Raftsman's journal. [volume] (Clearfield, Pa.) 1854-1948, 1862-01-29

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| replied.
s'Dd she say so,'' he asked with flushed
face.
ssNo; but read it in her looks,'' replied.
"Perhaps reflection of your own thoughts
he suggested.
ssSurely thought so when you came home.''
Never can forget the look he gave, so full
of reproof, Of surprise and of pain.
&C, l forgive you, for know you to be
my friend, but never speak to me like that.
/ going down hill You know better. That
can never be. | know-my ewn power, and
know my wants. My mother knows me better
than Ellen does.
All had that mother been as wise she
was loving, she would have seen that the wild
oats which her son was sowing would grow up
and ripen only to furnish seed for resowing-
But she loved him-loved him almost too we'll,
or, should say too blndly.
But could say no more. | only prayed
that God would guard him, and then We con-
versed on other subjects. | could spend but
a day with him but promised to correspond
often.
Three years more had passed, during which
John Anderson wrote to me at least once
month, and oftener sometimes but at the end
of that time his letters ceased coming, when |
received no more for two years, when L again
found myself in his native town. 1t was early
in the afternoon when | arrived, and took
dinner at the hotel
: L had finished my meal, and was lounging
in front of the hotel when L saw a funeral
procession wind into a distant church yard, l
asked the landlord whose funeral it was.
ssMrs Anderson he said and he spoke
I noticed slight dropping of the head as if it
cut him to say
"What? John Anderson's wife % l ven-
tured.
ssNo,'' he said, ssit is his mother,'' and as he
told me this he turned away. But gentleman
near by, who had overheard the conversation,
at once took up the theme.
s'Our host don't seem inclined to converse
on tnat subject,'' he remarked, with shrug,
inquiring, ssDid you know John Anderson 2''
''He was my schoolmate in boyhood, and
my bosom friend in yeuth,'' told him.
He then led me aside and spoke as follows:
ssPoor John He was the pride of the town
six years ago. This man opened his hotel at
the time and sought custom by giving wine
suppers. John was present at many of them.
the gayest of the gay, and most generous of
the party. In fact he paid for nearly all OF
them. Then he began to go down hill ever
since. At times true friends have prevailed
upon him to stop but the stops were of short
duration. A short season of sunshine would
glance upon his home and then the night came
more dark and dreary than before.
ssHe said he never could get drunk again
but still he would take a glass of wine with a
that let in the flood.
Six years ago he was worth sixty Thousand
dollars. Yesterday he borrowed fifty dollars
to pay his mothers funeral expenses. That
poor mother bore up as long as she could.
She saw her sOn-her s'darling boys as she
always called him-brought home many times
drunk. And even she bore blows from him
But now she is at rest. s'Her ''daring boy''
wore her life away, brought her grey hairs
with sorrow down to then grave.
ooh hope this may reform him.
ssBut his wife ?'' | asked.
ssHer heavenly love has held her up thus far,
but she is only the shadow of the wife she was
six years ago." he returned.
Ny informant was deeply affeeted, and so
was I [ consequently asked no more.
During the remainder of the afternoon de-
bated with myself whether to Call on John at
all. But finally l resolved to go Though L
waited until after tea. found John and his
wife alone They had both been weeping,
though | could see at glance that Ellen's face
was beaming with hope and love. But oh
she was changed-sadly painfully so. They
were glad to see me, and my hand was shaken
warmly.
ssDear c., don't say word of the past,''
John urged, shaking my hand second time
ssl know you spoke the truth five years ago.
| was going down hill. But have gone as
far as | can, here | stop at the foot. Every
thing is gone but my wife, have sworn-and
my oath shall be kept-Ellen and L are going
to be happy now."
The poor fellow burst into tears. Ellen
suit, and I kept them company,
could not help crying like child. My God
what a sight The once noble, true man so
mere broken glass-the last
fragment only rejecting the image it once
bore supplient at the foot of hope, begging
a grain of warmth for himself and wife And
- o,,1I Ix,x-a ri
how hoped-aye, more than hoped believ-
ed he would be saved. And l gazed upon
that wife-so trusting, loving, so true and
so hopeful, even in the midst OF living death
| prayed more ferveDtly than L ever prayed
before, that God would hold him up, lead him
back to the top of the hill In the morning
saw the two chldren-grown to two intelligent
boys; and though they looked pale, yet they
smiled and seemed happy when their father
kissed them. When [ went away, John took !
me by the hand, and the last words he said,
we're
ssTrust me, believe in me now will be
man henceforth while life lasts"
A little two years had passed Wnen
read in the newspaper the death of Ellen An
derson. l started for the town where they
lived as soon as possible, thinking L might
help some one. A fearful presentment pos |
sessed my mind.
ssWhere is John Anderson ?' asked.
ssDon't know, Pm sure. He's been gone
these last three months. His wife died in the |
mad house last week."
ssAnd the children ?''
ssOh. they both died before she died!'
staggered back and hurried from the place.
I hardly knew which way | went but instinct
led me to the churchyard. l found four
graves which had been made IN three years.
The mother, wife and two children slept IN
them.