6
f/A
HE fruits are stored,
the fields are
bare,
The ground is
hard, the skies
are gray;
112 November's chill Is
in the air;
To-morrow is Thanksgiving day.
The farmhouse stands in sheltered nook,
Its walls are filled with warmth and
cheer;
Its fires shine out with friendly look
To welcome all who enter here.
Full forty years have come and gone
Since first this hearthstone's ruddy glow,
Fresh kindled, flung its light upon
Thanksgiving guests of long ago.
Long was the list of squires and dames;
From year to year how short it grew!
Read out the old, familiar names
They heard here when this house was
new.
Grandmother?—aye, she went the first;
Grandfather?—by her side he rests;
The shade and sunlight, interspersed.
Have fallen long above their breasts.
Our aunts and uncles?—sundered wide,
Their graves lie east, their graves lie
west;
As veteran soldiers scarred and tried.
They fought their light, they earned their
rest.
Our father?—dear and grn'le heart!
A nature sweet, beloved by all;
How early turned his steps apart
To pass from human ken and call!
Our mother?—brisk and kindly soul!
How brave she bore fate's every frown,
Nor rested till sh<» reached the goal
Where all must lay their burdens down!
Our brother?—toward the setting sun,
from us remote, his home is made.
And many a year its course has run
Since here his boyish sports were played.
Put by the book! My heart is sore.
The night winds up the chimney flee.
The fires within gleam as before,
But none are here save you and me!
Hut, sister, you and I again
Will heap the hearth and spread theboard
And serve our kindred, now as then,
With all that home and hearts afford.
The scattered remnants of our line,
We'll summon 'neath this roof once more,
And pledge, in rare affection's wine,
The memory of those days of yore.
God bless them all—the fond and true!
God keep them all—both here and there,
Until the Old becomes the New,
Forever, in His Mansions Fair!
—Marion Hicks Harmon, in Youth's Com
panion.
c,
T°^ kmbkr had set
in as usual, with
u '' • l - rril >' ' skil '
>1 <iikl chilly, pene
trating winds. Up
•the broad avenue that led to the Dill
ingham residence the dead leaves
whirled and eddied and settled with
many a melancholy flutter into their
annual graves, while the tall trees
tossed their bare arms about, m if
lamenting the loss of these cheery
little harbingers of spring and sum
mer. In vain; winter stood rejoicing
upon the threshold of autumn's de
cline, impatient to begin his reign.
In the house beyond, however, all
•was bright and charming with glowing
fires and soft, mellow lights. Geoffrey
Dillingham and his wife sat in the
library, she with a beseeching look in
her gentle eyes, he with a slight an
noyance in his.
"So you wish me to invite your peo
ple tie re for Thanksgiving?" he quer
ied, almost harshly. "I tell you, Eliz
abeth, it's impossible."
"Hut why, Geoffrey?" returned his
wife, with a iittle catch in her soft
voice, "only' think, we've been mar
ried seven years, and you've never
asked them here once;" a moment's
silence. "And they fee! it," she add
ed, in a faltering tone, "and so do I.
After all, they're my parents, dear."
Geoffrey Dillingham frowned and
turned again to his desk. Scratch
went the pen with rapid strokes, then
it stopped suddenly, and wheeling
around abruptly, he faced his wife.
"And if they are," he began, "I feel
that 1 have repaid them in a measure
for the loss of you; from poverty
I've placed them in comparative ease.
What more do they want ?" he demand
ed. irritably.
"But you forget, Geoffrey," returned
his wife, gently. "They love me, too."
Her husband pushed his papers aside
impatiently.
"If you please, Elizabeth," he said,
curtly, "we'll dismiss the subject. As
to Thanksgiving day. I've already in
vited Wilson and his family to din
ner." Wilson was his law partner.
Elizabeth Dillingham smothered a
heavy sigh and rose to leave the room
her hand was on the door when her
husband called her.
"Come here. Elizabeth," he said, per
emptorily, yet with a nameless ten
derness. She came and stood near
him, a slight, beautiful figure, in her
clinging gown of black, lie drew her
down upon his knee and kissed her
with sudden passion. "You know I love
you. child." he said, pressing the fair
head closely to his breast. "Am I no:
enough ?"
"But I want them, too," cried his
wife, with quivering lips.
The tenderness upon her husband's
face died suddenly away.
"I have told you, Elizabeth," he an
swered coldly, turning to his desk
Truly heredity isn't everything.
Ti :n,v:hin;r so beautiful «» Eliza
beth trtTMngham should emanate from
the Tracy family was little short of
a miracle. When Geoffrey Dillingham,
at 30, saw Elizabeth Tracy, at 18, he
loved her. Yes, aristocrat, autocrat,
courted and wealthy as he was, some
thing about her touched a responsive
chord in his heart of hearts, hereto
fore unreached, and he resolved to
win her. llut her family! lie groaned
in spirit as he thought of allying the
proud name of Dillingham with that
of Tracy—but Elizabeth was so beau
tiful, and as pure as she was lovely.
The second time he ever saw his
prospective father-in-law, the old
man wore a battered straw hat and
an old pair of jeans; he was on the
street, retailing a story with great
gusto to a crowd of loungers, punc
tuated by peals of laughter. Geoffrey
Dillingham passed by, holding his head
erect, and looking neither to the right
nor left. His clothes were well-fitting,
and in his immaculate shirt front a
splendid diamond scintillated in the
rays of the sun.
"That the chap that's pavin' 'tention
to your Lizzie?" asked old Elihu Staf
ford
Ephraim"? knife dropped noisily to
the ground; he stooped to pick it up
before he answered.
"That's the chap," he answered,
somewhat mechanically.
Ephraim Tracy and his wife were
decidedly common people; shiftless,
the neighbors called hitn, for the old
man had a predilection for telling
stories, as I have said, and retailing
them from a goods box in Ilobb's gro
cery. He always had an audience, for
he was as full of humor "as an egg is
of meat," and he had a quaint way of
expressing himself that was irresisti
bly funny. He was a little man. pretty
well advanced in years, with a kindly,
wrinkled face, a back somewhat bent.
ar.J ;,erene, benignant eyes. In a sort
of desultory fashion he managed to
keep soul and body together, and that
was about all. lie could turn his hand
at almost anything, however.
When a good wife of the neighbor
hood wanted a screen door made or a
lock fixed, she always sent for Eph
raim. He was not lazy, and the word
shifllessness ought never to have been
applied to him. Perhaps it was be
cause lie was always working on in
ventions that were sure to make him
rich, but when it came to the test
the models always refused to work,
i'ut so far as throwing him into the
slough of despond, happily his failures
had no such effect; with unabated
sweetness of nature, he would fall to
work on something else, and continue
to retail his stories with as keen a
relisii as ever.
If lie wa* lacking in pride for him
self. he had an abundance for his
daughter Elizabeth, or Lizzie, as he
fond y called her, which affection
Elizabeth fully reciprocated. In spite
of the fact that he was not a success
lie was a general favorite with every
one, and if he was B's* imbued with
any great ambition, his family never
blamed him, not even his wife, who ac
cepted liim as he was.
He had lived always in the came vil
lage. consequently his two sons, .Tim
and Andrew grew up there, nrnlJud
s-on. too, whom nobody counted, lie
cause he wasn't bright, but old
Ephraim Tracy never would ac
knowledge it himself. ".Tud's got a
heap more sense 'n people give him
credit for."he always would say, and
•lud would smile and nod his head well
pleased. I'oor Jud. whose blue eyes
never lost their childish look.
In the little back yard, the children's
playhouse Flood yet, where Jud, with
a man's body and a child's soul, played
happily by Ihe hour.
Elizabeth came next, the youngest
of ilie family. Where she got her
beauty, no one could understand.
That she possessed it, everyone ac
knowledged. All the family pinched
and saved to clothe and educate her
properly, and it was the proudest day
of Jim's and Andrew 's lives when they
could contribute something toward
Lizzie's schooling; and Elizabeth went
to school and studied hard. She meant
to be a teacher, she said. But. the
summer she was 18, she met Geoffrey
Dillingham, the leading lawyer in Dex
ter, n thriving manufacturing city a
good hundred miles from Elizabeth's
home. After a brief, impetuous woo
ing, they were married.
Geoffrey Dillingham, never,however,
recalled his wedding day without a
shudder. The plain little room with
its cane-seated chairs, crocheted tidies
and cheap pictures, the tear-siained.
homely faces, the two awkward young
brothers, and loving Jud, whose gaudy
necktie and ill-fitting best suit was to
his untutored mind the very acme of
elegance. It should be the last time
he would be in their midst, he vowed.
As to liis future course, that was al
ready marked out; Elizabeth would
soon understand. He gave a great sigh
of relief when the little cottage faded
from his view and he was free to draw
his lovely young wife to his side. Eliz
abeth threw her arms about her
father's neck before the carriage
start ed.
"Gooy-by, father," she cried, press
ing her fresh round cheek against his
withered one. "You'll come and see
me. I'll write, and —you know I love
you, don't you?"
Her father loosened the clinging
arms with a big sob in his throat.
"Yes, yes, Lizzie, I know,"he an
swered, tremulously. "There, there,
be a good girl and goto your husband.
God bless you both."
So when a few weeks afterward
Elizabeth began to make happy plans
for the promised visit, her husband,
with cruel candor, told her:
"My guests must be of my choosing,
Elizabeth," he said, "and I don't want
to >iurt you, bu* I can't have you: -
parents here."
He never forgot the expression of
the lovely eyes.
"Why. you're not ashamed of them.
Geo—.»>'?" she cried, a hot flush stain
CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1898.
ing the purity of her cheek, and he
did. not answer.
So in the Tracys' little home, made
so desolate by Elizabeth's flitting, the
invitationnevercame. Sixmontlisafter
Elizabeth'*} departure, old Ephraim
Tracy came slowly home. It was
evening, and already the first breath
of spring could be detected in the
soft air. He sat heavily down upon
the little back porch looking more
bowed than ever and his faded eyes
were infinitely weary.
"Lizzie don't say nothin' about our
visit, mother," lie began.
Mrs. Tracy was busy gettirg sup
per, but she came out and sat Gown by
him, taking his hand tenderly between
her own.
"Don't you see through it, Eph
raim?" said she, gently, avoiding the
wistfulness of the troubled eyes. "We
ain't Geoffrey Dillingham's kind of
folks, and Elizabeth must do as he
tells her, of course. I knew just how
it would be; the child dassen't write,
father."
A mist gathered in the old man's
eyes, and he looked away to where the
purple hiils kissed the western sun.
"The child dassen't write." And he
was her father; yes, old. obscure,
worthless as he was, she was his
child, and Dillingham hid taken her
from him He did not eat any sup
per that night, and after a time crept
quietly off to bed.
Next to hisfather, poor Jud mourned
after Elizabeth most, refusing to be
comforted. Even the most dazzling
bits of green and blue glass, brought
to him by his affectionate little play
mates, failed to please him, and for
many weeks the play-house was de
serted. The little fellow would rove
in and out, a patient sorrow written
in the childish eyes.
"A DISPATCH HAS COME FROM DEXTER."
"Where's Lizzie, mother?" he would
ask."l believe she's dead."
And his mother, hastily wiping her
eye with a corner of her apron, would
always answer;
"Dead —yes, she is to us, Juddie."
And Jud would sigh, and the sun
shining on the bits of broken glass
failed to comfort him.
It had been seven years now since
Elizabeth's wedding day. Only rarely
did she visit home, and even then the
visits were not satisfactory. Elizabeth
knew, and they knew. Old Ephraim
Tracy never went to the store when
Lizzie came home; he would sit in his
arm-chair and watch his beautiful
daughter with adoring eyes. Once he
came up and took the slender white
hand, sparkling with rings, into his old
knotted ones.
"Only <0 think of a Tracy having
rings like that." he said, exultantly.
But Elizabeth suddenly burst into
tears.
"I'd give them all, father, if only
you and mother could be with me,"
she said.
The old man only pooh-poohed at
this, but it was noticed that he disap
peared quickly, and some minutes aft
erwards they found him crying softly
in the woodshed. Yet he never seemed
to harbor any ill-will toward his son
in-law, but was proud of him in his
quie', unobtrusive way.
"I would like to see Lizzie's house,"
he sr.id one day, looking across the
same purple hills. "But mebbe it's all
for the best; it's all for the best."
Geoffrey Dillingham, with all his
faults, was not stingy, and the cer
tain, generous checks that came from
his hand to the Tracy family began to
have their effect.
The term of shiftlessness that had
been applied to Ephraim for so many
years gradually lifted, and a certain
air c.f prosperity began to pervade
ihe hitherto bare little dwelling. But
the cup had its bitter drop, you may
be s ire, for the Tracys never forgot
that the giver of it all despised them in
his heart, and they would gladly have
returned to the pinch of poverty
again, could they but have had their
Lizzie back.
So the years rolled by, bending o!i
Ephraim Tracy's back more and more,
silvering tlu hair of Elizabeth's moth
er and deepening the childishness of
Jud's wistful eyes.
"Seems like Ephraim's stories ain't
nigh so funny as they used to be," said
Elihu Stafford with a shake of his gray
head. "Guess he niopes after that gal
of liis'n; never's seen the inside of her
house yit. The whole family feel it
pretty much, I guess."
"Where does Lizzie live, mother?"
asked Judson one day. "Can't T go
there? I w«nt to see hsr."
But his mot hrr had atisworM him so
sharply, Jud had pone away to his lit
tie room and cried. No one ever spoke
sharply to Judson.
And Elizabeth mourned, too. Af
fectionate, dutiful and loving'as she
was, the sundering of old ties was
deeply painful. She wanted her moth
er; her dear old,patient father; simple
Jud with his pure, child's soul; she
wanted them all, even Jim and An
drew. Geoffrey Dillingham read his
wife's heart well, marked the sadness
of the sweet face, but he kept silent.
November with its short days passed
rapidly away, until it lacked but two
weeks till Thanksgiving.
Ephraim Tracy came home one
night bearing a live turkey.
"For the land's sake, father," cried
his wife, as she came out to investigate
the muffled gobble, "what did you get
a live one for?"
"This is for Lizzie, mother," replied
the old man."l got it early so's to fat
ten it myself for Thanksgiving. She
can Luy plenty of 'em, but she'll relish
the one father sends her most."
Mrs. Tracy brushed away a sudden
tear.
"So she would, father," she an
swered, softly.
So the turkey was penned securely
in the yard and fed so much by watch
ful Jud that it threatened to burst
before the eventful day arrived.
Elizabeth, in her home, seemed to
grow paler and slighter these short
November days. Her husband, coming
homo one night, found her shivering
over the library fire.
"What is it, Elizabeth?" he asked,
anxiously.
"I don't know," answered his wife,
her teeth chattering, "only I'm so
cold, Geoffrey."
So cold. He went up to her and
pushed back the lovely hair from the
white forehead.
"You'd better go upstairs, Lizzie,"
he said, tenderly.
They put her to bed shortly after
that, but before morning' sharp pains
set in and a doctor was hurriedly sent
for.
As the fever rose she grew light
headed and babbled on about father,
Jud, and Andy, too. She thought she
was at home again, living again her
simple, humble life.
"What is it, doctor?" her husband
whispered, a great fear tugging at his
heart.
"Inflammation of the lungs," the
doctor had answered briefly.
So. in tlia : luxurious room, the strug
ble began, the life and death angel
closing in combat. Geoffrey Dilling
ham in the terribly trying days that
followed, bending over that slight, be
loved form, realized for the first time
what his sin had been; the misery he
must have caused his wife, the pride
that had blinded him to all parental
claims. With old Martin Chuzzlevvit,
he could but exclaim: "Self —self—
self." And now she would die and
leave him.
lie walked to the window and looked
acrofs the bare and frozen fields.
"And they have loved her, too," he
murmured. "Oh. Elizabeth, my wife,
only live, and I will make it up a thou
sand times."
He would send for them now, he
whispered. As if in answer to his
thought, the kindly physician raised
his eyes.
"Better telegraph for her parents,"
he said. "She will reach the crisis be
fore twenty-four hours, and she may
not pass it."
Ephraim Tracy was in the backyard
divesting his plump turkey of feathers
when the telegram came. Jud stood
gathering up the feathers for a duster.
"Ain't it fat, Juddie?" said the old
man gleefully, "and won't our Lizr.ie
lik • it?"
Before Jud could frame an answer,
Mrs. Tracy came out and held up the
yellow sheet.
"Father, father," she cried, trem
bling! j*, "a dispatch has come from
Dexter, and Elizabeth is dangerously
sick."
Jim and Andrew went too.
"If Geoffrey Dillingham thinks I'm
goinp to stay pway. he's mistaken,"
said Jim. with a big lump in his throat.
"She s my sister and I've a right to see
her."
"And so have I," evied Andrew,
brushing his shirt sleeve across his
tear-filled eyes.
They reached Dexter that night, but
she did not know them. .7'.id alone
was .-hut out. and wandered at his own
sweet wi ' 1 up and dov.-n tV^
rooms that seemed, like fairy-"and to
him. All that night Jim and Andrew
walked restlessly about, but Ephraim
Tracy sat, a pathetic, bowed figure, by
his daughter's bed. His son-in-law had
asked him to his house at last, but
alas—for this. But it was the father'*
hand that administered the needed
nourishment, the father's hand that
smoothed the damp and curling hair,
the father's hand that held the pale
and wasted one, and Geoffrey Dilling
ham, as lie watched too. for the first
time in his life saw, in the despised old
man. something to revere.
Night passed, and it was the day
before Thanksgiving. The doctor came,
and with his practiced eye detected a
change. He looked across to wher«*
Elizabeth's husband stood, gray and
haggard, awaiting his verdict.
"Dillingham," said he, gently, "to
morrow will be Thanksgiving day.
Thank God for your mercies, for your
wife will live."
A low sobbing broke in upon them.
It was old Ephraim Tracy, down upon
his knees, his face hidden in the cov
erlet. Though the tears were raining
down his own face, Geoffrey Dilling
ham went over to the old man and lift
ed him as he would a rhild.
"Come, father," he whispered,
brokenly, "come."
The afternoon of Thanksgiving day
Elizabeth lay on her pillows exhaust
ed, worn, but at peace with all the
world.
"And ycu're all here," sbe whis
pered happily "Father, mother, An
drew, Jim and dear old Jud. Oh, I've
been so sick, bu« this repays me for
it. all." She smiled at them, her old,
sweet smile, and then she murmured:
"Kiss me, all, of you, for I am so—•
ha ppy."
They kissed her, as she asked, with
full and thankful hearts, and quietly
went away. Jud's turn came last.
The great, honest fellow stood over
her, his childish face alight with a
wonderful joy.
"You are to get well, Lizzie," he
whispered, rapturously; "and oh, I
say, Liz, ain't it all grand?"
His sister raised her feeble hand and
laid It against the loyal cheek.
"Grand—aye, that it is, Juddie," she
echoed, dreamily.
The room was quiet now, with only
her husband beside her. Elizabeth
turned her eloquent eyes to his. Those
eyes, that he had feared miirht never
know him more this side of the gates
of pearl.
"You've been good to me in every
thing but one, Geoffrey; you won't re
fuse me now?" she said.
He understood, for he bent over her
suddenly, and for an instant his
cheek lay against her own.
"My wife, my wife," he cried, with
solemn emphasis, "your life shall be
.1 different one, please God. from tliii
day forward—and theirs, too," he add
ed, reverently.
They hunted the place over for old
Ephraim Tracy a few minutes after
wards, but it was his wife who found
him, back of the big barn, sitting on
a bench. The gray head was bowed
between the wrinkled hands, and he
was weeping unrestrainedly.
She went up to him and touched his
arm.
"Come, father," she said, gectly.
The old man lifted his head, striving
in vain tc still the trembling cf his
quivering lips.
"I'm crvin'. Mandy." he answered,
brokenly, "and I can't help it. Only
to thSriK; it'sThanksgivingday.Lizzie'*
gettin' well, and—lie—called me —fa-
ther —Mandy."
Ilis wife nodded with tear-wet, s-mil
ing eyes, and hand in hand they turned
and went into Elizabeth's house. —Su-
s.-.tt Hubbard Martin, in Ladies' World,
New York.
A THOUGHTLESS lIEMAMK.
"How often,"said Miss Miami Brown,
"hit do happen dat er thoughtless re
mark'll spile de plaisure ob er occa
sion!" '"Yassendeed," replied Krastus
l'inkley. "One o' de gues'es at ouah
own table stopped pap right in de
middle o' de kyahvir,' ter ax 'im whah
he got de turkey."—Troy (N.Y.)Times.
I.ct All Give Tin. 11 ks.
Sing sweet thy sweet Thanksgiving, O,
Soul! and ring, ye bells,
Till the world shall catch the chorus and
the anthem heavenward swells!
For His love and for His mercy—for His
cross and chastening nrj,
For Ills tender benediction*. Jet the whole
world thank its Goii*
—Atlanta Constitution.
Society Turkey.
Billings—Ah! Society turkey to-day,
eh ?
Mrs. Hashcroft—WUy. v hat do you
mean, Mr. Billings?
"The dressing is the best part of
it."—lndianapolis Journal.
Why IVot t
Let us each and all buy two Thanks
giving dinners —thu sec nd one for the
stricken family that does not now
sec where that dinner is coming from.
—N. Y. liecorder.
Vain Hejjrci*.
Tommy—l wish I hadn't eaten sn
much turkey.
Mother—Why? Do you feel sick?
"No; but I'd ljke to eat soma 3?ore."
—N. Y. Truth.
SSOO Reward
Tha above Reward will be paid for ie-.
that will lead to tho arrest and
conviction of the party or parties who
placed iron and ilnbe on the track of th«
Emporium k Rich Valley JR. R., nea*
lie east line of Franklin Howler's farm,
«a the evening of Noy. 21«t, 1891.
II INKY AIICHIJ,
88-tf. l'rct\de%\ t.
PINE LIQUOR STORE
EMPORIUM, PA.
THE undersigned hu opened a flraN
olaes Liquor store, and invites tfee
trade or Hotele, Rcatanrarita, 4fca
We shall carry none bat the beat Jimmt*
loan and Imported
WHISKIES,
BRANDIES.
GINS AND
WINES,
BOTTLED ALE, CHAMPAGNE, Eta.
Cboloe line of
Bottled Goods.
F addition to my large line of liquors I emnrjr
coaatastly la stock a f\iil Mm© of
CIGARS AND TOBACCO.
SVPool »o4 Billiard loom in aamo bnHdlag.~Wi
C*LL AKD SEE MI.
A. A. MCDONALD,
PROPRIETOR. EMPORIUM. PA.
& F. X. BLUMLE, V
« EMPORIUM, l"i.
Bottler of and Uulcr to B
4 BEER, W
& WINES, j?
& WHISKIES, 3;
■Q? And Liquors of AH Klnda.
ft The beet of goods always JJS
w carried in stook and every- SR
*Tj thing warranted aa represent- Ijf
'P, Especial Attention Paid te W
V7 rioii Orders.
$ EMPORIUM, PA. W
112 60 TO S
U. Jk.l^ifisler^j
1 Broad Street, Emporium, Pa.,
Where you can get anything you want ia (
\ the line of X
s Groceries, /
1 Provisions, ?
P FLOUR, SALT MEATS, >
I SMOKED MEATS, \
J CANNED GOODS, ETC., X
J Trn, (offfts, Fruits. ConfettioEery, )
5 Tobawo and (ig&ra. v
\ Good* Delljcred Free any 1
112 Place in 'l ow 11. S
d CILL iSB SEE BE iXD GET PRICES. \
C S£iß P. I K. DEPOT \
RHPORItn
Bottling Works,
JOHN MCDONALD, Proprietor.
Near P. it E. Depot, Emporium, Pa.
ZMMji
Bottler and Shipper of
Rochester
Lager Beer,
BEST BIUJM OF ETFOKT.
The Msnufkcturer of Bofl
Drinks and Dealer in Choice
Wineaand Pure Liquors.
—
We keep none bat the very beet
Beer and are prepared to fill Orders on
ihort notice. Private families served
ialljr If desired.
JOETN MoDONALD.
C«»e«t*, «nd "1 r.-. ir-Mirt,
< ent busiaess conducted for moderate Fees. < 1
I OUR orricc is OPPOSITE U. 8. PATENT orrtCE 1 j
i and we can secure patent in leas time than tuo*c ( ,
1 remote from Washington. #
]» Send model, drawing or photo., with deserip-<[
('tion. We advise, if patrntable or not, free of] (
1 1charge. Our fee not due till patent ia secured. <>
], & PAMPHLET, How to Obtain Patents," withi ]
< oost of same in'the U. S. and foreign countries; \
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