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GREENSEOllO, N. ('., THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1876
A Little Sibow-Koom.
OoDilfriend, don’t squeeze so very tight!
TiK‘i(Us room eiiou.j^li for two.
Keep ii: your miiul tliat I’ve a
To iive a.'> well as you !
You’re ric'i and strong; I, poor and weak ;
But tiiink you I presume
AVii ‘uonlji- thih poor boon I ask,—
A litllt' elbow-room!
‘Tis $uvh as you—trie rich and .strong,
If you but had tiie will—
Oonid give the weak a lift along,
And help tlicm up tiie liili.
But no! you jo.dle, crowd and drive !
You storm, and fret, and fume !
You arc '.lie oidy man alive
I ' want of '.'lbo\v-ri>om !
But thus it is on Life's round path—
“S-df” seems the god of ail!
Tlie strong will crush the weak to death—
Tlie big devour the small!
Far bettor be a rich man’s hound—
A valet, serf, or groom—
Thau struggle ,mid the mass around.
When we’ve no elbow-room I
Up Heart, my boy! Don’t mind the shock I
Up Heart, and pusli along !
Your ftkin will soon grow rough witii knocks,
Y'our limbs widi labor strong !
And there’s a hand imsocii to aid—
A star to light the gloom I
Up Heart, my boy ! nor be afraid—
Strike out for elbow-room !
And when you see, amid the throng,
A fellow toiler slip,
da>t give him, ns 3*0.i pass along,
A brave and kindly grip I
-Let noble deeds, tlioiigli poor you be,
Y’our path in life illume ;
And witli true Christian charity,
Give others elbow-room!
— VouiJi's Companiou.
A Wedding Eve.
BY BELLE FAIKIE.
At last all the gay good-nights were
spoken, and Edith Brand could lock her
self in her luxurious chamber and peruse
a letter .she had received by the evening’s
mail, and a glance at the superscription
of which had banished the bright if not
happy smile from her lips and brought •e
sudden pallor to her beautiful face—for
Edith was beautiful despite her coldness
‘For God’s sake, pause 1 Ratl'.er than
see you the bride of another, I will lay
you dead at my feet!’
A strange, startling *pi.«tle for a bride-
elect to receive on her wedding eve, yet
Edith lead the blurred lines of warning
without a trace of emotion ; but as she
read the signature ‘Ilarry Douglas,’ a
spasm of pain crossed her brow, Impa
tiently pushing the clustering curls from
her face, and tossing a dress of handsome
silk from a chair which stood near the
window, she drew aside the curtains of
rich lace and seated herself on the bal
It was a lovely evening in June.—The
air, fragrant with the perfume of honey
suckle and violets, and balmy with the
health of summer, sighed dreamily
through the branches of the ancient ivil-
lows which surrounded the Grange; the
moon shed a soft, .silvery radiance over
the sloping lawn, at the foot of which the
blue Hudson sparkled in quiet beauty.
All nature seemed to breath peace.
On jn.st such an evening as this she had
listened to Ilarry Douglas' tale of love;
and beneath the drooping branches of the
kindly willows they had exchanged vows
of unchanging affeclion. IIow full of
brightness the future had seemed then !
But that was three long years ago.
Mr. Brand had opposed thoir marriage
most strenously. Harry was poor—a
most unpardonable failing in his eyes
—and besides, it had long been a pet
scheme of his that his only daughtir
shoud marry Alfred Sinclair, the son ofa
New York millionaire; and Eichard
Brand rarely failed in Lis plans, and
never scrupled to stretch a point to com-
pa.ss a cherished end.
So Ilarry Douglas went to the far West
to seek a fortune for his beloved, and she
waiced hopefully his return.
Letters at first were frequent and
lengthy; but at the end of si.x months
they ceased. Then Edith learned her
first bard lesson of patient suffering; her
lover’s name she never mentioned, and to
the whispers to the wild life be led, she
seemed to listen with indifference.
Richard Brand smiled with satisfaction
at his easy success in manipulating the
chords of a girl’s heart; but when, one
evening, he carelessly ventured to an
nounce the report of Harry Douglas’s
marriage, Edith, without a word, rose to
leave the room, but before she reached
the door, fell fainting to the floor.
A long, weary illness followed, and
she emerged from it, Edith Brand was a
changed being. Even her father stood a
little in awe of the haughty cold, beaut}'.
Alfred Sind air was a coii.'-lant visitor
at the Grange; and much to Mr. Brand’s
delight, Edith received his attention
graciously; and when he proposed to her,
did not reject him, and they were to be
married on the moirow.
Did she love him f He was kind and
tender, and devotedly attached to her,
but Edith never for a moment dreamed of
giving him anything more than her e.'-
teem. Her old home life was insupporta
ble to her, and she was going to marry
him to fly from it and all the memories of
She was in a comfortable state of
apathy when this wild appeal from her
old lover reached her. How could he
dare to make it, when he knew full well
that it was not she who had proved un
Despite his falsehood, she felt the old
tenuerness for him welling up in her
heart to=night. To..morrow it would be
wrong to cherish it, but to-night she was
‘Oh, Harry ! Harry ! how could vou
so abuse my trust in you—my love for
you?’ she exclaimed, wildly; and a
burst of tears relieved her orerbudened
She started to her feet at the sound of
the familiar voice, and for a moment gaz
ed in delighted surprise at Harry Dou
glas— for he it was who stood near her.
Pale, thin arid haggard, he seemed to
have grown prematurely old since they
As memory returned to her, all the
warmth and tenderness died fron Edith's
face, and drawing herself proudly erect,
I she said, haughtily :
j ‘To what am I indebted for this unex-
j pected honor of a visit from Mr. Dou-
For a minute he did not reply, and then
he said, gravely:
‘This morning, when I heard of your
approaching marriage, in the first mad-
; ness of my grief I sent you a letter—a
j wild, crazy epistle—which I have come
: to apologize for, and to tell vou that you
j can wed whom you please, without
thought or fear of me. A love that can
not stand the test of a six months’ ab
sence is not a loss sufficient to make a man
wreck his life. Yet it would have been
kinder, Edith,’ he added a little less bit
terly, ‘had you sent me my dismissal
yourself, and not deputed your lather,
who was never my friend.’
lie paused as he noted the glance of
amazement with which Edith regarded
‘Harry, there is some grievous mistake
here,’ she gasped. ‘I—my father was
never given authority by me to send you
1 such information. I received no answers
to my letters; then the report of your
approaching marriage reached me—■
‘Who told y:u such a base falsehood ?’
Explanations followed; Richard
Brand's wily scheming was exposed, and
though she mourned over her father’s
treachery, Edith could but rejoice that
she had discovered it before it was too
In the first flush of the early dawn
there w-as a quiet wedding in the village
When Richard Brand entered the
breakfast room he was met with the in
telligence that Edith had fled, and on
her dressing-table was a note to him :
‘Father;—As I forgive you, so
must forgive your daughter,
Faith and Works.—Faith and works
were illustrated by a venturesome little
six-year old boy. who ran into the forest ■
after a team and rode homo upon the !
load of wood. When asked by his
mother if he wag frightened when the
team came down a very steep hill, he
said, 'Yes, a little ; but I asked the Lord
to help me, and hu?ig on like a beaver'
A Child Lost Among Wolves.
A correspondent of the Denver Neivs,
writing from Platteville, Colorado Terri
tory, tells the following thrilling story:
On Saturday evening last our town was
startled by the report that a little girl,
aged about 9 years, a twin daughter of a
Mr. Sutherland, who recenUy moved into
the neighborhood, was lost on the plains.
It appears that the child accompanied
her father in search of cattle, and when
about two miles out they found some
calves, one of which had a bell attached
to its neck. The cows not being in sight,
the father directed the child to follow the
calve:, which he suppo.sed would go di
rectly home, w'hile he ivent in search of
: he cows. It was then 4:30 P, M. At
about 6 o’clock the father returned home,
and was .alarmed to learn that his little
daughter had not come in. but was all the
while supposed by the mother to be with
the father. The alarm was given to the
people in the village, and twenty or more
persons went out and scoured the country
for SiX or eight hours in every direction,
but without success, though some of them
were out until 4 o'clock next morning,
and two, one a boy of 17, having them
selves been lost, did not reach home un
til 8 o'clock Sunday morning. On Sun
day some forty men and boys on horse
back, and at least twenty on foot, went
oat, notwithstanding the extreme cold,
wet wind, but after hunting all day re
turned unsuccessful. Again on Monday
morning men from every direction were
on the bunt, and in the most systematic
manner examined a wide strip of country
from the Platte to near the Box Elder,
and were still looking, headed toward
home, when a signal gun was heard by
which all knew the child had been found.
It appears the little one followed the
calves for a time, but as they did not go
toward home, she became conscious she
was lost. At first, she says, she wander
ed around ; but hearing the wolves gro wl
ing around F,er, she started in a sl.raight
course, which took her to the Box Elder,
and, witho'it knowing what direction she
was taking, she followed the lied of the
creek until daylight, At that time she
8-aw trees on the Platte, and started for
them, arriving at the ranche of Mr. John
Beebe, about four miles below Evans, at
10 o'clock Sunday morning having trav
eled constantly for eighteen hours and
probably a distance of not less than twen
ty five miles. When she asked if she
was not frightened, she said the wolves
kept c'.o.se to her heels and snapped at her
feet; but that her mother told her that
if she was good the Lord would always
take care of her, and so she knew the
wolves would not hurt her, because Goil
wo'.'.ldn’t let them. After being kept ai
the house of Mr. Beebe until the following
day, Monday, she was brought home as
sound and fresh as though she had ohly
taken a short walk of ten or twelve miles.