IN THE MEETING OF EVANGELINE AND Permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston, Mass. that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the Apostle, Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, Finding among the children of Penn a home and country. . . And her ear was pleased with the thee and thou of the Quakers, For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country Where all men are equal and all were brothers and He had become to her heart as one who is dead and not absent. Patience and abnegation of self and devotion to others, This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. Thus for many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy frequenting Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished When the world was asleep, neglected. High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city. Wealth had no power to bribe nor beauty to charm the oppressor, But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger. Thither by night and by day came the Sister of Mercy. Thus on a Sabbath morn. . . she entered the door of the almshouse, Something within her said "at length thy trials are ended." And with a light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness, Moistened the feverish lip and the aching brow and in silence Closing the sightless eyes of the dead. . . . Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder still she stood, Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, That the dying heard it and started up from their pillows. On a pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. Long and thin and gray were the locks that shaded his temples; But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood. So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. Motionless, senseless, dying he lay. . . . Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint like, "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence. Then he beheld in a dream once more the home of his childhood. As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision, Tears came to his eyes. Vainly he strove to utter her name, for the accents unuttered Died on his lips and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline kneeling beside him, Kissed his dying lips and laid his head on her shoulder. Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness. All was ended now, the hope, the fear, and the sorrow. * * * * All the dull pain and constant anguish of patience. And as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own and murmured "Father, I thank Thee." H. W. LONGFELLOW. I LEAP-YEAR MISHAPS. Contributed by Miss Mary T. Marshall, Philadelphia. HAVE always thought it strange that good, pious, well-meaning folks should always kinder look down on an old maid as if she was to blame for being born in a country where there are so many more women than men. If I had any voice in the matter I should want to be born out in Dakota, where women are as scarce as white black-birds, and a single woman needn't stay single a day longer unless she wanted to. The other day I got me an almanac and I saw that it was leap-year. What a thrill it gave me; my heart leaped right up in my mouth and I felt almost as much upset as when John Kenney come so near popping the question to me that he popped it to Sister Marthy instead. As I got to thinking it over, I concluded it would be a sin and shame if I for one did not take advantage of the change; for Ringville where I live has fifteen old maids and twenty-four widows, and they can't get a single minister to come there to preach even on trial, for fear all the women will want to marry him. I thought over all the unmarried men I knew; there was Major Webster, he had three wives and eleven children, and had lost a leg in the war; but then a one-legged man is better than none; half a loaf is better than no bread. The Major is deaf and uses an ear-trumpet to talk with and he has a deaf housekeeper, so one can't laugh at the other. Then there was Simon Snazer; he is an old bachelor, and so bashful that he used to stay out in the entry of the meeting-house, and bolt for home the minute the sermon was over, for fear that some of the female women would be put to sit beside him in the pew. He lived alone, and cooked his own victuals, and kept a cat and dog for company, and as I got to thinking it over I concluded that the poor fellow would be tickled to death to change his condition. Then there was Abner Golding; his wife ran away with a sewing-machine agent, and left him a male grass-widower, with five small children and the rheu matics in his back. Well I decided to take the Major first. I saw his deaf housekeeper going to the sewing meeting, so I fixed myself up and went over to his house. The Major came to the door. "She ain't home," said he. "I don't want to see her," said I, shouting into the trumpet he put up for me to talk into; "I want to speak to you." "Got two," said he, "who has got two?" |