Drop a tear, drop a tear, for she's departed!
 Wreath a smile, for she died not broken-hearted.

This was on Friday morning. On the Sunday following, the intended party met at Mrs. Morgan's and partook of an early dinner. "For," said Mr. Lovetree, "we have a good deal to do this afternoon. In the first place, some of our friends are disposed to be united in the holy, the blessed bonds, that bind the sexes together in a union that should be indissoluble, and productive of nothing but happiness. After that we have a duty to perform, which though it is generally termed melancholy, must not be made so on the present occasion. We shall go to deposit the body in Greenwood, that lovely place of rest for the dead, of one who we have every reason to believe died a true penitent, and is now with the spirit of Little Katy, where those who are murdered by the same cause that produced her death, will seldom ever be found. Our good missionary is with us, and we will have the wedding ceremony before the funeral one, because many go from that to the grave, none come from there to the marriage feast."

Now all began to look around for the happy couple. Mrs. Morgan was dressed as though she might be a bride, but where was the groom? Mr. Lovetree whispered to Mrs. Meltrand, for she was there with Agnes and little Sis, and Mrs. Meltrand said that Frank would be there by the time.

"Now what Frank is that?" said Stella in a whisper to Mrs. May; "it must be Frank Barkley; and so it is Mrs. Morgan that is going to be married. Oh, dear, I am sorry, I was in hopes she would always live with her old uncle, as she does now."

It was Frank Barkley who was expected. He was an old acquaintance of Mrs. Meltrand, a little wild in his youth, and came within an inch of the precipice over which so many young men tumble. Mr. Lovetree had said, "there is something good in the fellow," and between him and Mrs. Meltrand, it was developed. He is a good fellow—a sober fellow now—and he is going to be married. Now the door bell rings.

"There that is him."

Yes, it was him. He was told that all were waiting for him, and he said "he had come to the minute agreed upon." Poor Stella shed tears. She cried to think her dear friend, Mrs. Morgan, was about to be married. She cried without a cause.

Mr. Lovetree said to Frank, "allow me to introduce you to my niece, Mrs. Morgan."

He started back from her, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Stella rubbed hers. She was convinced now that they were not to be married. Poor Frank looked confused and in doubt. He approached near enough to Mrs. Morgan to whisper, "Lucy," to which she replied, "Yes," and he said, "God bless you then," and turned away to meet his bride.

This was Agnes. And he took her by the hand, and led her up to the minister who was to pronounce them man and wife, and said—"Now, sir, we are ready." Then a couple, who were to act as bridesmaid and bridegroom's attendant, took their stations upon the floor. It was the opinion of all present that they would act as principals in a similar scene by and by.

Perhaps the reader would like to know who this neatly-dressed, bright couple are, for he has seen them several times before. It is one of Mr. Lovetree's oddities that you see them now. You have seen them when they would not be very fitting guests in a parlor, but they wear wedding-garments now. This is Tom, who held the cup of cold water to the lips of the dying Madalina, and this is his reward. The neat, lovely girl at his side is Wild Maggie—Miss Margaret Reagan. The fine-looking hearty man that is leading up a well-dressed woman to the altar—another couple to be married—is one of the former customers of Cale Jones's grocery. It is Maggie's father. His bride is Mrs. Eaton. We have seen her and her two children in some of the early scenes of this volume. We saw them in the street then—we see them in the parlor now. We see them much better, much happier this time, and we see them just as we might see all the laboring class, if we could abolish the traffic in rum from the world. There are two other couples here to bear testimony to that fact. It was the particular request of Reagan and Maggie that they should be present to witness and rejoice over the power of the pledge to save. We have seen both these couples stand up to be married before the same minister who is now saying the solemn words of the marriage ceremony to those before him. You may see them as they were when you first saw them, if you will turn back to the plate facing the "Two Penny Marriage."

Julia Antrim and Willie Reagan act as attendants upon this last couple, and Sally Reagan and Stella May, dressed in pure white—dresses of their own make—with wreaths of flowers in their hair, made by their own hands—served the company with cakes and fruits and tea and coffee. Then the carriages came to the door, and all went—not to a tavern, or drinking saloon for a riot, to commemorate the most serious event of life, but in all soberness due to the occasion, to consign the remains of poor Madame De Vrai to her final resting-place on the earth.

It is a pleasant drive to Greenwood Cemetery, and it is a pleasant place for the tombs of our friends. It is a good place to go to meditate, among the new-made graves in the fresh-turned earth, and among the proud monuments of those who have lain long enough beneath their marble coverings to be forgotten. I did not forget to look, as I passed along, at the rose bush which I saw planted by a widow at the grave of her rum-murdered husband. It was growing fresh and vigorously.

Now we stand around the open grave that is soon to be filled by another victim of a trade that feeds scores and starves millions—that saves one life and causes a thousand deaths—that consigns youth, innocence and beauty, equally with old age, to a premature grave. Now we lower this last victim—still young, beautiful, intelligent, full of sweetness of disposition and kindness of heart—into her grave. Now we look at the little cherub, the darling, sweet, much loved Adaleta, her orphan child, and now at her sister's grave, then at the weeping circle, who stand and sob as the falling clods bring forth that hollow sound, never heard in any other place. Now the voice of him who says: "'Tis the last of earth," "Let us pray," breaks the charmed circle of intense silence.

Why is every eye upturned at the close? Did each listening ear fancy it heard the sound of an angel's voice in the air, breathing the words,—"Will he Come?" "Will he Come?"

And did they expect to see the face of Little Katy in the clouds, looking down upon those she loved, paying this tribute to her mother, now sleeping by her side in the grave; now with her child in the spirit land of the blest?

Now the tall corn is waving o'er the mountain and glen,
 And the sickle is reaping both the corn and the men;
 And the child that was sleeping where the lamps dimly shone,
 Like the corn, now is with'ring, in the vale all alone.
 "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night, all alone,
 "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.
Where the chill rain was falling, sat the poor child asleep;
 Where the lights nightly burning, city vigils help keep—
 Where the ague was creeping through the blood and the bone
 Of the child that was sleeping on the curb-stone alone.
 "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone,
 "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.
In a dark room lonely, lay the child all awake,
 With a voice wildly crying, "Will he come, for my sake?"
 Then a good man was praying, while to her dimly shone,
 Poor fading light—ceases burning—and with God she's alone.
 "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone,
 "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.
In the dark grave sleeping, while poor Katy's at rest,
 While the wild storm raging, ever sweeps o'er her breast—
 While the mourners are weeping for the dead passed away,
 Let us pledge by the living that the cause we will stay.
 "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone,
 "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn," in the grave all alone.

A VOICE FROM KATY'S GRAVE.

Among the many poetical effusions which have been elicited by reading the story of "Little Katy," I think the following, which appeared in the New York Tribune, will be read with pleasure. It is from the pen of Mrs. B. F. Foster, of New York:—

With dizzy whirl, on rushed the wheels
 Along the City's murky street,
 And music's light, inspiring peals
 Rang out from folly's gay retreat;
 And busy footsteps hurried past,
 And human voices, harsh and wild,
 Commingling, floated on the blast;
 When the shrill accents of a child
 Rose mid the din, in tones forlorn,
 And cried, "Come, buy hot corn, hot corn!"
Like some sad spirit wafted by,
 A stranger to the ways of earth,
 Came up that little plaintive cry—
 Sweet discord to the sounds of mirth.
 Unheeded by the reckless crowd,
 There stood a girl, a pale, wan thing,
 And 'neath her bosom's tattered shroud
 There lurk'd an age of suffering;
 While e'en till night approached the morn,
 In feebler voice, she cried, "Hot Corn!"
The gas lamp's glare fell on her face,
 But lighted not her languid eyes;
 And down her pallid cheeks, the trace
 Of tears, bespoke her miseries;
 With hunger gnawing at her heart,
 She shivered, as the night wind blew
 Her soiled and ragged clothes apart;
 Till all insensible she grew,
 And sinking in unblessed sleep,
 Forgot to cry, "Hot Corn," and weep.
Alone, so young, how came she there?
 To sell hot corn so late at night;
 Had she no friends, no home, nowhere
 To rest, and hide her from the sight
 Of the rude world? No mother? Hush!
 That holy name is not the one
 For Katy's parent. Woman! blush
 For thy lost sister; blush to own
 That thou canst ever fall so low,
 To plunge thy children into woe.
Within that mother's heart, the light
 Of love was quench'd, quench'd by the flood,
 The damning flood, whose waters blight
 All that is left of human good:
 And in her breast that demon reigned,
 Who "Give, give, give!" is ever crying;
 Demanding still to be maintained,
 While all within, around, is dying;
 Outpouring in its baneful breath,
 Destruction, sorrow, sin and death.
The lips which should have kiss'd away
 Her daughter's tears, dealt curses forth;
 The hand which should have been her stay,
 Was but the minister of wrath;
 Blind to her wants, deaf to her prayers,
 Regardless of the driving storm,
 To open streets and midnight airs,
 She drove that little shrinking form,
 To earn a dram! In shame and scorn
 With famished lips to cry, "Hot corn!"
"Hot corn, hot corn!"—night after night,
 More faint and feeble grew that voice—
 Still fiercely burned each glaring light,
 Still music bade the town rejoice;
 The ceaseless footsteps passed along,
 Up came the wild discordant tones,
 The voices of the thoughtless throng,—
 The bounding wheels rolled o'er the stones,—
 But midst the din, the rush, the roar,
 Poor Katy's cry is heard no more.
In one of those dark, noisome cells,
 The wretched call their home, she lies
 All motionless; the icy spells
 Of death, have closed those weary eyes;
 She speaks not now. Alas! how dread!
 That calm reproachful silence, when
 Beside the wronged and injured dead,
 We kneel in vain! Low in that den
 Behold the stricken mother cower;
 Grown sober in one fearful hour.
She calls her, "Katy, darling!"—peers
 Into that pale and sunken face,
 She bathes her senseless brow with tears,
 Sees on those bruised limbs, the trace
 Of her own cruelty;—again
 She calls, and prays for one last word,
 Of blest forgiveness;—all in vain,
 The answering voice no more is heard,
 The soulless clay alone is there,
 And fell remorse, and dark despair.
Weep, wretched woman, weep! That face
 Shall haunt thee to thy dying day;
 Nor time from memory erase
 Thy child's deep wrongs; for they
 Shall scorch into thy guilty breast;
 In mad excitement thou shalt hear
 Her cries; and midst thy fitful rest,
 Shall that pale phantom form appear,
 And o'er thy drunken moping, stand
 To curse thee with an outstretched hand.
Yet not alone with thee, abides
 That curse. Oh, Men, and Christians! can
 Ye robe yourself in god-like pride,
 And boast your land, the one where man
 Is most exalted; yet permit
 The Demon Drunkenness to roam
 Unfettered through your streets; to sit
 By ev'ry corner, ev'ry home—
 The weak and wretched to allure
 To drink, to suffer, and endure?
In mercy, then, arrest the reign
 Of this dread fiend; and Oh! protect
 Man from his self-inflicted pain.
 Spare the young wife, whose hopes are wreck'd,
 Whose heart is crushed, whose home forsaken,
 Whose life's a desolated wild.
 To infant prayers and tears awaken,
 And from the mother save the child.
 Hark to that echo!—"Save, oh, save!"
 Pleads a sad voice from Katy's grave.
"Pleads a sad voice from Katy's grave—
 Save, oh, save!"

Fathers! mothers! sons! daughters! husbands! wives! Christians! philanthropists! All—brothers and sisters!—hear ye that voice? If ye do not, then, indeed, are ye deaf. Then have I cried in vain. In vain I have visited the abodes of wretchedness and sin, to draw materials for my panorama of "Life Scenes in New York." In vain I have painted you dark scenes of life, instead of those which shine out in the noonday sun.

In vain have I endeavored to awaken your sympathies by relations of tales of woe, or painted vice, as I have met with it in my midnight rambles, to guard you from its snares, if I have failed to touch that chord in your heart which brings a tear to the eye, for it is that which will prompt you to action—to sleepless vigilance, to eradicate from the world the great cause of such human misery as I have depicted. It is that which, will prompt you to give, if nothing more,

"Three grains of corn,
 Only three grains of corn, mother,"

towards the redemption of the fallen, and protection of those who need a staff and a guide to hold them back from the precipice over which they have gone down to ruin.

Reader, if you have not yet done it, do not close the book until you have paid the tribute of a tear at the grave of

Little Katy Little Katy

 

Transcriber's Note:

Misspellings, archaic spellings, and multiple spellings retained as in original.