NIGHT THE FIRST—THE "SICKLE AND SHEAF."
NIGHT THE SECOND—THE CHANGES OF A YEAR.
NIGHT THE THIRD—JOE MORGAN'S CHILD.
NIGHT THE FOURTH—DEATH OF LITTLE MARY MORGAN.
NIGHT THE FIFTH—SOME OF THE CONSEQUENCES OF TAVERN-KEEPING.
NIGHT THE SIXTH—MORE CONSEQUENCES.
NIGHT THE SEVENTH—SOWING THE WIND.
NIGHT THE EIGHTH—REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
NIGHT THE NINTH—A FEARFUL CONSUMMATION.
NIGHT THE TENTH—THE CLOSING SCENE AT THE "SICKLE AND SHEAF."
Ten years ago, business required me to pass a day in Cedarville. It waslate in the afternoon when the stage set me down at the "Sickle andSheaf," a new tavern, just opened by a new landlord, in a new house,built with the special end of providing "accommodations for man andbeast." As I stepped from the dusty old vehicle in which I had beenjolted along a rough road for some thirty miles, feeling tired andhungry, the good-natured face of Simon Slade, the landlord, beaming asit did with a hearty welcome, was really a pleasant sight to see, andthe grasp of his hand was like that of a true friend.
I felt as I entered the new and neatly furnished sitting-room adjoiningthe bar, that I had indeed found a comfortable resting-place after mywearisome journey.
"All as nice as a new pin," said I, approvingly, as I glanced aroundthe room, up to the ceiling—white as the driven snow—and over thehandsomely carpeted floor. "Haven't seen anything so inviting as this.How long have you been open?"
"Only a few months," answered the gratified landlord. "But we are notyet in good going order. It takes time, you know, to bring everythinginto the right shape. Have you dined yet?"
"No. Everything looked so dirty at the stage-house, where we stopped toget dinner, that I couldn't venture upon the experiment of eating. Howlong before your supper will be ready?"
"In an hour," replied the landlord.
"That will do. Let me have a nice piece of tender steak, and the lossof dinner will soon be forgotten."
"You shall have that, cooked fit for an alderman," said the landlord."I call my wife the best cook in Cedarville."
As he spoke, a neatly dressed girl, about sixteen years of age, withrather an attractive countenance, passed through the room.
"My daughter," said the landlord, as she vanished through the door.There was a sparkle of pride in the father's eyes, and a certaintenderness in the tones of his voice, as he said "My daughter" thattold me she was very dear to him.
"You are a happy man to have so fair a child," said I, speaking more incompliment than with a careful choice of words.
"I am a happy man," was the landlord's smiling answer; his fair, roundface, unwrinkled by a line of care or t