Uncle Zen As And Cicely

"All hail üie power of Jesus' name, I.et angela prostratc f all." Strong and cheory was the voice that sang these words to the rough accompaniment of an old cart, drawu by a venerable horse, which rattled along over a frozeu country road. The cart had a canvas covor, on ono side of which was printcd in somowhat shaky and unecitain red lotters: Mr. Zenas Ken; Dealer m Fish. Fruit, Crackers, And Otiier Things. Day after dy, sninmcr and winter, in RinsMnc aud stor:u, the cart went ralÜing over tbn miles of country roads alonp; which Mr. Zena3 Kccr's customers lived. The owner, a jolly old man, with n kindly, honcst face, sat on a low teat in front, and his melodious voice could often bc heard before Iho cart could be secn, or before )ie rang the large brass bell that gave warning to busy house-keepers of his approach. .Someüuies tliey licard it late :it night, for hc was oftcn belated, and when Ihc night was darkest ho seemcd to sing loudest. His songs were generalij"gospel liynins," and the slceping farmers and their families were :iwakoncd by Uio wordsof "Coronation," or "JesiiS, Lover of my Sonl,1' ringing out on lbo night air. "Unclo Zcuas is late again to night," was their Urowsy thought. "I hope he'l! get home al! right." For everybody knew Uncle Zenas, and everybody loved him. He was always eboory, obliging and kind, cspecially to the cliilóren. :xnd thoroughly good and lionesl. His whole life had been spent on the linie farm he owned, and on the road h'! !ku! uavcled daily for f uil fifty year;. On Sundays Uncle Zenas and Aunt Ëcrcldn, his wife, camo down the road to ln: little "ineeting-house" to hear the 'prea'.hin'," and often they would stay for Iho Stmday school, and sometimos to tlic "experienco meeting" whicli fullowed it. It was Deacon Zeixna Kerr's prido that he had not failed a siugle Sunday in his attendance at elnircli lor iifty-four years, and he huinbly and gracefully said that "the Lord had been iwfnllj good to him in the war of lienlth, or he conldn't have done ;t." Unclo JfixuM and Aunt Serelda lived alono in :i snug little brown house.niade ei icsy itid comfortable in an oldfashioned way by Aunt Serelda, that Uncle ZeiiAS of'.cn said lio wouldn't eichanc it for the finest house in the coimtry. "If we only had children now," Unele Zenas would sometimes say regretfully; and Aunt Serelda would add, quainlly and oildly enough - "Or if we only had (raïidchildren, Zeu:is. Somehow or othcr l've kind of goi over mhvlia1 it so mucli that we aint nevel' liatl children, but it does go hard not to havo any graudchildren." "Thafs so, Serelda; that's so, y onThanksgivin' and Christmas times. Kotliin' trouH Buit mo better, Serelda, than to sec lialf-a-dozen boys aqd girls sittin' 'round our table Thanksgivin' day a-stuflin' themsclves with roast turkey and pies and sweet cakes. 'Twould be cheerin', wouldn't it?" "Yes!" Aunt Serelda would say, "l'vi; often and often thought so. An' sometinies when I'm makin1 tho Christmaa donghnutg and gingersnaps Icun't help makin' an extra big doughnut, all twisted and braidetl, or a big gingersnap horse, frosted all over, and thenl j think liow happy somo child would be if I cotild siip 'em and some other prety thi:igs iiï ite stockin'of a Christmas riglit." "I wish you could, Serelda; I wish yo;i could," Unele Zenas would say, in i a very refíretful tone. Witli tliiise feelings, who can wonder that even when Unele Zenas and Aunt Serelda were sevcnty-two years old they adopted a girl of twelve years. Uncle Zenas was driving homeward one stormy eveniug, late in tho Autuuin, the tire of one of the wheels of i Lis c:irl had loosencd when he was four milos from home, and the accident sode: laycd him that it was nine o'clock when lio reaehed a point witliin a mile of Lome. He was singing "Coronation" With un wanton vigor- alt hough his garments wen; soaked wilh the rain that ponreil ín through the cover, and blcw in at the front of his cart Sudj denly a stiarp, clcar voiec rang ont , trom the roadside - "Say, mister!" Unclo Zenas reiucd up his horse with i jerk. "Who s it?" ho asked. "Mc,1" was the immodiato rcply. 'Well, who' me?" 'Cic'ly White; I'm lost, and haven't i ny placa to go to." While speakiug, the lost girl came to the side of tho wagon, and began dirabing up over one of the muddy ; wheels. Shc seemed lo Uncle Zenas to bo small and slight, and without shawl or bonnet. Mounting slowly to tho seat by his side sho said coolly - 'Now, you can drive on." "Ho! ho! You don't say so! Much 'bliged, I'm sure!" cxclaimed Uncle Zenas, with a sniile. Sitting by liis side, with the eold rain driving into both their faces, the girl told 11 that shc was ever able to teil about herself, and all that Uncle Zenas ; everknew. ï'liere had cviduntly been j more storm than suush'PO in lier young 1 lifo, and Uncle Zonas' s cid cart was as peaeeful and comfortabin a little haven as slie had ever found. 'My nume's -Cic'ly White," she saiil. bluntly. , "I don't know wherc I canie f rom, nor where F na going. I don't b'long to nobody, and nobody b'longs to me. I'm "leven years old, going on twelve. Once 1 livcd in a big 'sylum, or somothing in a big city. Ono day a big "gly nian and woman coine to the 'syliim, and took mo to the country, and the most they did was to scold, and sometimos beat ine. Their names v:is Sraith, and they said that my name was that, too. But my name was White to the 'sylum and that's my name now. "I didn't have as much to eat as I had at tli:; 'sylum, and the man was ahvays saying I didn't earn my Tictuals. One day lie said lio was going West to tako a new start, and then a little while aftor they sold most of tho things in the house, and said they were too poor to takc me, and they couM lcave me somcwhero on the road. So they took me with them, and after I had rode iu the wagon for two days or so, they made me climb out, and then they drove off and left me in the woods all alone by myself. "Smith said if I follered 'cm he'd horscwuip me. He needn'tbeen afcerd. I was jest as glad U get shot of them, as they was to get shet of me. I walkcd the road Uil towards night and went to a house, bul a big dog got after me, and lickity-cut I run back to tho woods. Then tho storm caiue up, and I got soppin' wet in the bushes I'd crawled nto- and here I am, half-starved, and as wet as can bc." The poor waif's half humorous, halfpathotio story touched tho tender heart of Únele Zunas. "Yon poor littlo soul," he said. "We're most to my house now, and my Serekla'l) have something nice and hot for both of us, and wc'll sec if we can't get yon a better bed than tho one the rain drove you out of." Aunt Serelila took the forlorn, bcdragglcd cliild right into her motherly heart, "Them Smiths must have been unfeelin' brutes," slic said. It was evident Ihat Cicely was a homclcss an-l friendléss child. In her memory there was no recollection of father, mother. sister or brother. Beyond the ''sylum' sho knew nolhing - not even the name of the city m which tho " 'flyluin" was; and with only the conimon name of White for a clue. it was use.less to try to trace the identity of tbc girl. "So we'll keep her," said Unclc Zenas. "So we wil],'' said Aunt Serelda. The "neighbors" said it was a "foolish thiug to do, beeause," they said, "there was no tolling who or what she was." "She's one of the Lord's onfortinit little ones," .said Uncle Zenas. But still !he neighbors said it was "risky business, "and bintod about "bad blood" and natural-born wiokedness." 'I'm not af raid," said Aunt Serelda, shaking her head decisively. "There's natural-born wickeilness in the best of us for the malter of that. Only some of os has bettor chancos to outgrow it than others. That's all. Th's cbild hasn'l had her chanco, like otlier folk, and people that's so awfully good theirselves oughn't lo throw stones at a child like her." Cicely was neatly dressad and sent to the villago school, where some of her actions tended lo strengllien the surmise that there was ''bad blood'' in hor veins. Sho was certainly 'full of mischief," both at home and at .school. "But it's inuocentkind of mischief," said Uncle Zcuas. "Sho aint a bit tricky or mean or dishoncst, and I don't bellere si: i over told a story in her life. Tho child aever had any fun before, and she has to havo a good deal now to inake up for what she's lost." This kindly view of the matter was very comforting to Cicely, and was not calculated to lay hor tinder any great restraint. The noighborhoo.l was eminentiy espectable, and most decorous in its conduct. Most of tho families could produce "documents" in proof of their respectability, and Cicely was - "goodness only knows what or who." The opinión was gainingground that she would one day burn Iho house over the heads of Aunt Serelda and Uncle Zenas and decamp with their silver spoons and candles licks, Uncle Zenas, hearing thi.s, said to Cicely, "I'd trust you with my old pocket-book, and all that's in it, any day." "And I wouldn't touch anickel of it," said Cicely, stoutly and truthlully; theu she added, very earuestly. "Be cause I know that you know, and 1 foei that you feel that I wouldn't.'' "That was the best def'nitiou of the word 'conlidence' I ever heard," said Unclo Zenas. Thanksgiving day carne, and there was some one to be suprcmely happy over the ginge.r-snap horses and the "double-and-twistod" doughnuts Aunt Serelda made, and to "stuff herself" on Uncle Zenas' linest goblcr. Cicely was very, very happy. Sho was very grateful, too, and often said to herself - "I only wish I could do something to show how much 'bliged I am. Just washing dishes and sweeping up and , carrying in chips and peciing potatoos i and running of arrands ant anything at all." Tho nerce New England winter came ; oarly that year, and lingered long. The "oldest inhabitant" had never known '■■ a colilcr one. Snow feil ahnost every day after the first of November; the ; strong, cold winds blew day and night ! the snow drifted, and for days there was no sunshine. But Unele Zenas went his hard round day after day; his cheery voice rang out iu song through the dark and dreary woods; he urged his old horse on through drifts of snow; his bell rang its notes of merry waruing beforo doors closed and bolted against the winter" s storms. His burly tigurc, i muflled to Ihe cliin, clambered out of the cart, and appeared in snug kitchens eveu on these blustering storniy days. "It's a great 'commodatiou to have you come round with so many things we nced and can't go to the store for in this weather," said his patrons. "Hut, really, Uncle Zenas, you oaght not to exposé yourself so. at your age." "Oh, I gues3 I'll stand it!', Uucle Zenas would reply. "You know I'm a poor man, with my living to mako In all kinds of weather, and tho only way to mako anything in my business is to keep at it. I se II more this kind of weather, for folks wouIJ rather buy of me than go to town over tbeso awful ; roads." Aunt Serekla worried a great doal about Únele Zenas that winter, ind her aDxiety was sh&red by Cicely. She would follow Únele Zenas to the cart, i and holil the reins while lie "snugglcd : himself up" in blankets and robes and drew 011 his great raittens. And wlien he carne home, af ter dark, Cicely would j bc first to hcar him singing - "I'm coming home, I'm a-comiug liomo, I'm -coming home to you ; I'm a-comlng home, I'm a-coming home, Oh, tiddle I dum, I dum, I do!" It was a great secret in the Keer faruily that Únele Zonas liad "made that song up" himself, although the neighborhood had a half defined siispicion of the fact, and were quito sure that it could not be traeed to Watts. Únele Zonas had made Aunt Serelda and Cicely a promise that gave tliora great satisfaction. He said that he would not go out peddling once ! tween Christmas and New Year, and j his patróns wcre notified of this ; ise, and most of them hcartily approvcd of it. Christmas and New Year's day carne j on Saturday that year, and on the j day beforc Christmas Unclo Zenas ' started on the last trip for nino whole, ! happy days. The day was excöeclingly cold and i storruy. The wind was blowing ; ly, and line hard snow lilled the air. But Uncle Zenas had in his cart a great many things previously ordered by his patrons, and he feit that he must delivur them, or, some Christmas dinners would be spoiled. "liut," he said, "FU be ÍTOme early, for l'vo got sucli an early start, and I slian't stop at any place where I aint got an order. I'll be home by sundown, sure. The long, cold day wore wcarily away The storm did not abate as the daylight waned. The sun went down, the night came quickly, and Uncle Zenas did not return. Aunt Serelda peered out often and anxiously from the littlc white-curtained window, and Cicely listened iutently for the iirst note of the clieery song. But six, seven, nine a'elock came, and the looked and hoped-for face did not appear; the song was not heard, and the niglit grew wilder. Where was Uncle Zenas ? A mile from home, lying by the roadside, with the snow drifting over him, and his hands lying helplessly by his side. Ho had been hurrying homeward, belated by the dreadful condition of the roads. While descending a steep hill the front wheel of his wagon had suddenly fallen off, and tho poor old man had fallen heavily forward, strikiug his head on a great stone by the road. He tried to rise, but could not, and in a moment he wa3 insensible. The horse, unable to move the dlsabled cart, stood quietly in the road with drooping head. It was a litllu after nine o'clock, and if help did not come soon it would come too late. The storm was at its height. A faint liglit could be seen far down the road. It moved slowly, and was a long time ■ coming up the steep hill. Once it stood still for several minutes. That was because of the exhaustion of the brave little girl who carried the old tin lamtern in her cliilled hand. "Grandfatlier." Tliere was no reply to the shrill, childish cry. "O grandfather!" Tho voice wavered and trembled, and died away in a little quiver that told of tears. '-ril go a little farther," it said. A littlo farther, and Cicely was kneeling by her Uncle Zenas, calling liim by endearing names, kissing his cold cheeks and chafing his freezing hands. He moved onco, turned his head from side to side in the snow, but did not spcak. Cicely forgot her weakness, her terror gave place to great courago and strength. What people callcd her "assurance," but what was really her selfpossession, was of great value at that moment. "I must have help," she said decisiyely. She covered Uncle Zenas with the thick winter robe hangin from the seat of the cart, mountedthe old horse, and started for the nearest house, half a mile distant. It was nearly ten o'clock when she reaohed it, and the wind j roared so that she had to pound on tlie j door with her hintern to niuke herselt' j lieard. "Good land of liberty!" was all old farmer Johnson could say, as be opened the door and looked down on Cicely, buudled to tho eycs with lier snow-covcred wraps. "O, Mr, Johnson, grandfather is over on Cliestnut Hill in the snow! He feil from the wagon, and don't know anythink! Do come at once!" In a very few moments fannor Johnson and his threc stalwart sons wcre hurrying toward Cliestnut Hill in a great sled with two horses hitched to it. Cicely would go, too, in spite of Mm. Johnson's protest, that she had better ! stay where she wa3, and go to bed. The Iirst hours of the Christmas day j had come before Uncle Zenas, safe in Í his owii little home, wilh Aunt Sereldu bathing his blecding head, and Cicely asking again and again if he did not know her, came toconscioiisness again. "It was most an awful narrar escape," said Uncle Zenas, :s ho. and Serekla and Cicely sat at diuner for the next three or four Chrislmases that followed. "1 u us just ubout tuckerod out when lliey got me home, and tlidn't know any t hing till nextday. And thon I was reaüy 'fraid I wouldu'l got a chance to eat Aunt Sereldu's turkey or the minee lurn-over Cicely had madu i for me.