A Christmas Angel.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1624, 23 December 1887, Page 10 (Supplement)

A Christmas Angel.

■By Patience SrAPurros. CHAPTER—L Somewhere in Maine there is a seaport town, touched bv the sea and guarded by high blue hills always shrouded in a kind of mist, the breath of the great tide that sob* and beats against the cold, rocky shore. Such an old town this is, fair Athens by the Sea. Years and years ago, fine old sea captains lived here and built stately homes. They named the town Atheus—it was originally called some musical Indian word, poetic in its meaning—and they built their houses after their half-forgotten remembrances of rustles and noble mansions across the sea. These old captains were wealthy and proud, arrogant perhaps ; but a sea captain is always lord of all he surveys on blue water, and it was not strange that the air and old habit of command remained with him when he cast anchor in a home harbor until his voyage of life ended. Thirty years ago, in Athens, old Captain Perry was the chief man of the village ; now the red glow of the sun tints his pallid marble monument with a rosy Kent, the monument on which is carved a lerl'al htti* ship that generations of T"ui:g Atheir.aua ill marvel at and retimber. A man that was once so much i* pitiftt! small in n earthly mound, and Yet this is fo come to both captains and r- Obi Captain Perry lived in a grand - •in the village. Three- •-• ■■ ! an i sofr-green blinds, and a high-pillared r .rtico that made it look hke a church. Ti.e captain's grounds were artistically laid - ut; gleaming under the noble vims tha* shaded the lawn were beautiful statues brought from Europe; ear the house a i.i_- or >nze fountain tossed sparkling diiimou. a of water all the quiet Summer days. When the captain lift t : e sea. firry years before, he was fifty yea's old and "rich a* Crocus," tii • villagers »aid. with a poetic remembrance of a simple flo-u-r, and yet au erroneous idea of the meaning and use »f a word. He had a ward, 1..e handsome daughter of a brother captait. Finding the villagers Iwgan to talk about ''Chegirl of I irenty living under his roof. he promf iy and rather mist-rfnlly nr»ed his sur - • 1 r, and she married him. She was at»:.'.. obdie.it wife, quiet and passive, yet he often heard her sob and moan in h°r sleep. She died -jiving birth to a chh' i year after her mar. iage. She said no • ord of regret, nor ki-s d the bibv ti. 1.1 beside her, but only turned her lac :.. wall and lay there till the end. After her death the captain ft mini ■ i pa-ket of letters, a p-rtr.ii: ol . .■'- ue sailor, that was all : l>;it it male the captain bitter a id distrustful of men and women. >o he brought h;s motherless daughter up like some captive princess. Knesh>»''!d have no past that Be - re# .':•- Youn.-Pri ...-'wlio would claim her s> me d*\ 'l'.ie ca:••: \u ■ I ber to man),-but thv n n : her husband • in c .ii ever ". *< then* . ■ • ri The . • • . -d •.' ; : : .. John t. i. a! . : T 9 . ell J01.:i." little I) . ■ ia, the captain's d; j,t--. wa ; : •.J ■' (Sreenleaf nas. >n-h..; in one • • e captain's ships, i.reenleat senior hvl be>-n a sailor in the captain's ■ emj. iving no ambition, was n»*ver promoted, nis ability never beyo. d the car. \ in? at of a sup rior's nrde s ; not so with .1 .n. and the captain pu,died the I>>t ahea I He saw there was met il in hii <i John's threat dark eyes, l.'s rare bnght -mil-. Ins intelligent face, and activity . » when Desdcmoiia nas a maiden <•' s-veiiteen. John, thrty-two, quiet en I grave, almost st»m in manner, «is captain of the Oth'llt, one of tl»e captain's F>< y Oiips. Captain IVry was at that time oik- of the largest ship owners in the State »f Miine. AH this was thirtr years »-■ :■>". ships were monarchs of .:.•• sea t ion. Captain P rn talked of his future son-iii-la* to Ci tnin John, and the latter listened wi:h sad interest lifting his quiet cy s, that. Lke Cu-v t > black p»ls in the ft. ■*'. nu.'iit reveal so much when stinvd, -n I glancing at the dainty gil out by t e bonze fmntai'i—a golden-haired, i !u--eyel maiden, feedn,' the robins that fiocked a»x>ut her. Somehow in th--storms »t s a, tb*> lotur, lazy days and calms in " "■ sin* came up before him the blue o! i rr dress like tie- blue of her ey. ■-. the gimt of her yellow iiair, the » < it'r with Iran .' of her sweet -"lance when l er eyei in t his ..nd she dropped the curfain ..:' her I.»n_' dark lashes. John never «uw .i eeasVli but he thought of the transr. rnt pink of ii-r cheek. H" thought, while me cap'ain talked amiably about the expected Pnnce, uf his po.»r home, a mile from to*n at the f<rot of the blue n lis. tli aiw inp rickety old farmhouse, ih • barren ti-! Is, the lean cittle. He re- • red nts crippled father, his aired mother; .aw little Simmy playing by gal b wlure-headed, freckled Sammy, the orp:. m child of hi- wild, dissipated brothel whose debts he was paying—the d- frs that werestili so heavy and that he could lower so slowly. Ciptain Perry prattled on, f-T he regarded John .is a sort of slave—the child of one of his ignorant sailors—a man he ha I made. " hot, great guns, a smart man. and one that knows his place. Why, I've had him in my house like—like a (the captain paused)—a nephew for years. Look at my daughter, indeed!" (Some one hail insinuated such a thing might _ occur). "01! John, quiet, staid John (ireenieaf! why, I'd as soon think of Peter Jones, my old cook that went to sea with rae thirty year ago, looking at Desmondy." In the year 1850, when Sammy was seven and his grandfather somewhere about eighty, the iJthtßo was in New York, and Captain John came home to Athens to spend Christmas. The old folks, he saw, were very feeble, the home poorer than ever, and the doctor's bill for his tather's sickness stagtrered him. It was a dreary Christmas ; life had always been dreary to poor John ; but he was so jrtient. so cheerful always, that no one •aspect. I his Mddieart and terrible loneliness, lie met the captain—such a whitebearded old giant of seventy—and the captain, bubbling over with joy, informed I «m the Prince had arrived. 44 Met him last Summer just after you went away. John. Desmondy was ailing a little—l took her to New York. He was there—son of an old friend—a retired ship commissioner—only twenty-two —handsome young fellow—rich, too—worships Mona. now-^rifc

" Thank you," aaid Captain Jolin, huskily : " lia'a kind, but I'm so busyso much to s«e to —time's so short." " But Mona wants you," said the captain, not noticing in his cheer the chill, gray look on John's face. " Site's liked ye from a child—used to sit on your knee —keeps all the gimcracks you brought her. I tell her—ha, ha—they will be good for her youngsters to play with when she is Mrs. May. Tom May's his name." At first Captain John determined not to go to that white house hidden amongst the pines and firs, wearing their bright-green dress in the wintry blast, when all the other trees, the queenly elms and stalwart oaks, were wrapped in winding-sheets of snow ; yet insensibly his steps turned thither, and a servant showed him into a cozy parlor, her own little room, where everything was dainty blue save a big, crackling wood fire. It was a late afternoon when he went, and twilight was dropping down from the mountains to meet the thick gray fog from the sea. The j>arlcr was lighted only by the bright lire, but he saw her against the background of the twilight shadows, sitting near the hearth. She raised her head from the bit: volume on her knee when s'.ie heard his step, and lifted her beautiful faee, n<>w radiant from the yellow light of the blazing pine that threw fantastic lights on her golden hair and her white gown with its soft, feathery fur. lie gazed .it her in a sort of trance —the only woman he knew besides his wrinkled mother. He hail lived a lonely life at sea, and the creatures he had known in his younger days were not of the same race as this fair, swee; girl. " Don't you know me, John 1" she said, going up to him and laying her little white hand in his bronzed big one, never to him so big and rough before. He stammered. and pressed the small nand tremblingly. '• .Shall I rim.; for lights > ' she said, draw iii 3 ' him a chair by the fire and resuming her position wiih the book on her knee. " N->." lie auid ; ■' let Hi .' lock at you for a moment in the firelight ami t'y to realize that are the little child 1 used to pet, the child that was nev r absent fr«m my thoughts in all my lonely, lot:ely hours. How I used to plan things f. >r her. and try to rctnemb r all her lit r!t» wa.-.ts! 11-r happy faee, when I tilled ii r arr nand herditnpled arms with quaint lor. i-_'iit'>ys, was the sweetest reclWtion of my life.*' IKS'>. «ke halt to i.i'.nself. "You brought men •tiiiii.' this ' : »illl." s;e t i .! ii \* . t < :i r - a n i. v r L* I" j* -ii ta: it. aw k w:> r»1 y " \ .iiir i t i'r " i til.' the IViIUV ! :i l come :it i.i-t - yotiii.' h-vi r ii" ir- i to ta'k to me a out —the n h. handsome lover, i did not Rn "T but that Vou were already married. lb w 1 • may I ask now . before the blue eyed child is tob •in for e\er, and the Princess, leaving if r enchanted lioine. m ill go out into the '_'r at world with the IVince, leaving us woeful and sad as the faded 'lowers V" 14 Ali. me." • i the 1' iii' e-s •' i :.m very.very unVn py, John." Site Uan»*d h r cheek on her hand and !o-.k--d up into his faee. She noticed his firm ii; s tremble mid r his dak moustache; ah" noted he passed his hand over his eyes as it they were ntoiif. " Unhappy M* ma? You now ! " he sai l, incredulously, leaning near* r to her. " Why," he cried, brokenly, " how pale you are, how sad! and your voic«>—Ha old happy ri.tg is gone. Is it this cursed climate of cold and mist ?—must you, the iovelie-t of them all, go like the rest, the sweet-faced girl* I have seen grow to young womanhood ? Ah, God ! Mona, to think of you in the graveyard, yoB" young life at an end ! " He rose quickly, and walked to the window and looked out across t!m harbor, where :he light of the lighthouse it the entrance sent a long, yellow stream out on the dark waves. " I am well," said Mona, impatiently. " It's not consumption, it's—it's (with a little sob)—'' it's heartbreak, John." He eaine back to her then. "Mona," he said, tremblingly, "you us' d to tell old John all the little troubles of your childhood, and we would plan a way out of them. Can I not help you now 1" He drew his chair closer to her, and took the frail hand lying on the book in both of his hands. She longed to lay her cheek close to his and sob out her grief as she did when a little child. '"I do not love the Prince," she gasped. " Father says I must marry him, and I shall die." "Not love him!" repeated John. "He young, rich, handsome—all your father desires, and you knowing no one else. I don't understand it, Mona." Sho looked at him wistfully, then qnickly drew her hand away. "Do you know why I was named Desdemona?" she sai l, shortly. said bew.Meted John, ' it of S'.ak care's your : the same reason I beship

loved a dead sailor, and married fa! her with only a broken heart and blighted life in return for his great love and kindness. Father read how Othello thought he had been deceived, but grew to lovo Desdemona because she was true after all, and he wanted me to be what she was. I think he pities Othello, because he might have suffered like Othello did if mother had lived." " I see I" said the captain, Btill bewildered. 11 Imagine now," said Mona, quickly, a pink glow on brow and cheek, " if Dosdemona had to marry one of the nobles whom her father liked, and all the time she loved Othello with her whole heart." " And yet he did not try to win her ; he was too humble, too unworthy, he thought, for such a fair, sweet lady," said the captain. 14 But he told her stories of his travels." cried Mona, fixing her glowing eyes on the captain's face, "and she knew by them of his bravery, his nobility. She know she could adore and worship him, h° was so strong in heart, so daring, with the courage of a lion. A woman shut in fnm the world finds her heroes in books —in book-people—and when she sees a mm like the ideal she has read al»out her heart goes out to him whether she will or not.'' The caprjv'n looked into the fire; his face, half hidden by his hand, was curiously calm, and like marble in its pallor. Still that wistful glance in her blue eyes. He felt conscious of a sweet perfume, a delicious dreamy feeling of happiness : yet crushed his heart as h j- from a lifetime of repression knew how to do. " You us (1 to tell me stories, John," said a tender, broken voice, so close to him that he felt the warmth of her breath on his hand. II- s'art-d up and wen: once to the w ndow. Still iiarkn D s

outside, a faint suggestion of snow on the fields, a wide expanse of gloomy black water rolling under tho faint, tiny stars, and away across tho harbor the gleaming light. How quiet it was ! Only the snap and crackle of the fire dying down to deep red coals. He beard her soft step; he was mad for a moment. Wild, fevered blood poured into his brain ; his heart seemed as if it would choke him. He clinched his hands. She came close to him and rested her cheek on his arm. " You are amrry. I have been unmaidenly, d-ar John," she said, piteously ; 44 hut it was so soon—the wedding—and you —you would be gone." "God have mercy on me 1" he cried hoarsely. '' My heart is breaking!" He flung past her and out of the house. She turned, tremblingly, for she heard a well-known step. Her father was close beside her. 44 1 heard it all! "he hissed, his voice strangled with passion. "He came here like a serpent—he stole your love—he, the son of an ignorant sailor—a pauper ! He'll go back to bis poverty, and you—you shall marry May to-morrow. He shall never know this. I was deceived, so shall ho be. All women are traitors—are liars at heart. Bring lights !" he thundered to the scared maid at the door; and when the candles were brought he flung open the big volume. l *Se"! see! I named you aright!" he shouted—--41 Look to her, M ior, if thou hast eyes to see, 8h" has deceived h»r father, and may thee."

CHAPTER 11. Christmas fiy ; a ooldJ^qu^oi

fitted her new robe, was wearing it in lovely piece. The kitchen at the Greenleaf farmhouse was warm and snug. If the floor was bare, and the ceiling but big oaken beams, a great fireplace piled high with blazing logs was cheery enough, and the apples and cider were rather pleasing —so Sammy thought. Grandpa, silent and sorrowful, sat on one side of the fire—a bronzed old man with wiry white hair and board. Grandma, with a neat cap over her silvory hair, knitted briskly on the other side ; between them was a fat dog, an old cat, and tow-headed Sammy on a stool. " Goin'to write all night 1 " said Sammy, in a melancholy tone. The captain looked up. He was writing, to a ship-owner he knew, for a place even as second m*te. That very morning he had been discharged from Captain Perry's employ for ever, besides receiving a cruel letter accusing him of all manner of baseness and ingratitude. " I'll come now," said the captain, puting up his writing ; then he took Sammy on his knee and told him stories of Christ-mas-tide —how God sent his angels down on earth to spread good cheer .and happiness all over the world to rich and poor. " Is Santy Clans a angel ?" said Sammy, practically. •• A sort of one." said the captain. " Which is the best, him or the angels ?" paid Sammy, thoughtfully. "Thea::gek" " Well, I guess I'll pray ter the angels, then, ter bring me a sled," said Sammy, with some ruh'-f ; "an" Til tell 'em ter git yer a new ship, Uncle John. I'm a pitcher, yer know,'" he went on gravely. " Grandma alius says little pitchers has big eirs, when she's tellin' what she don't vva' • :::- t.. know." " YoiiM better -> tobtd now," laughed

me captain, and when the toiv neau was quiet on a pillow ami the blue eyes closed st lc into the little room off the kitchen whore Sammy slept, and laid, with other offerings, the looked-for sled at the foot of tho bed. Then he went back to his writing ; later on, worn and weary with sorrow, ho sought his bed in th • attic, and fell into a troubled sleep. There was a mightv, rakish-sort of a moon that Christmas Eve ; it did not come out at all till midnight, but it shone brightly then, with a melluw, cheerful ra li.mce. In fact, it was so brilliant in Sanimya room, that he plainly saw the name on his sled, "The I'.oss," in large, gilt letters. Sammy dreamed of the angels, with some vague memories of a Santa Clans, but most of beautiful angels in white, flying everywhere. He thought that he met one, such a lovely one, with real gold hair, and he asked her for the sled, and then for a ship for Uncle John—a great big ship. Tap—tap—tap. Sammy turned rest lessly on his pillow. Tap—tap. " For Uncle John," he murmured, drowsily. Tap—tap —tap. He sprang up, wideawake. The moon was shining ; at the foot of his bed was a line, blue sled. Tap—tap. Why, there at his little window was an angel—a real, live angel, with long, yellow hair, and all in white, too. The angel beckoned to him ; he started up, and ran to ti <• .tow ; the angel was going down the uli to the harbor. " i vi got the sled," thought Sammy : "by! I never told her that 1 wanted i ship tor Uncle John. J'H run after her. he said, talking to himself. " I will, an git that ship for Unde John'* Chrj§.'ffru?, from her." He tuggV hiaJ)oots Kwc ifor

Grandma might stop his going, for fear he would get the croup. Then Uncle John had said angels seldom came to big folks, but always to little children like him. Sammy crept out of the house, then away he sped after the white figure that was wandering down to the river. He saw the angel quite plainly now, even the soft white fur on her dress; but, to his disappointment, he could see no wings. "Angel ! Angel;" he panted, coming up to her ; " I like you for the sled, thank yer ; but Uncle John, he wants a ship. I furgotthat." " Yes, yes," said the angel, looking at him with wide, vacant eyes ; " yes, a ship. Dear John, it was so cruel. He shall have the ship. Come ! come ! " she cried, piteously, seizing the child's hand. " Hurry; before they come we will get John the ship ; he will not blame me then —not leave me to die." " I'll go ! " panted Sammy, running through the soft, light snow, his bare legs almost frozen. " It's awful cold, though. I'm nigh froze. Why, there ain't no ship there! "he cried, in dismay, when they came to the brink of the bay, where the sullen, Mack waves, with shining tips of foam, beatagainsttherocks. " See ! there's our cove ; that's Uncle John's boat, lie rows ter town—it's a mile an' a liarf ! That's our old dory then 1 ; it's leaky —Grandpa hauled her up last Summer —full er cracks. Ain't no ship I can see here." The angel looked out on the wild waters with the same vacant look that was on her face all the way. The fierce wind coming up now against the tide boded a storm Where had that wind come from so suddenly ? Her long hair blew about her; her snow-laden garments waved and (lapped like a sail. "Come! c.nne!" she cried, clutching the child's arm, " into John's bolt S-e !

I 1 can puiii it t.ll ! It da.iee- like <t seagull on the waves—it is a free, happy boat. Now I'll row : I can row, I can fly ; I am free now ! We'll go there, away, away away out!—never to come back. Nevermore—nevermore !"' She laughed, a strange, wild laugh, that echoed over the great, lonely harbor. Sammy, holding tight to the gunwales of the boat, looked at her with wide, frightened eyes. " But the ship—Uncle John's ship !" he repeated, miserably. " There I" she cried, tossing the flying hair from her face; "ahead, away out, beyond that yellow light ; there is the ship !" "That's the ocean." said Sammy, terror-stricken. " Uncle John says there's fearful breakers there—only one little narrer channel where vessels come in. That's the lighthouse. Oh, Angel, I want to go baciv, I'm so cold, and all the water is coram' inter the boat !" His only answer was that mad laugh, singularly swe-t, echoing above all -the roar of the water, and the wild moaning of the wind. Captain John waked qp from a troubled sleep. Someone was pounding at the dour. He had thrown himself dressed on his bed, so in a second he was in the kitchen. The door had been broken open, and Captain Perry, May, and a crowd of im n were in tho house. " Ho has stolen my daughter !" yelled [ ihe captain. '• Search the house !" A crowd of men rushed through the I rooms. John, trembling and dazed, turned to the man that he knew best in 1 tha tin nig, the kind old village doctor : For God's sake, what does this mean ?" he asked, ho rsley. " Miss Mona!" pa-ited. the dootor, whjo seemed to hive run aJ4the way from town " She was taken yesterday—-

raved of you. I gave her a sleeping powder last night to calm her. The nurse and I left the room a moment for medicines ; when we got back—we had left her quiet, and, we thought, asleep—she was gone." "Gone!" cried John. "The windows were open; she must have climbed down the balcony ; she was barefoot ed, but had thrown over her a white, fur-lined cloak. We traced her here—her bare foot-prints in the snow—bloody ones at the last—to that window!" (Pointing to Sammy's room.) "Sammy ain't there!" shrieked old Grandma Greenleaf ; " he's gone, an'his little coat an' boots ; but the rest of bis clothes is there!" '• Was she delirious still?" asked a bystander. "I can't tell," said the doctor. "I think s<> ; her escape seemed like the cunning of insanity." John rushed out of the house. Prrr was close at his heels. " For God s sake," moaned the old in m " tell me where she is—my Mo;ia! You shall have your ship again !" " Fool!" cried John, a horrible f;v choking him ; '• see—see thedouM'- tra-k:-, the child s and hers! They are going to the river—to the river, m in !" Oil, that half-mile ! It seemed as 1 >:ii as twenty mile?, and each mile a in uinrain to climb. " The b lat's gone—gone !" shouted John. " Tiiev can't have gone in that on the awful sea. My dory that was here is gone. Captaui Perry!" Just then a child's cry floated over the water, and they paw, rising on the crest of a wave, nearitig the frightful breakers, that fretted the entrance to the harbor, a boat ; in it two figure* ; then another wnv buried it from sight. While they talked and wrung their hands, and the crazed, stricken father cried and played. John Greenleaf worked wi; ii a nse and purpose. Some ra aroundiheslioiv tot!; lov. a for boats well knowing their race would he useless. " l'wo thousand pounds to the man that rescues her ! " cried May. 'Four thousand!" sobbed her father. "Don't go : n that boat, John," said the doctor, laying a restraining hand. " For your poor old father's sake," cried tlie old man, hobbling to his son and clinging to his am; "you're all I've got in this w"rld, John, my noble son, my brave lad. They treated ye mean—ye owe 'em nuthin'." In his quiet way • ' tY, d liims'df. ' P. -V !i i ;ike iM.te \ ■ •, " m- '• ■ itt , ■!» ; !*• re eV I! • . he s' oil ! ll I.iUM hv. 'M! i "id dory on the w;l■ I water, he seix. d the lettered oars and r .wed out to sea. '".very seun iii tha treacherous boat let hi a st ream of w.rer. every wave dashed i:s spray over the sinking suhs. " They never could have reached her from the town," siid the doit>r. " S e. they are not half way there. It's a fearfully icy road and the sno\v is deep, and it will take time to get a boat in town, as most are laid up for the season. It he reaches her before they are at that point, they're saved; if lie don't, the breakers will h-;it the boat to atoms." " He'll reach 'em,' said the old man, brokenly. "'lf a man can, lie can God'll help him." This touched Perry. He turned and pressed the trembling hand of his old-time sailor, who whispered : " An' God help ye, Cap'en." "She's row in' straight for them breakers," said a ftsriurman. I " I>y Jove, he's a magnificent rower, though, "said young May. " What strength he has, what a great, strong sweep ! I never saw courage like his, in that boat with the wind and sea ; but It's mad and useless, if it is sublime." Perry looked at the young man, daintily bred and effeminate, a child of wealth and position ; then he looked out to sea, at that black speck, hurled onward with a force that he himself or this young aristocrat, hardly realized. The strength of a man who has been bred to toil, the mighty strength of patient labor enlisted now to rescue and urged on by love—the woman he loved was in peril. Then it was Perry remembered how happy she was when John was with them ; how bright ber smile when John told them stories of the sea ; how silent and grave she became when he was away ; so anxious for news of the Othello when there were storms. He recalled how honorable John was when his child had tempted him as man never was tempted beforo. " Fool! fool that I have been! " he moaned, climbing up the steep cliff that walled in the little cave from the sea. Ho saw in the moonlight that the boats were near together, he saw the dory a mere line above the water, and knew it was almost gone. " He's thrown off his coat," cried the doctor ; " see, he's swimming—swimming in that icy water !" " He never can do it," said May. " He can ! " shouted the captain, stung into fury ; "he can. for he loves my girl, that's why, sir. He will save her !" They . atched breathlessly, seeing so littrafearing much. Those few moments womhuetemity, ahfetiffletoJto.waiUng

" The boat's puttin' back, sir—comia' this way !" Oh ! that joyful shout. It echoed out over the harbor where, drenched with icy water, worn and half frozen, Captain John was rowing back against the tide, battling every inch of the way. She lay, white and still like a broken lily, in the bow of the boat. He dared not look to see if she were dead, and shivering littlfl Sammy screamed from the bitter cold The moment the doctor hat! Been the boat returning he rushed up to the house ; he knew what would be needed. At last the speck grew into outline and shape, and then they saw the oar&man rowing Ins tireless stroke with steady nerve, with dauntless courage. Willing hands drew the boat to hind, find carried Sammy to the hoit-e, but the oarsman heeded them not. He lifted his white burden and strode over the li Ids to his home. He left her only wimn the doctor said that sh ■ was alive and might recover ; then he staggered to tiie door and fell in a dead fain?. * * * * " It's a funny Christmus,' said Simmy, dolefully, lli" :: xi morning. I've got t r stav in 1)0-1 an' take medercine. 1 hate angels." " But here's lots of things that Captain I'er-y scut you," said the doctor, who had heard the angel story from his young patient, "aud you can get up this afternoon." " Where's Uncle John ? '.said Sammy, relenting a little ; "rowed in that leaky boat, he did, an' he told me not ter, that it would sink, an' it did, but heswimmed, he did." " He's with the angel I*' said the doctor, smiling. " I've got ter see him," said Sammy, firmly ; so he was wrapped up and carried to his grandmother's room. He saw the angel, white and still on the bed ; near her was las Uncle John, looking at her with fi face that did not seem to belong to his I n le John at all, it was so passionate. so radiant with hope and fear. Captain [Vrry stood near tiie door; he waved them hack, but the angel opened her eyes at the imise. " Fatht r," she said, softly. How still they all were ! Her reason was coming back. '■ls John here?" "Yes," answered her father; "he is near you, cl se beside you." John went to her then and knelt by the bed. She raised her golden head ho his breast. " Dear John." " You must not talk, love,' - he said, gently ; " lie quiet and get well." " You will never leave me ?" " Never, Mona,'' said her father ; " yo-i will be happy to hear your father say that; John is the only man in the world I would give you to, 1 e is the noblest and the bravest. The Prince didn't come, Monn ; I was blind, ami didn't see that he vas with us all the time." ''Will Uncle John git his ship?" put in S mimy's shiill vo ; ce. " fndeed he will," said the captain, f Mowing ihem o t. "and all old Captain I I'. Ny has to give." •'i :/:.. ss," said Sammy, when he was i ivi u< ',:>■-. i-i Led wj'h an orange and a 1 :;■':-,- book, "i guess she wasn't a an ■ -••".•• 1 ~!. a'i, an' I guess she's j i i'. ~.. '. s^a' 1 , an I guess ' \ ' - i> it i no! nies3 any more right a".;\. .; .eed liie doctor. " You'll find out ft"hi :i .-:.e gis well die's better than ail the ( inisimas angels your uncle John c in 1 .! teil you ab Hit till you get to be a man." '• .Meiibe," said Sammy, sleepily ; " but I'd like tor know who brought me that sled, though." A SNAKE TX THE GRASS. The day was bright and sunny, and the win 1 had gone to t-1 iep, And I had ridden many a weary mile O'er the open, through the forest, on the flat, and down tii" steep, Seated squarely in the pigskin all the while; For my mate was young and tricky, she was bircly rising three, And it took me all my time to keep hi i straight : Black as jet, and big, and bony, strong, and handsome, fresh and free, Faith, she seem'd to make but little of my weight. As I crossed a little clearing, the station homestead Hearing, She made a sudden plunge—''Wo, steady, lass,'' Then together I her iifted—l was very nearly shitted. And I saw the cause, a black snake in the E?rasc ( Was it chance or was it reason, you may argue as you please an Such a subject, ail I know is, 1 don't know, But as I therein was tightening, she struck at it like lightning. And the reptile's head was crushed beneath the blow. She was wild with agitation, she was wet with perspiration, Her eyes distended, glowed like orbs of light, She sidled sideways shivering, with chest and Hank all quivering And her very mane was stiffened with affright. And my mare's instinctive shrinking from the reptile set me thinking How often through life's journey as we pass, Though bright and fair the day be, and open though the way be, We may come across a black snake in the grass. 'Tis a lesson worth the learning, that instead of weakly turning To fly when sudden danger may assail, Smite straight out from the shoulder, the better blow the bolder, The odds are ten to one that you'll prevail. Life is fair, and life is sunny, while you plenty have of money. And the road you have to travel's strewn with flowers, But yet you must remember, that beside the hot December, There arc other months of cold, and gloom, and showers. To enjoy the pleasant season of youth's summer, is but reason And good sense, and yet I call the man an ass Who would idly lounge and dally, wi th each ilow'ret in life'sjrallcy, / snake in the/grass. 1 A By B.P. WhttWobth.