Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad Part 39

"Exactly so," answered the squire.

"And how much do you charge per acre?" inquired the stranger.

"That depends upon the number you wish. Do you wish to purchase all?"

"That depends upon the price charged," was the reply.

"If you wish all," continued Mr. Smith, "we will sell for four dollars an acre. That is dog cheap, and a great sacrifice."

"Well," resumed the stranger, "I will take it on conditions; namely, I will pay you your price, and if the land answers my purpose I will keep it,--if not, you will return me the amount of money I pay."

"That is rather a hard bargain. I know it to be good land," answered the squire.

"Then," continued the stranger, "if you know it to be good, certainly there can be no danger in disposing of it on the conditions I have named."

After a few moments' conversation with Mr. Short, they agreed to sell to the stranger. Papers were immediately drawn up and signed by Messrs. Smith and Short, agreeing to return the money provided the land did not give satisfaction. The sum of twelve thousand dollars was paid in cash to the signers, and the papers given into the hands of the purchaser, who then left. Robert Short on that night did really feel rich. This was six thousand dollars apiece; after Mr.

Short had paid the fifteen hundred borrowed, he had forty-five hundred left. Both were equally certain that the land would give entire satisfaction, and acted according to this belief. With a light heart he went home, and communicated the joyful intelligence to his wife, who had from the first been opposed to the trade. He did not, however, inform her of the terms on which he had sold. In a few days he had disposed of his shop and tools to one of his former workmen. Many were surprised when the sign of "Robert Short" was taken from its long resting-place over the door. Mr. Short now began to think the house in which he had for many years resided was not quite good enough, and therefore engaged a larger and more expensive one. He ordered new furniture, purchased a carriage and horses, and had his new house fitted out under the direction of his friend, the squire. He rented a large store; bought large quant.i.ties of shoes and leather, partly on credit. His business at first prospered, but in a short time became quite dull; his former customers left, and all business seemed at a stand-still. In the mean time, the broker had left town, having sold out his office to a young man. Matters stood thus, when, early in the morning on a pleasant day in June, as the squire and Mr. Short were seated in the counting-room of the latter, a man dressed in a light summer dress entered.

"Good-morning," said the visitor. "Business is quite lively, I suppose?"

"O, it's moderate, nothing extra," replied Mr. Short; "won't you be seated?"

The stranger seated himself.

"Mr. Robert Short is your name, is it not?" he inquired.

"It is, sir."

"Did I not make a bargain with you about some eastern land, a few months since?"

"Yes, some person did;" and Mr. Short immediately recognized him as the purchaser. The new comer then took from his pocket the paper of agreement, and presented it for the inspection of the two gentlemen.

"Are you not satisfied with your bargain?" inquired Mr. Smith.

"Not exactly," replied the stranger, laughing.

"Why, what fault is there in it?"

"Well," replied the stranger, "I suppose a report of my examination will be acceptable."

"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Short.

"Then I can give it in a few words. It is a good watering place, being WHOLLY COVERED WITH WATER; and is of no value unless it could be drained, and that, I think, is impossible."

The squire was astonished; Mr. Short knew not what to

"What is the name of the water bought for land?" inquired Squire Smith.

"The location of it is in a large pond of water, twelve miles in length, and about six in width, and is known in those parts by the name of the 'Big Pond.' But," continued the stranger, "I must be gone; please return me my money, according to agreement."

After some talk, the stranger agreed to call the next day. The next day came, and with it came the stranger. Mr. Short had tried in vain to obtain the requisite sum, and was obliged to request him to call the next day. He came the next day, and the next, and the next, but received no money; and he was at length obliged to attach the property of the squire, as also that of Mr. Short. His other creditors also came in with their bills. All the stock of Mr. Short was sold at auction, and he was a poor man. He obtained a small house, that would not compare with the one he had lived in in former years. He had no money of his own, and was still deeply in debt. He was obliged to work at such jobs as came along, but at length obtained steady employment. The squire, who was the prime cause of all his trouble, sailed for a foreign port, leaving all his bills unpaid, In a short time Mr. Short obtained a sufficient sum to buy back his old shop, in which to this day he has steadily worked, with a vivid remembrance of the consequence of speculation.

RETROSPECTION.

HE had drank deep and long from out The baccha.n.a.lian's bowl; Had felt its poisonous arrows pierce The recess of his soul; And now his footsteps turned to where His childhood's days were cast, And sat him 'neath an old oak tree To muse upon the past.

Beneath its shade he oft had sat In days when he was young; Ere sorrow, like that old oak tree, Its own deep shadows flung; Beneath that tree his school-mates met, There joined in festive mirth, And not a place seemed half so dear To him, upon the earth.

The sun had pa.s.sed the horizon, Yet left a golden light Along a cloudless sky to mark A pathway for the night; The moon was rising silently To reign a queen on high, To marshal all the starry host, In heaven's blue canopy.

In sight the schoolhouse stood, to which In youth he had been led By one who now rests quietly Upon earth's silent bed.

And near it stood the church whose aisles His youthful feet had trod; Where his young mind first treasured in The promises of G.o.d.

There troops of happy children ran With gayety along; 'T was agony for him to hear Their laughter and their song.

For thoughts of youthful days came up And crowded on his brain, Till, crushed with woe unutterable, It sank beneath its pain.

Pain! not such as sickness brings, For that can be allayed, But pain from which a mortal shrinks Heart-stricken and dismayed: The body crushed beneath its woe May some deliverance find, But who on earth hath power to heal The agony of mind?

O Memory! it long had slept; But now it woke to power, And brought before him all the past, From childhood's earliest hour.

He saw himself in school-boy prime; Then youth, its pleasures, cares, Came up before him, and he saw How cunningly the snares Were set to catch him as he ran In thoughtless haste along, To charm him with deceitful smiles, And with its siren song: He saw a seeming friendly hand Hold out the glittering wine, Without a thought that deep within A serpent's form did twine.

Then manhood came; then he did love, And with a worthy pride He led a cherished being to The altar as his bride; And mid the gay festivity Pa.s.sed round the flowing wine, And friends drank, in the sparkling cup, A health to thee and thine.

A health! O, as the past came up, The wanderer's heart was stirred And as a madman he poured forth Deep curses on that word.

For well he knew that "health" had been The poison of his life; Had made the portion of his soul With countless sorrows rife.

Six years pa.s.sed by-a change had come, And what a change was that!

No more the comrades of his youth With him as comrades sat.

Duties neglected, friends despised, Himself with naught to do, A mother dead with anguish, and A wife heart-broken too.

Another year-and she whom he Had promised to protect Died in the midst of poverty, A victim of neglect.

But ere she died she bade him kneel Beside herself in prayer, And prayed to G.o.d that he would look In pity on them there: And bless her husband, whom she loved, And all the past forgive, And cause him, ere she died, begin A better life to live.

She ceased to speak,--the husband rose, And, penitent, did say, While tears of deep contrition flowed, "I'll dash the bowl away!"

A smile pa.s.sed o'er the wife's pale face, She grasped his trembling hand, Gave it one pressure, then her soul Pa.s.sed to a better land.

He, bent to kiss her pale cold lips, But they returned it not; And then he felt the loneliness And sorrow of his lot.

It seemed as though his life had fled; That all he called his own, When her pure spirit took its flight, Had with that spirit flown.

She had been all in all to him, And deep his heart was riven With anguish, as he thought what woe He her kind heart had given.

But all was pa.s.sed; she lay in death, The last word had been said, The soul had left its prison-house, And up to heaven had fled; But 't was a joy for him to know She smiled on him in love, And hope did whisper in his heart, "She'll guard thee from above."

He sat beneath that old oak tree, And children gathered round, And wondered why he wept, and asked What sorrow he had found.

Then told he them this sad, sad tale, Which I have told to you; They asked no more why he did weep, For they his sorrow knew.

And soon their tears began to fall, And men came gathering round, Till quite a goodly company Beneath that tree was found.

The wanderer told his story o'er, Unvarnished, true and plain; And on that night three-score of men Did pledge them to abstain.

NATURE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER.