The Drover's Story.

Cromwell Argus, Volume V, Issue 262, 6 October 1874, Page 7

The Drover's Story.

yHj name is Anthony Hunt. I nm a jrovcr, and live mites away on the Western prana. There jrasn’t a homo within light when we moved there my wife and J, and now we haven’t .many neighbours, though those that we have are good ones. One day, about ten years ago, I went away from home to sell some fifty head of little —fine creatures as ever I saw. I was to buy some groceries and dry goods before I came back, and, above all a doll for our youngest Dolly. She had never had a store doll of her. own, only the rag babies her mother had made for her.

Dolly could talk of nothing else, and went down to the very gate .to call after jne to buy a “bigone.” Nobody but a parent could understand how full my mind was of that toy, and how, when the cattle were sold, the first thing, I hurried iff to buy Dolly’s doll. I found & large me, with eyes that would open and shut when you pulled a wire, and had it wrapped in paper, and tucked it under my arm, while X had the parcels of calico and delaine and tea and sugar put, up. Then, late as it was, I started for home. It might have been more prudent to stay until morning, but I felt anxious to get back, and eager to hear Dolly’s prattle about her toy. I was mounted on a steady-going old horse of mine, and pretty well loaded. Night set in before I was a mile away from town, and settled down dark as pitch while I was in the middle of the wildest bit of road I know. I could have felt ray way along though, I knew it so well, and it was almost that when the storm that had been brewing broke, and pelted the rain in toi’rents—five miles, or may be six, from home yet, too. I rode as fast as I could, but all of a si| ml heard a little cry, like a child’s. * L stopped short and listened—l heard it again. I called, and it answered me. I couldn’t see a thing; all was, as dark as pitch. I got down and felt among the grass—called again and again and was answered. Then I began to wonder. I’m not timid, but was known to be a drover, and to have money about me. Might it not be a trap to catch mo unawares, and rob and perhaps murder mel Not superstitious—not very. But how •could a real child be out on the* prairie in «uch a night and at such an hour! It might be more than human.

The bit of a coward that hides itself in most men showed itself in me then, and I was then half inclined to run away; but once more I heard the cry, and said to my»elf—

u If any man's child is lost hereabout, Anthony Hunt is not the man to leave it -to die."

I searched again. At last I bethought ma of a hollow under the hill, and groping that way, sure enough I found a little dripping thing, that moaned and sobbed s I took it my arms. I called my horse and the beast came to tne, and I mounted, and tucking the little soaked thing under my coat as well as 1 ■could, promising to take it home to mammy. It seemed tired to death, and pretty soon <«ri| itself into a sound sleep against my bos&m.

It had slept there an hour when I saw my own windows. Thera were lights in them, and 1 supposed ray wife had lit them for my sake, but when j got into the dooryard I saw something was the matter, and stood still, with a dead fear at my heart five minutes before I could lift the latch. At last I did it, and saw the room full of neighbours, and my wife weeping. When she saw me she hid her face and ■cried—“ Oh, don’t tell him ;it will kill him."

“ What is it, neighbours 1" I asked. And one said—“ Nothing now, I hope. What’s that in your arms.” 11 A poor lost child,” said I. “ I found it on the road. Take it, will you, I’ve turned faint”

I lifted up the sleeping thing, and saw the face of my own'child, ray little Dolly. It was my darling, and none other that I had picked up on the road. My little child had wandered out to meet “daddy and the doll,” while her mother was at work, and they were lamenting her as one dead. I thanked heaven on my knees before them all. It is not much of a story, neighbours, but I think of it often in the nights, and wonder how I could bear to live now if I had not stopped ■when I heard the cry for help upon the road, the little baby cry, hardly louder than a squirrel’s chirp. That’s Dolly yonder, with her mother in the meadow—a girl worth saving. I »M her father, and partial, maybe—the prettiest and sweetest thing this side of