The Hillsdale Standard

An Episode of the War.
NICK DUDLEY, THE CALIFORNIAN.
[From the San Francisco Sunday Mercury.]

The pleasant village of Springdale was all
agog with curiosity, when Nick Dudley re-
turned from California—Nick, the ne'er do-
well, who had run away from his drunken
old father's horsewhip ten years ago and now
came back rich!
All the gossips of the little neighborhood
were in a perfect flutter. The young Misses
donned their brightest smiles and most cap-
tivating calicoes. The young fellows were
furious with envy. The Minister introduced a
period in his long prayer with special refer-
ence to "the wanderer's return," and, in fact,
never in New England was seen such a flut-
ter as pervaded this pretty rustic hamlet
when it was rumored and then confirmed,
that Nick had really got home.
The poor widow Dudley, who had made
her few preparations for the event, in fear
and trembling, for she scarce expected from
her runaway son anything save a repetition
of her reprobate husband's neglect, yet she
spread her little table with the best her scanty
store afforded, and smoothed her faded gown
with trembling fingers, when she heard the
rumble of the stage wheels. To widow Dud-
ley and to Nick himself, all this hubbub and
commotion was lost; neither of them minded
it a whit.
Nick bought back the old farm which his
paternal ancestor had succeeded in mortgag-
ing twice over before he luckily broke his
neck; built an addition to the farm house:
flung out a bay-window here and a piazza
there; put up a comfortable row of stables;
planted shrubbery: drove his mother to meet-
ing in a new wagon, of rather rakish and
sporting appearance, behind the fastest pair
of chestnut mares ever seen in that country.
But he civilly declined all invitations to tea
fights, sewing circles, and quilting bees; was
invisible at town meetings and fancy fairs;
asked no one to visit him, returned no calls,
and, in fact, as pretty Miss Langford remark-
ed confidentially to Lizzie Hopkins, the Dea-
con's daughter, "behaved more like a sav-
age Injin, or a horrid old miser, than a decent
christian, and the handsomest fellow in
Springdale, to boot. Gracious! she could
cry with vexation, just thinking of his goings
on—so she could!"
One or two of Nick's old school mates who
ventured to introduce themselves to his pres-
ence, told strange stories of the interview, and
of the wonders to be seen in the apartment
where the returned Californian received them
politely, to be sure, but coolly as an animated
icicle. They spoke of walls hung with rifles
Indian bows, and rich furs; of cabinets filled
with outlandish-looking bits of rock, which
sparkled in the sun light like diamonds; of
silver mounted pistols, barbaric spurs and bits,
diabolical Mexican idols, carved of solid gold;
of gorgeous cloaks flung over great elk antlers;
of Indian scalps, triumphantly stretched upon
hoops daubed with vermillion, and of Nick
himself, strangest of all—tall and swart, with
his great beard and dreamy eyes, an ugly red
scar athwart his forehead; never flushed nor
disconcerted; his voice sweet as a woman's
and full of tenderness whenever he spoke
of, or to his old mother.
Folks wondered that he should come home,
if he couldn't conduct himself a little more
socially and neighborly; and, indeed, many
surmised that he would not have returned at
all, had it not been for his mother.
But, at any rate, there he was, and they
must make the best of him. "Rich, too; no
doubt of that, for didn't he lend Squire Ford-
ham three thousand dollars, all in double.
eagles, after the latter's mill was burned—
But, then, he took an unconscionable rate of
interest—seven per cent. not a dime less:
what a regular old Shylock he must be!"—
And as a set off to his riches, don't he drink
wine every day for dinner, with his fa-
ther's awful fate before him? and ain't he
forever with a pipe between his teeth? and
didn't he play cards and carouse, and sing
songs all night, and drive about the country
all day with those friends of his who came
up from Boston? Old mates in the mines,
were they? Humph! Guess gamblers, with
their superfine broad cloth, and their gold
chains and things."
So went the gossip, and Nick cared for it
all not a red cent, but went on his way, turn-
ing neither to the right nor left; farming a
little; dabbling a little in fancy cattle; oftener
going off for a days shooting or fishing; more
of ever going down to Boston for nobody
knows what, evidently enjoying life in his
own way, despite all that was said of him and
his goings on.
At last the war broke out. A religious
fever raged up there in the back parts of New
England. None before them in the holy
crusade against the destroyer of the Union!
The young men volunteered by scores—by
hundreds—by thousands! Weeping mothers
packed their kits and bade "God bless them."
Sad, broken circles met around homely boards
in the brown farm houses. Poor old Puri-
tan fathers, with stern faces and sad hearts,
strained every nerve to make both ends meet
while the "boys" were away fighting, and
sweethearts and wives sat themselves down
to weep over lovers and husbands marching
away for the cruel swamps of Virginia.
In the midst of it all, a report began to
spread "that Nick Dudley was a Secession-
ist." And indeed, his conduct was somewhat
suspicious.
Before the storming of Sumter, he was
heard to say a dozen times that he "sympa-
thized with his misguided Southern brethren."
Since that momentous era, he had held his
tongue, never joining in the excited harangues
of his neighbors at the village school-
bouse; attending no war meetings; offering
no money for the cause, and doing nothing
to encourage enlistments. It looks bad, cer-
tainly. At length the public feeling ran so
high that Nick heard of it, but he only laugh-
ed, called them a pack of fools for their pains
and said he would give his opinions when call-
ed upon for them, not before. But no one
cared to ask him point blank what he thought
for a wholesome fear of his prowess was pre-
valent in Springdale. But Nick got caught
at last!
Cecily Hopkins—sweet Cecily Hopkins,
from New Hampshire—down for a visit to
her cousin Lizzie, came blooming into Spring-
dale one June morning, like a veritable little
Puritan rose, and Nick stared at her when-
ever he could, like a real heathen as he was:
and before many days he had made some
pretense to call over at the Deacon's, where
he straightway received an introduction to
pretty Cecily, who wondered much at his
great moustache, and rather liked his looks,
but denominated him a perfect bear after-
wards, when she and Lizzie were talking him
over. Then he invited Miss Lizzie (and
Cecily, of course) to ride over to Accomac
ponds with him, to fish for perch and gather
water-lilies, and, indeed, carried them both
there in his handsomest wagon in grand style,
and made himself so agreeable that they
would never listen to a word in his disparage-
ment again. Yes, Nick was caught! and
Cecily, though half afraid of the great fish
she had hooked, felt proud of her conquest.
and got to looking for the dreamy eyes and
black moustache with a little flutter at the
heart and gush of crimson blushes over plump
cheeks and milk-white neck. But, then, he
was a Secessionist, they said; and she, a
staunch Union damsel. She would never
marry a Secessionist—Never! She said as
much one day in Nick's hearing, but he only
smiled and remarked that "he would not nei-
ther—if he could."
And so the summer was slipping by, and
Cecily's visit drawing to a close—only one
day of it remained.
Nick had gone to Boston with a promise to
return in time to say "Good-bye"—and some-
thing else, which he wished to tell her before
they should part. Ah! she well knew what
it was!
Tea on the table. Cecily sat looking out
of the open window at the honey suckles and
the sweet briars. Lizzie as usual was bustling
around in a perfect whirlwind of business and
stiff muslin. Old Mrs. Hopkins was slowly
rolling up her knitting, while the Deacon,
who had just received his newspaper from the
Post-office, was dimly spelling out the head-
ing to the columns.
"Come, father, tea's ready," said Lizzie.
"Yes, child, in a minute. What's this?
Three hundred thousand more men called for
by President Lincoln!
"The Lord pity their poor mothers!" said
old Mrs. Hopkins, wiping her eyes, as she
thought of Ben, her first born, away in the
army.
The Deacon cast his eyes down the column.
"Hump! What's this? New regiments un-
der the President's proclamation. Col. Dud-
ley has been commissioned by the Governor
to raise a regiment for immediate service."
"I wonder if that's Nick?" said Lizzie.
"No. He's a secessionist," grumbled the
Deacon.
"He isn't," spoke up Cecily—then blush-
ed like a rose.
"Why, Cecily, child," said Mrs. Hopkins,
"how do you know what he is?"
"Why, he told me—(white lie.) That is
(conscious stricken) he didn't—exactly say
so, but I—I know—that is I—think—"
"Better be quite sure of what you are say-
ing Cecily."
What a pretty little scream from frighten-
ed, blushing Cecily, while Lizzie burst into
laughter, and old Mrs. Hopkins dropped her
knitting in astonishment; for there, in the
door, stood Nick Dudley himself, an unobserved
spectator of the scene, and looking hand-
somer than ever, in his Colonel's uniform!
What passed between Nick and Cecily that
night, in the long walk they took together
under the maples, I know not; only when
the Colonel returned home towards midnight,
he went strolling along the lonely road trol-
ling out snatches of Spanish ballads and old
love ditties, while Cecily went softly up to her
chamber, richer by a happy heart, and a ring
upon her finger which had never glittered
there before.
A Battle Field—Black masses of smoke
drifting overhead. Below, black masses of
men and horses—motionless—hurrying—charg-
ing—retreating. Red flashes of fire dart-
ing out at sudden intervals—the stragglers
lying stark and dead, clotting the fields, the
woodlands and the roads—batteries with their
powder stained pieces, and the haggard artil-
lerymen flitting wildly around them—an
occasional cheer coming hoarsely up in the
distance, as some regiment goes swinging on
the double quick, the men bareheaded, with
tongues lolling from their mouths, eager eyed
all dust, begrimed and breathless. Skir-
mishers outlying in every thicket, creeping
up hills and through wood, in long, snaky
lines bare armed surgeons, sweating with
hacking and mangling. Lower in the rear—
pale officers in groups, discussing, giving hur-
ried orders, and peering anxiously through
field-glasses—aids darting off into the smoke
and never returning—blood stained orderlies
darting up out of the smoke with mysterious
dispatches, and instantly disappearing again
like phantom messengers—the roar of the
great guns heard miles and miles away, rat-
tling the glass in the windows of peaceful
homesteads, where they think its some dis-
tant thunder storm over the mountains.
Look at that regiment charging the rebel
battery on the hill, yonder—that formidably
battery, which, hidden by felled trees and
stone walls and brush barricades, has been
playing all day with such deadly effect upon
our poor fellows. Down they go into the
valley at a half run, canteens jingling, muskets
at slope, tight-waisted officers already begin-
ning to pant a little; men loosening their
knapsack-straps ready to throw them off when
they begin the real work. Now they cross
the little brooklet in the hollow—dozens of
them stopping to catch a draught of water—
and now and then they check their speed for
an instant to dress, before they face the un-
seen battery, whose position is indicated only
by the thundering discharges which at every
instant shake the ground.
Nick Dudley is at their head, as where else
should their colonel be? And see, see! what
a filmy fire gleams in those dreamy eyes as he
turns his flushed face up towards the threat-
ening heights!
"Now, boys!"
A hoarse cheer from their thousand parched
throats, and on they go sweeping up the
hill like a great sea wave. A deeper roar
from the rebel guns, depressed so low that
the cruel grape goes tearing right into the
face of the advancing ranks. An instant
pause, and out of smoke come pouring hun-
dreds of rebel horsemen, barbaric fellows, the
gleaners who follow the harvest of the grape
shot, riding down the reeling columns—yell-
ing—slashing like devils.
Where is the Colonel, now! Why don't
his voice rise above the death shriek and mus-
ket shot like a trumpet call to his brave boys!
See! Flash, flash, flash from his revolver,
and down goes a rebel dragoon. Too late!
for, with the rush and roar of a cataract,
they sweep over him, and Nick is left lying
on his back, with another and a fresher scar
across his forehead; his right arm twisted
hopelessly under him; a stinging, numbing
pain in every nerve; a thousand pieces of ar-
tillery in his brain!
Oh, the sweet, sweet light—all fade to-
gether from his bewildered soul!
A crippled invalid, an exchanged prisoner,
is sitting in an easy chair, propped up with
pillows in the cosiest, warmest nook of the
old farm house. Poor Mrs. Dudley! her
wrinkled face, so sad and anxious, is watching
him with tender eyes. He doesn't seem to
care for the fresh flowers on his table, for the
jellies, the fragrant lemons, the iced drinks,
the little comforts and luxuries so plentifully
strewn around him.
A cripple! White, scarred face, lips con-
tracted by sharp pain; one arm gone at the
shoulder, emaciated frame, shaken by frequent
fits of coughing; lack lustre eyes, vacantly
straying round the room, as tho seeking some-
thing unattainable. Not even a mother's
love, all pervading as it is, seemed to satisfy
his querulous longing. So changed! So
broken down!—Poor Nick Dudley!
Hear his feeble voice, thin and cracked by
illness.
"Mother, did you write to her?"
"Yes my son; but—" and here she
wipes away a furtive tear or two.
"But—yes, of course, she's forgotten me.
Why shouldn't she? I'm nothing now—
only a miserable wretch. Still I wish—I
could see her before I die—just to say to her that
I—I release her from the—the engagement,
that I'm—I'm willing she should go—and
bear her no unkindness for desert—for not
wishing to marry a—cripple."
"Oh, my dear son, do not speak so. It
may be all a mistake. If she really loves
you—"
"Say no more, mother—you wrote."
"Yes, my son, nearly a month ago."
"And no reply. Hump! It is clear,"
and the poor fellow turned wearily toward
the wall, while a few tears trickled down his
thin cheek.
A knock at the outer door, and Mrs. Dud-
ley slips out of the room. In five minutes
she returns.
"Are you asleep, my son?"
"No, mother, but give me the laudanum
drops. I think I could dose a few minutes
with their help."
"My son."
"Well."
"Can you bear good news?"
He turns quickly, and sees the dear old
wrinkled face all smiles
"What is it?" And the wistful eyes turn
beseechingly toward the door.
A rustle of muslin—a flutter of lace—an
odor of violets, and darling Cecily Hopkins,
with eyes red from weeping, and mouth all
pouting—half way between laughing and
crying, pushes by the old lady, and with a
sobbing cry of "Oh, Nick, they never told
me"—has her arms around his neck, and her
dear head upon his bosom before the poor
unfortunate, happy devil knows whether he is
dreaming or awake.
"Did he get well?"
Of course he did! Wouldn't he have been
a perfect ass to die at that juncture! He got
well, (that is, he's getting well fast now, as
you read this.) They were married last
month. Nick swears he's the happiest man
in New England to-day.
Do Not put Dirty Wool Inside of a
Fleece.
The Wool Grower says an important
woolsuit was recently decided at Bath, Steu-
ben County, N. Y., in which O. A. Willard
& Co., of Boston, were plaintiffs, and Enos
Merrit, a wool grower, of Yates County, N. Y.
was defendant. The plaintiffs alleged fraud,
and set forth in their declaration that in July
1860, their agent bargained with defendant
for 142 fleeces of wool at 47 3-4c per lb., a full
market price at the time, for a good fine
wool, to be delivered in good condition.
The agent testified that he had agreed for
the wool on the sheep's back, soon after it
had been washed, and the defendant agreed
to put his wool up in good condition. The
wool was brought and delivered to the agent,
apparently in good fair condition, externally,
and he received it and paid the stipulated
price. But soon after he discovered by open-
ing some fleeces that some half a pound of
unwashed tags, and much dirt and filth were
in each fleece. This was proved by several
witnesses who assisted in opening the fleeces.
The defendant proved that he had washed
his sheep clean and put his wool in good con-
dition, but acknowledged that he put un-
washed tags in each fleece, and claimed that
it was the common custom of wool growers
in his vicinity. He introduced several who
swore that such was their method, and sup-
posed it to be the general usage.
Plaintiffs proved by several respectable far-
ners that they never put their unwashed
tags in their fleeces, and they were not aware
that it was customary to do so. It was ar-
gued by counsel for defence that the common
usage should protect his client in putting in
tags; inasmuch as the agent received, accept-
ed, and paid for the wool and made no ob-
jection at the time, plaintiffs should not re-
cover. Also, he claimed that it was the
agent's duty to open the fleeces at the time
to ascertain their condition.
Counsel for plaintiffs argued that inasmuch
as the wool appeared outwardly in good or-
der, the agent had good reason to believe
that the inside must be in corresponding con-
dition, according to the usual appearance of
the inside and outside of fleeces. The court
so ruled, and remarked that the purchaser
was not obliged to open the fleeces when he
purchased wool, to ascertain the condition,
and that the seller had no right to conceal
anything in the fleece like unwashed tags or
anything unmerchantable. The jury found
16 cents per pound damages for plaintiffs on
748 lbs. of wool, with interest from the time
of purchase. The defendant also had to pay
the costs of the suit.
"A Whole Nigger."— At a recent negro
celebration, an Irishman stood listening to
Frederick Douglas, who expatiating upon
government and freedom; and as the orator
came to a period from the highest poetical
heights, the Irishman said:
"Bedad, he spake well for a nagar."
"Don't you know," said one, "that he is
only a half negro."
Only a half nigga, is he? Well, if a half
nagar can talk in that style, I'm thinking a
whole nagar might beat the prophet Jeremiah!'
The township of Augusta, Kalamazoo
county, is one of the most thriving places on
the line of the Michigan Central Railroad.
It contains an excellent flouring mill, and is a
superior market for wheat, farmers coming
there from the north part of Barry county to
sell their wheat. The prospect is now good
for an abundant wheat harvest in Augusta
and vicinity, and also for a large fruit crop
of every variety.
They get up model love letters at
Cleveland, short, sweet and spelled upon the
principle of complete secession from dictionary
rules. Here is one read in court last week—
"deer thtow abcent not orgottin,
thares a gud tym cumio wate a little longer.
Husband advertises thus:—"My
wife, Mary, has strayed or been stolen. Whoever
returns her will get his head broke. As
to trusting, anybody can do so if they see fit
for as I never pay my own debts, it is not
likely I'll pay hers.',
The two (Greenmans, father and son,
who were so badly injured in a match factory
at Ann Arbor, on the 7th inst., are slowly
recovering and it is thought they will regain
their eyesight.