From the lonely station passed the utterance,
Through the pines and hemlocks to the groves of steeples,
Till the land was filled with loud reverberations
Of “All right! DE SAUTY.”
When the current slackened, drooped the
Faded, faded, faded, as the shocks grew weaker,—
Wasted to a shadow, with a hartshorn odor
Drops of deliquescence glistened on his
Whitened round his feet the dust of efflorescence,
Till one Monday morning, when the flow suspended,
There was no De Sauty.
Nothing but a cloud of elements organic,
C.O.H.N. Ferrum, Chor. Flu. Sil. Potassa,
Calc. Sod. Phosph. Mag. Sulphur, Mang.(?) Alumin.(?) Cuprum,(?)
Such as man is made of.
Born of stream galvanic, with it he had
There is no De Sauty now there is no current!
Give us a new cable, then again we’ll hear him
Cry, “All right! DE SAUTY.”
* * * * *
THE MINISTER’S WOOING.
At the call of her mother, Mary hurried into the “best room,” with a strange discomposure of spirit she had never felt before. From childhood, her love for James had been so deep, equable, and intense, that it had never disturbed her with thrills and yearnings; it had grown up in sisterly calmness, and, quietly expanding, had taken possession of her whole nature, without her once dreaming of its power. But this last interview seemed to have struck some great nerve of her being,—and calm as she usually was, from habit, principle, and good health, she shivered and trembled, as she heard his retreating footsteps, and saw the orchard-grass fly back from under his feet. It was as if each step trod on a nerve,—as if the very sound of the rustling grass was stirring something living and sensitive in her soul. And, strangest of all, a vague impression of guilt hovered over her. Had she done anything wrong? She did not ask him there; she had not spoken love to him; no, she had only talked to him of his soul, and how she would give hers for his,—oh, so willingly!—and that was not love; it was only what Dr. H. said Christians must always feel.
“Child, what have you been doing?” said Aunt Katy, who sat in full flowing chintz petticoat and spotless dimity shortgown, with her company knitting-work in her hands; “your cheeks are as red as peonies. Have you been crying? What’s the matter?”
“There is the Deacon’s wife, mother,” said Mary, turning confusedly, and darting to the entry-door.
Enter Mrs. Twitchel,—a soft, pillowy little elderly lady, whose whole air and dress reminded one of a sack of feathers tied in the middle with a string. A large, comfortable pocket, hung upon the side, disclosed her knitting-work ready for operation; and she zealously cleansed herself with a checked handkerchief from the dust which had accumulated during her ride in the old “one-hoss shay,” answering the hospitable salutation of Katy Scudder in that plaintive, motherly voice which belongs to certain nice old ladies, who appear to live in a state of mild chronic compassion for the sins and sorrows of this mortal life generally.