THE ELOCUTIONIST'S ANNUAL.

IT

NUMBER 9.

*

MRS. WALKER'S BETSEY.

Abridged by Mrs. L. Immen.

T is now some ten years since I first spent a summer in the village of Cliff Springs, as teacher in one of the public schools. The village itself had no pretensions to beauty, natural or architectural; but all its surroundings were romantic and lovely. On one side was a winding river bordered with beautiful willows, and on the other were lofty hills, thickly wooded.

These woods in spring and summer were full of flowers and vines. A clear, cold spring, that had its birth in a cavernous recess among the ledges, dashed over the rocks, and after many windings and turnings found its way to the river. At the foot of the hill wound the railroad track, at some points nearly filling the space between the brook and the rocks; in others almost overhung by the latter. Some of the most delightful walks I ever knew were in this vicinity, and here the whole school would come in summer for their Saturday's ramble. It was on one of these rambles that I first met Mrs. Walker's Betsey. Not that her unenviable reputation had been concealed from my knowledge, by any means, but as she was not in my department she did not come under my observation. I gathered that her parents had lately come to Cliff Springs; that they were

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ignorant and vicious, and that the girl was a sort of goblin sprite-such a compound of mischief and malice as was never known since the days of witchcraft. Was there an ugly profile drawn on the ante-room wall, a green pumpkin found in the Principal's hat, or an ink bottle upset in the water bucket, half a hundred juvenile tongues were ready to exclaim, "Mrs. Walker's Betsey," notwithstanding the fact that very few of these inisdemeanors were proved against her, but whether proved or not, she laughed at or defied them, as her mood might be.

One warm afternoon in the month of July, the sun, which in the morning had been clouded, blazed out fiercely at the hour of dismissal, and shrinking from the prospect of an unsheltered walk, I looked around in vain for my parasol. The girls of my class searched without success, and, as usual, accused Mrs. Walker's Betsey. I asked them to wait a few days for further developments.

"Remember," said Alice Way, as we parted at her father's gate, "you promised to take us a nice walk after tea, to the place where you found those beautiful flowers yesterday. We want you to guide us straight to the spot, please."

"Yes," said Mary Graham, "and we will take our botanies, to analyze the flowers, you know."

My assent was given, and when the sun was low in the west we started forth, walking nearly the whole distance in the shade of the hill, climbed the ridge, rested a moment, then went in search of the flowers.

Stop, Miss Burke," came in suppressed whisper from my group, as emerging from a thicket we came i sight of a queer object perched among dead sticks ar 1 leaves. It was a diminutive child who might be ten

or twelve years of age. A brown, weird face it was, with keen eyes peering out from a stringy mass of hair that straggled about distractedly from the confinement of an old comb. "There, there's Mrs. Walker's Betsey; she often goes home from school this way, and now she is playing truant; she'll get a whipping if her mother finds it out. Miss Burke, see what she has in her hand."

I looked, and sure enough there was my lost parasol. “Didn't we say so? Don't she look guilty? Let's dash in upon her and see her scamper.”

"Oh, no," I said, "I will go alone." She started as I approached her, thrust the parasol behind her, and then pleasantly made room for me on the little mound beside her.

"Well, this is a nice place for a lounge, just large enough for two, and nicer than any tête-à-tête. Now I should like to know your name?"

"Bets."

"Betsey what?"

"Betsey Walker, mother says; I say Hamlin; that was father's name; 'taint no difference though, its Bets any way."

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Well, Betsey, can you tell me who made this queer mound we're sitting on?"

"I don't know; maybe a rock got covered up, maybe an Injun's buried there."

I told her that I had seen larger mounds that contained Indian remains, but none so small as this.

"It might a ben a baby, though; I wish it had been me and I'd been buried here; only I wouldn't wanted them girls should come and set over me. If I did not want to get to read the books father left, I'd never go to school another day."

"Did your father leave you books?"

"Yes, real good ones; they're old and tore some; mother couldn't sell them for nothing, and so she gave them to me. You-you-haint lost anything ha-have you?"

"Yes, I see you have my parasol."

"You left it hanging in the tree yonder; it was kind o' careless I think. S'posing it had rained.”

Astonishment kept me silent, for I now recalled my hanging it in the tree when in search of flowers, yesterday. I felt humiliated in the sight of that poor, wronged child.

I did not see her for many days after, and during this time an excursion was planned on the railroad, ten miles distant. Many were the discussions held among the boys and girls, but on one point they were all agreed —that Mrs. Walker's Betsey was not necessary to the party. At half-past nine the next morning, as the train was moving slowly out of the depot, filled with its smiling, expectant faces, I was lying in a darkened room with my head bandaged, suffering from a severe pain in my head.

The disappointment was not much, for I needed the rest, and besides, the slight to poor little Betsey made me unhappy. By five in the afternoon, the pain having passed away, I went out for a walk, ascended the ridge, and book in hand sat down under a tree. Soon a pleasant languor crept over me, dense woods, craggy hills, green valleys faded from my sight; I was asleep. Ten minutes elapsed before I opened my eyes, to find standing beside me the same elfish figure I had once before encountered in the wood. In one hand she held my parasol to shield me from a slanting sunbeam and

in the other a bush with which she was protecting me from insects.

'Well done, little Genius of the woods; am I to be always indebted to you?"

"First you lose your parasol, and now you've gone and lost youself; I guess you hav to keep me a'ways. I thought you'd gone to the ride."

I explained the cause of my detention, and she looked pleased, for I soon drew from her that she felt her slight bitterly.

"I coaxed old Walker and his wife to let me have some green corn and cucumbers, put on my best spenser and went to the depot, but no one asked me to get in. I spose I wasn't dressed nice enough; they had on their Sunday best. I wish 'twould rain and spoil

them."

I tried to console her, but she wished all manner of things would happen, when suddenly we raised our heads and listened-it was a deep, grinding, crashing noise, as of rocks sliding over and past each other. We knew instantly there had been a fall of land not far from us. The place was reached, and sure enough, a heavy mass of rocks, with trees growing upon it, had fallen upon the track, and that at a point where the stream wound nearest. I could not help noticing the change in Mrs. Walker's Betsey. She leaped about among the rocks, wringing her hands; every fibre of her hair writhed with horror. I had imagined what that face might be in terror. Now I saw it, and knew what a powerful nature lay hidden in that cramped, undeveloped form. This lasted but a moment; the next thing was to decide what was to be done. Ten minutes must elapse before we could give the alarm at the village, and