CHARLOTTE MESSENGER. VOL. I. NO. 23. Scarlet Pimpernel. ’Ti« not a flower of high degree, With royal claim, or poet's name: It was not borne across the sea From gardens of ancestral famo; Perhaps a soul of little heed Would call my flower a wayside weed. It grows where paths are brown with dust, And hurried feet are rough to meet; But still it thrives in happy trust, As though life’s homely ways were sweet. A westher-glasu, serene and wise,’ It measures time for sunny skiec. Along the rustic, weedy walk, Its scarlet bloom finds generous room To trail the low, procumbent stalk. And miss ambition’s surer doom: While curious children in their play Stoop to inquire the time of day. ’Tis fine in garden grand to live; A« beauty’s heir to feel the care A tender hand is wont to give, And with rich perfumes fill the air. ‘1 were sweet to be a thing of beauty, And to be sweet life’s only duty. Put it is good to be a flower Os humble ways and unmarked days; To trim rough borders like a bower. Though few may care to pluck or praise. Good to be hardy, brave and bright, If but to blossom out of sight. Oh childhood's favorite, long beloved, Still spring and flower like virtue’s power In a strong soul that dwells unmoved: Still ope in sunshine, shut i u shower, In dignified humility Content where heaven has planted thee. Youth's Companion. FAINT HEART. John Everett had known Elinor ever since he could remember; they had gone to school together; he had spelled above her and had refused to take the first place; lie had envied the more daring boys who had walked home with her through the green lanes, be neath embowering elms, as if it were the most commonplace thing to do in the world, while he, with his heart in his mouth, tried to find courage for the effort, and found himself left behind for his pains. Later, when they fust, began to go out into the world together, what tor tures he endured when she danced with some handsome stranger; if she rode with his braver companions; if Carl Hughes took her off in his wherry down the silver length of the river and lost his way among the creeks of the silent marshes, only returning home when the evening was far spent, and the stars trembled in the heavens, and un wittingly brushing past poor .John, waiting on the wharf in the shadow of some warehouse to see the 1 " landed safe! Life began early to seem like a pleasant difficulty to him. He was al ways wondering what she wa3 doing; how she passed the long days while lie was busy in the counting-room; what were her every-day thoughts, her dreams, and did he hold any share therein? Sunday, too, soon became the first of holidays, for then he was sure to see her. His father's square, old-fashioned pew almost f;iced the congregation, and not a breath or a blush, the flutter of an eyelid or the ghost of a dimple, was lost upo" the young man. In the meantime, it is probable that Llinor was not blind. Glances arc easily interpreted ; actions speak louder than words. There is little doubt, when Carl Hughes or any of the others stepped out of a concert or lecture room and offered an arm to her at the door, but she understood that John had been waiting and wavering and longing for the favorable moment in which to anticipate' this attention, which mo ment would have arrived, sooner or later, but that Carl, intent on his pur rose, and unhesitating in its perform snee, had pushed to her side, and hail gained the day before John had even thought of losing it. But by insensible degrees one out grows this sort of faint-heartedness, and pushes out before Carl Hughes and the indulgent crowd, and wins the prize for the nonce, but delays to take the next, decided step in the right path. And so it was with John. One day lie heard that Elinor had given away her heart to Mr. ] lenormandy, now oil his travels. However much pain this an nouncement gave John, his faint heartedness—which, perhaps, was only an exaggerated appreciation of the ole jert of desire—oceanic a something i perfluous, since, if ho had already lost her, why should he fear ? It is at this stage that one cease 3 to doubt and begins to suffer. So, now that he had nothing to lose, he went In and out of her presence with a fatal fascination, as bold as a lion. CHARLOTTE, MECKLENBURG CO., N. C., NOVEMBER 25, 1882. He asked her hand in the dense without a qualm ; he took her out to supper or down to dinner, as the case might be ; he strolled with her on the moonlighted terrace ; he played melo dies of his own composition upon the flute ; he even ventured to take her in his own wherry down the dazzling reach of the river; and though he failed to entangle himself among the ribbons of the marshes, yet the wherry [ sprang a leak, and while he pulled home against the tide—as it seemed to him he had always been doing—Elinor bailed the boat with her slipper, which lie begged when they were safe ashore, as it was of no further use. “ I should like to keep it myself,” she said, “as a memento of the day in which we made shipwreck together ; but you may have it,” One day he happened to say some thi g about the time when Mr. Denormandy should return and take I her away. Elinor knit her brows. “ Why should Mr. Denormandy take me away?” she asked. “ He has the right of possession, has he not?” demanded John. “ I don’t understand; he has no right of any sort in me.” " But I thought—” “That I was going to marry him? Don'! believe what you hear again. The truth is he never asked me, though my friends declare that he wished it, and I myself had some reason to ex pect: but faint heart—” “ Never won fair lady. And you!” “ I was relieved when he left for Europe. It is so hard to say ‘No’ that one is in danger of saying ‘Ves’ from compassion. Love is so sweet that it is difficult to refuse it; and then one lias a haunting fear of some time need ing it.” “ And a willful waste makes a wil ful want. What a pity Mr. Denor rnandy had not known your compas sionate temperament and taken some advantage of it!” “Do you think so?” “No; I shouldn’t want a goddess to marry me from compassion.” Hut this did not mend matters. Now that there was everything to gain or lose—now that the affair was assuming a critical aspect, since the responsibility of the crisis ancl the event were his— the native timidity of his character stepped in to hinder him. Not that he abandoned his position at once; it had become too much a matter of habit for him to meet her at home and abroad on terms of intimacy, and the habit was too precious to be easily broken. Only inch by inch, and almost without his own consent, he retreated from the ground which he had honestly won. He invited her for no more lonely pleasurings on the river ; if they went together, it was with a crowd of friends. On one such excursion they became detached from the others by some accident, and were left like shells forgotten upon the sands ; for, walking around the bend of the beach where a bluff hid them from sight, with the wind blowing the other way, they never saw nor heard their com panions embark for borne, too busy with their own affairs to remark the absence of John and Elinor, who only understood the situation when they turned back to where the boat had been moored and found the tents struck and the beach lonely and deserted, ex cept for some barefooted children gathering driftwood, and a flock of saud-birds daring the waves. The afternoon was just melting into the tender atmosphere of early twi light, when all tilings wear an unreal aspect, and half-guessed stars sift themselves throngh the gloom, and the radiance from the nether half of the sphere—from the morning world— seemed running over into this along the brim of the horizon. Ear away a sail pricked itself out against the heavens a moment and was gone ; a fishing craft was dropping down over the bar, and a pleasure-boat, bubbling over with song and laughter, pushed its way toward home. John shouted to them and waved his hat, but the wind blew his voice down his throat, and the gay party of revelers fled on wings of mirth. “What shall we do? How shall we reach home?” asked Elinor. “ The gods help those who help them selves,” said he. "We will ask these gypsy children if there is not a boat to be found. There is no shelter on this lonely beach.” But neither the children nor their seniors—a party of half-gypsy folk who had encamped on