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The Iron Box
by
When the rusty lock was made to unclasp, the top was raised, and there, in numerous rouleaux, was gold coin to the amount of thousands of dollars. Excitement was now but a faint term for the sensation.
The young men were congratulated upon their find till their hands were sore from pressure, and the ladies were embraced in proportion by enthusiastic friends.
How came it there? Who had buried it and when? There was a legend in those parts that four wealthy Spaniards had been pursued and butchered by the Indians in the early days, and that they had, while fleeing away, buried the gold in an Alabama wild. Another tradition was, that during the siege of New Orleans, some French settlers had run the blockade and penetrated far into the country with vast wealth that was never traced afterwards. Some of the older citizens had also heard of a miserly ancestor of the Lawrences (Mrs. Lee had been a Lawrence) who lived a hermit life in the villa when it was only a log cabin; who denied himself the simplest comforts, and who died in want; but he had been seen by the curious counting his gold at night.
Whatever the mystery it was never solved. The facts as known were widely published, but no rival claimant ever appeared.
The wedding was a brilliant social affair. The Lee family were recognized leaders, and their ancestral home was noted for its elegant appointments and generous hospitality.
“And where will you and Dick live, Netta?” asked a Columbus belle.
“We think of building in the thicket.”
“What! Bury yourself in Dry Thicket? That horrible place?”
“Soyez tranquille, ma chere,” playfully answered the young bride. “Dry Thicket has proved too great a blessing to us to be dreaded. However, come and see us one day and judge for yourself.”
And when, as the “one days” had lengthened into many, enticed by the rumors she heard, the girl, now a married woman, did go, she found a magnificent residence, with lovely terraced lawns, shell-road drives, and luxuries unknown in city homes. All on the site of the despised Dry Thicket. White cottages dotted the landscape, and there was no trace of the gloomy thicket save one natural bower overhung with trees and interlaced by vines. Within its cool recesses was a rustic chair, and sheltered by a miniature Gothic temple, stood the brightly-burnished iron box which chance had made the foundation of so much happiness and prosperity.