LOST AND WON.
BY CAROLINE EUSTIS.
Lost the freshness of life's morning;
Lost the tints of rosy light,
Which like daylight, perfect dawning,
Covered all with glory bright;
Lost the golden locks which shaded
Brow so smooth, and eyes so blue,
And the happy smile has faded
Round those lips of rosy hue.
I have lost,—but I have won.
Lost the kind oblivious sleeping,
Which enshrouds the little child,
Like the holy angels keeping
Saintly watches,—calm and mild.
Lost the dreams of sunny hours,
Where no terror dare intrude;
Lost the dreams of love and flowers,
Of the beautiful and good.
I have lost,—but I have won.
Lost!—oh, most of all the losses!—
Lost the childlike, earnest faith,
Loving on mid joys and crosses,
Thankful still for all it hath.
I have lost youth's simple pleasures,
Each departed, one by one;
But—oh, blessing without measure!—
I have lost,—but I have won.
I have won, through earnest striving,
Guerdons above all the loss,
Hopes once faded, now reviving
Twining round the sacred Cross:
Sorrow pale hath been my teacher;
Hopes bereft, my gentle friends;
Graves of the loved, my silent preacher,
Where dust with dust so sadly blends.
I have lost,—but I have won.
I have won, through tribulation,
Title to a heavenly home,
Working out my own salvation
Through the blood of Christ alone.
Oh, my future brightest seemeth,
Eye of faith, exchanged for sight,
With celestial splendour beameth
On through darkness into light.
I have lost,—but I have won.
I have won bright hopes immortal
Of a heaven of peace and rest;
E'en now I linger at the portal,
As a kindly bidden guest.
Lost and won!—oh earth! oh heaven!
Hark!—I list the angels' strain,
Voices in the silence even!
Small the loss, and great the gain!
I have lost,—but I have won.
THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE.
A WESTERN SKETCH.
BY A MISSIONARY.
It was the close of a cloudy afternoon, about sunset, in February, 1818, and I began to think it high time to seek a lodging-place. The prairie—the first I had seen, unless it might have been a patch of a few acres, the day before—was covered with snow; and, although a good many bushes grew on it, and it was somewhat "rolling"—I hope my readers know what that is—I confess its aspect was to me, just then, more dreary than picturesque. Our road is best described by the term which designated it, "The old Rocky Trace," by which may be understood the "blazed" road usually travelled from Shawneetown to Kaskaskia. The dwellings were not very numerous—indeed, we had the privilege of considerable exercise in passing from one to another. Now and then a block-house, in good condition, showed the rather recent Indian troubles, which had frequently compelled the inhabitants to "fort."
The sight of a cabin, after a while, was quite cheering. My wife was somewhat tired of carrying the babe all day, and was glad to see a prospect of rest and shelter. We drove up, and inquired, as usual, if we "could get to stay," not doubting an affirmative answer. And so we had; yet there was difficulty in the case.
"I'm afeard, stranger, you'll have to go furder. Our childer's got the hoopin'-cough, and maybe you moughtn't like yourn to go whar it mought git it—'less it's had it. You may stop, ef you're a mind to resk it, for I don't never turn anybody away; but I didn't like to let you carry your baby in without lettin' you know."
Here was a difficulty. We had had the child vaccinated at Pittsburg, on our way, but had used no precautionary measure against hooping-cough, and in "the dead of winter" there was some hazard in it. I looked at my wife: she looked troubled. Our friend—for he was friendly—told us there was "a house on the Turkey Hill Road, a mile or two ahead; but it was a smart little bit on the Rocky Trace, afore we'd git any place to stop." The roads forked just where we stood, and we might choose either, to go to St. Louis; but some circumstance made it necessary for me to go through Kaskaskia.
"What shall we do, wife?"
"I really don't know what to advise. I am afraid to expose Amy to the hooping-cough, and I am afraid to go on far. It will soon be dark."
I was irresolute and anxious. We would have "timber," and probably a stream to cross; and, with my little "dearborn," it might be somewhat hazardous in the dark. The man sympathized with us—told us we "were welcome to stay, ef we'd a mind to resk it;" but then, if we did stay, we would have to be huddled in the same room with the family, and I don't know how many of "the childer" had the dreaded disease.
All this while my wife was sitting in the wagon, and, if not freezing, was sufficiently cold to wish for a good fire. We had hardly observed another man standing near, with whom the man of the house had been talking. He listened in silence for a considerable time, but at length spoke.
"Ef you'll put up with sech as I have—it's tol'able poor—you can go to my house and stay."
I looked now at the speaker, and discovered an elderly man, in a mixed jeans hunting-shirt—it was not the fashion to call it a blouse then—tied round the waist, a 'coon-skin cap, and "trousers accordin'." He had a rifle, or an axe—though I think it was the latter—lying across his arm, and looked wrinkled, and rough, and all drawn up with the cold. The twinkle of his deep-set eyes might be merry, or it might be sinister. I inquired where he lived.
"Why, it's rayther on the Turkey Hill Road, and about a mile from t'other; but I can go in the mornin' and show you the way. It's mighty easy gittin' over from thar to yon road."
It occurred to me that his neighbour had not once referred to him to solve the difficulty, and I wondered why; but he now rather intimated that I might as well take up with the old man's offer. I did so, without consulting my wife's opinion.
He trudged on, and I trudged after him, leading my horse,—which I did much of the way across the State,—through the snow. After a little while I discovered that we left the road, and were winding through a sort of ravine, or rather depression of the prairie, almost deserving the name of valley. The snow-covered ground—the brown, or bare bushes—the bleak, though diminutive hills—all looked cold, and wild, and dreary. My guide still trudged on, seldom looking round; and we seemed to be travelling without a road to "nowhere." My wife called me to her. Her looks gave token of alarm.
"Do you think it safe to go on with that old man? I don't like his looks, and this is a wild place. Hadn't we better go back, or try some other way? I feel afraid."
I laughed at her, but her fears troubled me. She was not given to false alarms; or, if she ever felt them, she never annoyed me with them. I cannot say that I participated in her fears now. Indeed I did not. The old man looked anything but terrible. I thought his countenance mild rather than austere. Still, these backwoodsmen were famous for a quiet ferociousness that could do a brave or terrible deed without the least fuss. I did not know what to think. But what to do seemed to admit of but one answer—I must go on with him, and trust Providence, who had brought us safely some fifteen hundred miles. My wife shuddered, perhaps trembled, and hugged the child closer; but she submitted quietly—I may say trustfully. She certainly gave him no hint of her fears.
At length—for the time did not seem very short to me, and doubtless stretched out much longer to my wife—but at length, after a long and very gradual slope down a hollow, such as I have failed to describe, we saw the habitation of our guide. It was a cabin of the rudest sort and smallest size, in what had perhaps in "crap time" been an enclosure on the ascent of a slope beyond a little wet weather brook. I took notice—for it was an interesting fact to me—that for the accommodation of my horse there was a "rail-pen," though, whether it was covered with straw, or "shucks," or prairie hay, or the cloudy sky, I do not now remember; for I have seen more such many a time since then; but there was "cawn" in another rail-pen close by. So my horse was supplied. But my wife and child must be got into the house first; and in we went.
Reader, in that little dearborn-wagon was all I had in this world, or of it; and though, to say the truth, all, except the wife and child, might have been well sold for a very few hundred dollars—and probably that is an enormous over-estimate—yet it was precious to me, for much of their comfort depended on its preservation. And a few hundred dollars—nay, a few dollars—would make quite an addition to the comforts of the habitation we entered, and of those who dwelt in it. There was neither table nor chair. The puncheon floor was not air-tight nor a dead level. The stick chimney and hearth were covered with clay; but there was a fire in it. The bed—but we have not got to the bed yet.
I suppose it happened very well that we had our provisions with us, for I saw no cooking nor anything to cook. I forgot to say, that the inmates when we arrived were a boy, dressed something like his father, and a girl, whose single garment—we judged from appearances—was a home-spun cotton frock, not white, though I think it had never been dyed. Both were barefoot. They might be twelve and fourteen years old.
"Whar's yer mammy?"
"Mom's went over to Jake Smith's; and she haint never come home yit. I reckon she's agwine to stay all night."
I don't know what made me think so, but I remember I did rather surmise that it was just as well for us. Something made me think of a shrew.
Presently, while my wife was spreading the table (i.e. a short bench, usually a seat) for our supper, I observed the old man seated on something, with a plate on his knees, plying his hunting-knife on some cold meat and corn bread for his. I suppose the children had eaten before our arrival. We had, I believe, our provision-box and an inverted half bushel for seats, and ate our supper with commendable appetites; for by this time I think my wife's fears were sensibly abated. At length bedtime came, and what should be done? There was a bed, or something like one, in a corner, but that would hardly accommodate all five of us and the baby. Soon, however, that doubt was solved. The girl spread a pallet on the floor, taking the straw bed for the purpose; and the feather bed—yes, feather bed—was made up on the bedstead for us. That bedstead would be a curious affair, doubtless, in a Philadelphia furniture store. I will endeavour to describe it. It consisted of one post and three rails; or rather, what was intended to correspond with those parts of a bedstead. The post aforesaid was a round pole, with the bark on, reaching from the floor to the joist or rafter, inserted at top and bottom into auger-holes. At a convenient height, a branch cut off not quite close on each of two sides, formed a rest for two of the poles that served for a side and foot rail, the other end being inserted in auger-holes in the logs which constituted the wall of the house. One end of the other side-rail rested on the foot-rail. Across the two longest poles, or side-rails, split clapboards rested; and on the scaffold thus formed, the bed was made. I remember that it was comparatively clean; and the bedstead being quite elastic, and my wife's fears now entirely removed by the cheerful consent of our host to unite in family devotion, we slept well and soundly: while the family reposed no doubt quite as sweetly on their bed on the floor.
After we had breakfasted, our host, for whom we saw no more preparation than on the night before, piloted us through a grove of tall trees to the Kaskaskia Road, and pointed out our course; when we went on our way rejoicing, and saw that day, for the first time, a herd of seven wild deer together.
But the old man! What became of him? Didn't you pay him?
He turned homeward, and we saw him no more. We did pay him his full charge, amounting to twenty-five cents!
I do not think my wife was ever afraid of a man after that, because he looked rough in his dress. As for Amy, she had the hooping-cough; I don't remember how soon, but she survived it; and has weaned her eighth baby.
Does the reader want an apology for a dull story?
"Story—God bless you, I have none to tell."
I could have made one, embellished with various incidents; could have had a rifle pointed, or frozen all our hands and feet at least, "or anything else that's agreeable;" but it would not then have been, as it is now, the simple truth.