i { ( 
VOL.
GREENSBORO,
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1875
POETRY.
Somebody’s Servant Girl.
8he stood tliere, leanin? wearily
Against the window frame;
Her face was pat*t,ent, sad and sweet,
Her garments coarse and plain.
“Who is she pray?” I a.sked a friend,
(Tile red lips gave a curl);
“Really, I do not know her name—
She’s some one’s servant girl.'’
Again I saw her m tlie street,
With burden trudge along;
Her face wa.s sweet and patient still,
Amid the jostling throng.
Slowly but cheerfully she moved,
Guarding witli watchful care
A market-basket, much tx) large
For her slight hands to bear.
A m:ui—I thought a gentleman—
Went push^g rudely by.
Sweeping tae basket from her hands,
But turning notlus eye;
For there is no necessity.
Amid that busy winrl,
For him to be a gimtleman
To “some one’s servant girl.”
Ah, well it is that God above
Looks in upon the iieart.
And never judges any one
By just the outci part;
For ifthe soul be pure and good
He will not mind tlie rest.
Nor questioti what the garments were
In which the form was dressed.
And many a man and w'onian fair,
B3" fortune reared and fed.
Wlio will not mingle here below*
With those who earn their bread,
When they have passt‘d away from life,
Be.vond the gates of pearl,
Will meet before their Father’s throne
W'ith many a ser^’aiitgirl.
Lucy’s Lovers.
BY HELEN FOREST GRAVES.
A rainy day in th,. country !
Drip, drip ! counded the water in the
barrel under the eaves : patter, patter !
tinkled down the raindrops upon the
leaves of the seringas and lilac bushes ;
and Lucy Dari, sitting by the window,
her round chin resting in her hands,
and her eyes fixed dreamily on the woods,
half hidden in vapory mists, began to
fee! just the least bit in the world bored.
An open letter lay in her lap—a letter
to which she referred, every now and
then, with a pretty, half puzzled contra
diction of her brows.
“Wash and wear!’’ she repeated to
herself. “I wonder what .aunt Judith
means? ‘She hopes that whichever of
my suiters I may elect to prefer will
wash and wear? Upon my word, that io
likening the lords of creation to a pat
tern of calico, or a gingham sunbonnet!”
And Lucy laughed a bttie—a very be
coming process, which brought out the
dimples around her cherry lirs, and the
dewey sparkles under her long auburn
lashes.
'Tm sure they arc both models of
amiability and good temper,” said she to
herself—“that is as far as I know.”
And then, all of a .siidlen. it appeared
to her how little a woman could really
know of the actual hona fide habits and
character of a man until she is married
to him, past all escape.
"Ah, if one could only take a peep be-
hind the .scenes!” said Lucy. “If one
could put a lover on trial for » month, as
aunt Judith does a servant girl, and dis
charge him if he don’t give satir.faotion !
And then I he wash and wear question,
could be easily settled. Heigho 1 I be
lieve I shall have to draw lots which I
will marry—Eugene Folliott, or George
Haven.—But there’s no use wwrinkling
up my forehead with it now; time will
decide. In the meantime, I shall be
hopelessly wearied if I sit hers staring at
the rain any longer. I’ll put on my
things and run over to Nell Folliott’s,
Eugene will have started for the city long
ago.
It was a pretty, shaded road, delicious
in the freshness of a summer morning,
but rather diippy and draggly, just at
present that led to the old Folliott man
sion—a sturdy (reation of gny stone,
with half a dozen honey locusts keeping
guard over it like a band of sentinels.
Lucy Dari, a privileged visitor, did not
ring at the front door bell, but slipped
quietly in at a back door, and ran up to
Miss Folliott’s room.
“,\t home, Nell?” she cried, tapping
softly on the panels of the door.
“Of course I’m at home,” said Nell,
brightly, opening it. “You dear little
rosebud, you’ve come just in time to help
me about the pattern for my new cash
mere polonaise. Isn’t it a wretched
day ?”
And the two girls were presently deep
in the mysteries of ‘bias folds,’ ‘knife-
pleatings’ and ‘side gores,’ until, all of a
sudden, a surly, masculine voice roared
down the hall :
“Where’s my breakfast, I say ? I want
my breakfast / Confound all yon women
folks, why don’t you bring me my break
fast ! Am I to starve to death? Nelli
Mother 1 Come, wide-awake there 1
Bring me my slippers I Fetch the news
papers, somebody ! And look sharp, do
you hear ?”
And the door was banged shut again
with considerable emphasis.
Nell looked at lucy with a crimsoning
brow. Lucy opened wide her inquiring
eyes.
“It’s Eugene,’’ said Nell, in rather an
embarrassed manner, “He was out late
last night, and he overslept himself this
morning.”
“Oh 1” said Lucy beginning to be con-
■scious that a flaw existed in this pattern
masculine diamond—that this pattern of
goods ‘washed’ but indifFerently,
.^t this moment footsteps hurried by.
It was the patient and much-enduring
Mrs. Folliott, bringing up the tray of
toast and tea.
“I wouldn’t wait on a man so,” said
Lucy, indignantly.
Presently Mrs. Folliott returned, with
^ the trav scarcely touched, and stopped in
Nell's room, to relieve her mind.
“He won’t touch a mouthful, because it
isn’t smoking hot,” said she with a sigh.
“He’s Grosser than one would think it
possible, and—
But here she checked herself at the
sight of Miss Dari.
“I beg your pardon my, dear !” said
she. “1 did not see you.”
“Oh, never mind about me,” said Lucy,
coloring. “I m going over to Mrs. Ha
veil’s a few minutes, to see about root
of fern she promised to get me from the
Hartford woods.”
For it had o- ciirred to Miss Lucy that
this was an excellent opportunity to test
the ‘washing and wearing’ qualities of the
second of her lovers. Folliott had been
weighed in the balance and found want
ing Now let George Haven take bis
chance.
The Haven cottage stood about an
eighth of a mile further down the road,
pretty little honey suckle-garland-afFair—
and Lucy Dari, feeling rather like a spy,
crept up the .stairs (nobody chanced to
be in the hall), and took refuge in Mrs.
Haven’s own neat little boudoir
Mrs. Haven bad three or four unruly,
ill disciplined children staying with her
that summer—the children of an invalid
sister—and Mrs. Haven was not rich in
this world's good.s, like the Folliotts.
As Lnev sat there, wondering whether
a lucky chance was about to befriend her
as it had befriended her before, a cheery
voice .shouted from below. George had
just come in, dripping but cheerful, from
the post office.
“Hello, mother! what’s the matter?
Crying, and discouraged? Why this
will never do in the world ! Come, little
folks run otf to the barn, every one of
vou, and play. The fire smokes does it?
Well, never mind : I'll have things all
straight, in a minute, with a few kind
lings, The fact is, mother, you sit at
home too much. You get nervous, I
must contrive some way of taking you
out to drive every day,”
A sly, dimpled smile came into Lucy
Dari’s face as she heard the strong, ca
ressing voice of her lover, bringing hope
and courage with it, and reflected that he
was certainly of a different stamp from
Eugene Folliott, whose dashing manners
and city airs and graces had so nearly
captivated her.
It was quite evident that HE would
‘wash and wear,’ according to aunt Ju
dith’s theory.
“I suppose I am a little nervous at
times, George,” Mrs. Haven answered ;
“but I never feel it when you are here.
I don't know what I would do without a
son like you. But if you ever get mar
ried—”
But Lucy Dari could not stand this—
she felt like a little innocent eavesdrop
per, ns she was, and hurried down stairs.
“Yon here, Lucy.?'’ cried Mrs. Haven,
who was busy at her stocking darning.
“You here. Miss Dari?” exclaimed
George, who had just brought in an arm
ful of fresh kindlings.
“ I couldn’t find any one up stairs, said
Lucy, blushingly, and looking painfully
conscious. I looked all over. I’ve
just come to ask if you got the root of
Hartford fern you promised me, Mrs. Ha
ven ?”
“ It’s set out in a flower-pot, under the
back kitchen window,” said Mrs. Haven.
“ But you'll stay all day, now that you
are here, Lucy, dear T'
Miss Lucy did not refuse.
Mr. Eugene Folliott lay in bed until
eleven, and read novels. At noon he
came down stairs.
“ Confounded dull here, without a soul
to speak to,” said he.
Of course his mother and sister were
outside the pale of civilized humanity.
And at sunset, when the crimson beams
of the declining orb of day broke radient-
ly out through parting clouds, he tied on
his best necktie, and.pinned a pink car
nation in his button hole.
“ I think I'll go over to Mrs. Dari’s for
a little while,’ said he.
“ You needn’t,” said the astute Nell.
Why not ?”
“ Because Lucy was here this morning,
and beard you scolding at poor mamma;
and because I saw her go by just now
with George Haven; and they’re en
gaged ?”
“ How do you know ?”
“ By instinct.”
Mr. Folliott made a grimace, unpinned
the carnation, and stayed athomi.
The engagement became a public affair
the next day, and Lucy Dari wrote back
to her aunt Judith that she had accepted
a lover whom she could warrant as an ar
ticle that would “ wash and wear.”—Sat
urday Night.
■«£>
A Compliment to American
Brakes.
An example of heroic self-devotion oa
the part of two railway servants is re
ported by the last mail from America,-—
A passenger train near Cincinnati, owing
to a misplaced switch, plunged through
a bridge, the driver and stoker being in
stantly killed, but all the others in the
train being saved through their heroism,
These men might hav.; saved themselves
by jumping out, but they remained at
their posts, the driver applying the air
brake when he discovered the misplaced
switch, so that the passenger coache.s
were stopped before they reaci ed the
chasm, and the passengers saved. “ The
driver was found crushed to d»ath in the
locomotive car by the tank, his hands
grasping the throttle.” The admiration
which every one must feel at this bravo
act, wilt be, amongst us in England, min
gled largely with a feeling of envy fora
country in which such an achievement ie
possible. l! is humiliating to reflect that
it is quite beyond the reach of imitation
in this country ; for though we have
doubtless many engine drivers, equally
brave, we have no railway brakes equal
ly efficient. Men can hardly be expect
ed to die at their posts, unless they can
do something worth dying for; and any
English engine driver who, under the
same circumstances, plunged into a chasm
his hand on one of oiii- miserable brake,
would simply be followed to destructio.n
by the whole of the “ passenger coaches, ’
and their occupants.
“ What did the doctor say ailed your
son, Mrs. Smithers f” “ He said the
poor boy had two buckles on his lungs,”
replied Mrs. S. “ Two buckles, eh ?~
Well, that’s drefful. I always thought
he looked like a strapping young man.”