Puck — October 30, 1878 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

PUCK. echo of the “ Sweet by-and-by” lingered with them. Down the Switchback, and then up to Glen Onoko, a curious sort of a split in the mountain, where people climbed up and imagined they were enjoying themselves. At this point the ladies distinguished themselves by going to the top, a few of the men did too, but when it was all over everybody declared that the views were charming, the waterfalls superb, and the cool- ness delightful. Puck will make a bet with any one that not one-twentieth portion of that party ever reached the top of the glen. The ride home from Mauch Chunk was more interesting, if anything, than the ride out, be- cause it was night, From Easton Puck rode on the engine. She was a beauti- ful piece of me- chanism, and seemed a thing of life. Crossing the Delaware we plunged into the darkness. Have you ever ridden on an engine at night? No? Well, then, have you ever experienced being blown up at a_ steamboat ex- plosion ? The sensations are similar, Everything is dark before us. The head-light gleams into the darkness, making grotesque shadows of the telegraph poles as we fly by. “Jim,” the en- gincer, stands at the throttle, calm and silent. Faster and faster come the throbs of the mon- ster, swifter and swifter revolve the great driv- ing wheels, The roar of the train behind is lost in the clanging of the pumps and whir of machinery. ‘Sixty miles an hour!” whispers Mr. Cummings in our ear. Far in the distance a light appears, “Jim” leans forward and with keen eyes peers out forward. He knows the lives of seventy people are in his hands. Our speed seems to increase until we scarcely touch the rails. We fly. The light is red! Danger! ‘he engineer's hand goes up quickly. A scream from the whistle. ‘Then the hand comes down. Surely we will strike the danger whatever it may be. The throttle is moved; the breaks applied by the same hand. Slower and slower we go until the red light disappears and a white one takes its place. “The monster is released and plunges forward again roaring and swaying on its iron road. The danger is past. Miles and miles we go until at last the engine stands panting in the depot. So we part at the portals of the ferry and are lost with our bundles of leaves, our boxes, our mementos, in the busy whirl of the great metropolis, ‘The New York Express thinks “Maggie Mit- chell plays Cricket better than the Australian boys.” That is reat wicket to talk so.— Keokuk Constitution, Joaquin MILLER weeps because he was not born in Italy. Joaquin, it’s all a Pisa nonsense. We wouldn’t give a Bologna sausage to Rome all over Italy.—-Boston Lost. Ir Edison will turn in now and and invent some kind of a calcium light that will light up all the streets except front gates, and leave them in a sombre shadow that will prevent an old man in an upper bed-room window from telling whether two people are close together or wide apart, it will do. Otherwise it will be ex- ceedingly unpopular.— Breakfast Table. A MOTHER’S FIRST LOVE. CHAPTERI. HE summer night was fair and soft; the small London garden looked cool and 7 pretty under the darkening sky. Two figures were seen hovering here and there—a man and a young girl—now lingering in some shady spot, now pacing up and down, always talking in low and tender tones, They are happy. Let us pass on, and not disturb the golden dream of love. In a small, beautifully furnished room of that dark mansion yonder, alas, how different the scene! A woman sits, with hands clasped and eyes fixed in hopeless sorrow, with a look that tells of pain more surely, more deeply, than the bitterest of tears. And so the time goes by, and she moans not. A servant comes in softly, inquiring if her ladyship wishes for lights. She signs a negative; and still the same listless attitude, the same hopeless look. By and by a light step is heard, and the girl whom we left in the garden runs in exultant. “O mamma, I did_ not know that you were in here. Alone, too! Poor little mamma! And we have had such a happy day at Lady Louisa’s. Harry has just left me, and, while wishing me good-bye, he gave me this lovely bracelet. Is it not beautiful, mamma? But you have no light; you cannot see it. Let me ring.” e Not yet, dear child; wait a little.” And the mother tries to smile—a pale ghost of a smile; but the daughter's quick ear has caught a change in the well-known voice. “ Mother are you ill? what is it? Tell me; oh, tell me;” and the fond arms are round her neck in a moment, and the young head bends down to hers, “Hush, child; 1 am not ill. I shall soon be like myself again; but I have witnessed a sad, sad scene, and I have had a great sorrow to bear this day.” Never had her daughter heard her speak with such deep pathos in her voice. “ Mother, tell me; oh, do not hide your grief from me. You never did so before; do not begin now, when I can understand you better than ever I could long ago.” A tender motherly kiss on the girl's fair cheek, but no answer, Again the gentle plead- ing; again the caressing words: “Mother, will you not tell me? Oh, you cannot refuse to let me share your pain.” “Wait a little, darling; let me collect my weary thoughts and—I will tell you.” And, pressed close together in the silence and half gloom of the calm summer night, they waited. At length the mother said: “What I am going to tell you is only a tale of wasted love and lifelong regret, such as we read of in novels, such as passes under our very eyes every day, but unseen and unnoticed. You wonder how it can affect me so; but it was connected with the dearest friend I ever had.” Bravely the faltering lips tried to go on, but the pain was too great. She could not speak of it to-night. “Wait a little, my child; perhaps to-morrow I may be strong enough. It is so sad, so sad! I never meant to let you know. I wished your life to be unclouded with even the knowledge of pain; but it was a weak and foolish thought. It is better to know what fellow-lives have been, what fellow-mortals have to bear; it is better. Perhaps it makes us better, too,” she added, with a sigh; and, after a pause, she said again, “I shall not be able to tell you, dearest. I shall never be brave enough to repeat the sad sweetness of: these things; but I will give it to you as it was written in an old girlish diary long ago; that is to say, the beginning was written long ago, and the end, the end—I will try to write it for you, my child, that you may treasure it in the days to come, a memorial of the days that have been.” She ceased speaking, and in silence they watched together that night, as the fair stars came out one by one, till every gem on hea- ven's gorgeous robe shone bright, and the hour for rest had long gone by. The mother kept her room the next morning, When the afternoon came she placed the pro- mised packet in her daughter's hands, saying very gently, as the tears rushed to her eyes: “T have changed vety little. God bless you now, my bright and happy darling.” Moved beyond measure, the girl sought her room, anxiously looking for the cause of her mother’s woe in the closely-written lines of the faded leaves, whose very look seemed to tell of other hopes as well as other days; of the dreams that were, and the joys that might have been, The manuscript ran thus: Major Estridge, a younger son, witha younger son's modest portion, handsome, accomplished, and well bred, ought to have married a woman of fortune, an heiress, He might have done so had he chosen; but he did not choose. He married instead, at a very early age, a penni- less woman, whose only dowry was a singularly lovely face and fascinating inanner. Having thus rashly followed the dictates of his heart, thereby offending many of his rela- tions, he thought it wiser to leave the army (where he soon discovered his former expenses had to be curtailed) and settle in the country. He knew his good little wife would manage on a very small income, and found a pretty house in Devon, where they settled shortly after with their two children, one a little girl nearly three years old, the other a baby. Years went by, other children came; one little boy died, but otherwise they. were very fortunate, until a heavy sorrow darkened all their lives. The gentle wife was taken away, and grief and la- mentation filled the home that she had _bright- ened with her beauty and her love. Lucy, the eldest girl, was seventeen, and had ever been her father’s darling. He thought her like her mother, and loved her for the fancied likeness. From that day she became dearer than ever, and did her best to fill that gentle mother’s place in the desolate household. But ah, how changed everything seemed! A blight had fallen on their lives, and made them seem a barren thing. ‘They seemed to have grown poorer too, The widowed father was careless of business in his great grief, and the young daughter knew not how to manage as her mo- ther had done, Slowly and wearily the time went by now, and months passed away ere the sound of laugh ter was heard again in the stricken home. No event took place, nothing disturbed the busy hours in their monotonous flight, until one day, two years after his bitter loss, Major Estridge received a letter from the widow of a dead comrade, killed by his side long ago in India. ‘The poor woman wrote to tell him that she was dangerously ill, that her only son would be left very friendless in the world should God call her away, and finally begged him—once her husband’s kindest friend—not to let her boy want for advice or sympathy in his utter loneliness. Major Estridge answered her ap- peal, promising to take upon him this great trust; and by and by, when the poor mother had to bid her darling a last farewell on earth, he stood by the young man’s side, comforting him with hopeful words, helping him in his sore distress, till he learnt to love and rever- ence him as he had never loved and reverenced comicbooks.com