 'What will the morrow
bring?' and, in the morning, I think of
all the days to come and wonder wheth
er this day will be cursed or another.
But the days are silent, until the time
1
■
!
<
I
there was that in them—rather of things
left vague than of things said—that
sent Rachel often to the trysting place
up the valley. The spiring came very
slowly, but the yellow primroses were
out, and amid green leaves the young
hyacinth had already a faint tinge
of blue. She spent hours in tho very
place where she had sat with Eustace
when they were together for the last
time, and her heart followed her eyes
down the woodland pathway and across
the seas.
For at last there were no more let
ters, and as these failed to arrive the
girl became every day more eager for
the newspapers, more terribly afraid to
open them because of the news they
might hold. Her father watched her
with a growing anxiety, and was for
ever seeking to allay her fears, while at
the same (inn- he was exceeding loath to
1 glvo . e,n su PPort that a recognition
^kistcnce would have involved,
j v -~as himself seriously afraid for
Eustace, though there was no particular
reas<)n should be more unfortn
uat(? than his brothers. The old man
saw anxiety and fear were telling on
his daughter; that from a healthy wom
■ an had become within a few days a
laere bundle of nerves. One morning
<kll0wn afterward as the day when Eus
tac( \ got the wound that was to kill
him) she suddenly uttered a loud cry as
?* K ' . at ^ unc "h with him, and it wag
long before sh? revived from the faint
ing fit which immediately ensued.
From that hour Rachel's condition
became more and more a cause of solici
tude. Her father was unhappy whenever
she was out of his sight, and that was
frequently, for something drew her to i
the trysting place among the woods, and '
early and late she would go down there
and sit in the place where she had sat
will: Eustace, and where she had prom
ised to await him whenever he should
be able to return. Some hint of the state
of affairs prevailing at the big house
had gone abroad among the impression
able people of the countryside, and tho
glade where she waited was held sacred
to her and sedulously avoided.
But at last (on the third day from |
ng fit and to , ard the '
that of her faintit
end of the afternoon) she went down j
alone, and when it was dark she had not I
returned. For a long time her fat In . |
suppressed his natural nm-.t, but pros
entiy he found that the servants wero '
ouuressed. like himself hv an indefinite
|
j
i
j
ward and dread of what they were
nervous dread. He determined to go
down to the heart of the woods and
bring Rachel home. One or two servants
accompanied him, bearing lanterns.
A thin mist had dulled the sky and
hidden the stars. They walked in abso
lute silence, and the night was like a
huge empty house in which their foot
steps echoed.
Fear was upon them, and a sense of
something terrible impending made
them waver betwixt eagerness to go for
come upon. On the edge of the wood
!»" pBU " d " a criod:
A dull echo was tho only answer, and
they moved on in the direction of the
glade. Once again the old man raised
his voice and called upon his daughter:
"Rachel! Rachel/'
But she answered to that call an hour
earlier, when her lover came to meet
her in the glade, at the moment of his
death across the seas. She was sitting
under the great tree where they had
spent their last hours iu life together.
The radiant smile had not yet gone from
her lips, nor was there :my horror in
the eyes that stared across the glade and
down the woodland path by which he
had sworn to come when he was free.—
London Black and White.
A YOUTH'S ADVENTURES.
Which, Whether Truth or Fiction, Are Oe ■
cidet'ly Interesting.
When riding in the tram car through
the wildest parts of Peckhani Rye,
writes a contributor to the London
News, with a friend—we were bound
on a journalistic errand—a bronzed
young man of marine appearance jump
ed into the car and at once recognized
my companion. Before we had gone
very far I was deep in one: f the oddest
family histories. This new arrival, it
seems, when a Icy rf M, had been pos
sessed by (he fear of eoi:;-:r.npf'cn, that
fell disease having carried off his brother
and threatening his lather and mother.
Accordingly ho read every book that he
could lay his hands on dealing with the
subject, and, as the result cf his read
ing, ran away to Bournemouth to be
near the pines. Having no funds, he
engaged himself to a local fishmonger,
carrying his master's fish to the various
customers. When the day's work was
done, he shouldered a hammock which
_______
| be had brought with him and camped
j among some of those pines for which
j that southern health resort is famous,
! One night a gentleman, sauntering
along, smoking a cigar, noticed him,
j and, being amazed at this "nl fresco
ted, -entered into conversation with
him. "Why, I know who you arc," ex
claimed the consumptive youth at last.
"lou'reilr. Louis Stc-vcnscu, tho man
who wrote 'Treasure Island.'" "How
do you knew?" said the gentleman,
"Because I deliver you fish. You live
at Skerryvere." "So I do," replied j
Stevenson, for he it was sure enough.
"But you don't talk like u fishmonger's '
boy. "No morel do,''replied the boy, !
and he then poured his strange secret j
iuto the novelist's ear, which was sym- I
pathetic enough, you may be sure.
story so loudly that the whole train
laughed. "And the servants couldn't
mal o it out at all to see the distin
guished author entertaining poor me.
Then he went to Paris, and I never
saw him again for a long while." The
pines not proving strong enough, the
strange youth was seized with a yearn
ing for the scent of the eucalyptus and
persuaded his friends to send him to
sea. When ho reached Sydney, he sold
his outfit and ran away into the bush
and lived iu the open with
Dutch, j
g..Ioie. Thence, after many adv; ntures,
he "sailed for tho south seas and abode
by reef and palm for many a long year.
One day when cruising as supercargo
among tho Gilbert islands, I think, a
European swell in beautiful white
duck, a great red sash and a spreading
panama hat, with a peacock's feather in
it, came aboard the sehcomr. "Good
morning, Mr. Stevenson," said (ho su
percargo. Air. Stweueoii looked and
wondered who knew him in these faroff
sens. "I don't know you." ho said,
shaking his head. "But I know you.
Don't you remember the fishmonger'*
boy who ate such a big L; cakfast at
Skerry vore?" "Soldo. Well, tho world
is small indeed." And no doubt tho
two had pegs and tiffin— or whatever
(hey call such things in Ike islands—to
getuer. Vtbat a strange, small world it
is indeed! Well, one succumbed to the
dread direase; tho other is as liturtv a
folloev as ever I raw. It was a quaint,
grim fancy to go dodging phthisis all
over the world!—London News.
*«>e bri.n|j«£ aiory.
The late Oliver Wendell Holmes
„ ----- 1 xioimes pro
j ssed to have a profound respect for the i
b:y on account of what he
used to call "the European aborigines
of America" being Dutch. He gave an
aspect of slyness to his respect which
inspired the idea that it was not untem
peu d by humor, but he maintained that
the Dutch, in spite of their stolidity,
had a great deal of humor themselves,
bor instance," lie would say, "the
kaK a Dutch origiu. "
V* hat is the
crumpet story?" people
b ould ask. And he would tell them
that it had m'miy v^ianteTbutThe 1
with which he was familiar was *
a man who was going to be hanged md
one
familiar was about
was asked whether RoA C T~ ' "
quest to 5f £
have a dozen hot cremate ^ ®°
because he had never dared u-TeJ? 1 * 617 '
than one before. m0Te
aiivekuskmeS 1
. PARKC:i'3 CliJC-a ~
feu *
hair
IgaaR^kj
-" pi? Y«wS§Jb
••'vl'u ooVt
i Miss Maria Parka"
j Is admitted to i m a | cad|
authority on cooking ; s"e A ®* lrt a*
Q ( .tt
^cly S ' (J §0
_
; Soups.^Hures f!: ) tlM ' fouadyj,.
and the i>< st stock i'" anT ott *' r «w4
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JLlXLrcLCU 0l JQ86 i
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H. N. Couloii
OTARY PUBU$
MAliKMl sTREEi '
thibodaix, la, '
-W. T.KUr.A.W
*. S'Jittt,
WELCOME Hom
LEBLANC & FOEET
PROPRIETORS.
FINE WINKS. L1QIJOU8, CEGAK8
BOARD AND LODGING J\T fjEJISOIS,
SON ABLE RATES.
LOCKFORT - . La
"NAME ON
EVERY
PECE*
m
Sir
| OWNEY'S
Chocolate Bonbons*
FOR SALE BY
Tiiibotleaiii its tig store.
BARKER,
FRANK
(8CCCESSOK TO BARKKR 4 SKVIK.)
Commission Merchant,
AND DKAI.KR IN AI.L KINDS Of
COUNTRY PRODUCE,
WOOTTON, SUGAR, MOLASSES, RICH
POTATOJb.8, EGGS, HONKT, BEES
WAX, TALLOW WOOL, HIDES,
MOSS, POULTRY, ETC.
NO. lift DEVATLH STASET,
NEW ORLEANS, LA.
KrulllEKAL ADVANCES MADE ON CO*
SIGNMKNT3
J. LOUIS AUCOtS.
< furniture:
} lot all kind
t
PAINTS,
HARDWARE,
UNDERTAKEBS*
Material ete
MAIN STM EMI
thibodaf::. la.
OLAY KNOBLOCM. IEARLB KSOBW*
*r#
CLAY K NO BLOCH & S0»J
LA FT OFFICES : Rom* 5, <?,
Second Floor. Bank of Tltffajd#** -
Building.
MAINf and ST. LOUIS STS
TIIir.ODAUX, LA.
FOR.
uco
o! larfrinjifhe »«»««
With a view ef rGarginx the
poit. I 1 ;h vc .lividnl h v
meiHmrintr five «ri>eiiti» (runt on " aT , ^
fturehe, fituate.i between !..«■A|* rt * . w
l'« thoiie Clinrcli, into town lot*, ®«
ottered for e:be. ,
Person* desiring to hnv bdo to ..j
that l eantiiol villnjre should write of
me for tnll Pfiti.ul-fs. BAKILLEAt JI