The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1867-02-22

wYesp
"Do you know, Bob Campbell, that
loved that girl, that 1 love her now?
and she said
"'There, there, don't tell me your Sc
cretsr cried, with a wish in my heart
to get peaceably away from the fellow,
who, 1t was plain to me had been drink
ing.
"'But I ,oiU tell thee. Why not listen
quietly until I've done. l loved her
and told her so. And she refused; but
she did not tell me she loved you. That
L found out yesterday. She threw me
off for your baby-face and the few
pounds you've begged Of
"'Stopp commanded, pushing him
away from me. I'll hear no more such
vile stuff and walked off. But l had
not gone three steps when / felt his
arms clasped around my waist, holding
my arms close to my side.
"'You shall hear me, curse your he
shouted, close to my ear. 1--WE waited for
you to tell you that l hate you-hate
you because you're going to take away
from me the only woman on earth can
love. You needn't try to get away. Be
still, or I'll kill you. So long as l live
you will have an enemy. You'd better
remember that
"Just then heard the rumbling of a
wagon coming toward us. He heard it
too, and for minute stood and listened.
Then with an oath, he suddenly whirled
me around and struck me three heavy
blows full in the face with his huge fist,
Knocking me senseless to the ground.
Wnen l opened my eyes again farmer,
neighbor of ours, had my head on his
knee and was wiping the blood from
my face; the rascal had given me one
blow that had cut open my cheek, and
left mark until this day. Tom Brin-
ton had run like deer across the fields,
the farmer said. Anyhow, that was the
last seen of him in the place as long as
| remained. Bess and / were married
and came to America as happy and low
ing couple as ever crossed the waters.
When l landed in New York my pocket
was picked of all my money-the few
pounds | had saved to buy me little
land-and was friendless. 1t was an
awful time that followed, SIR"
The poor fellow seemed overcome by
the memory. The perspiration beaded
from his forehead, his eyes filled with
tears and he ner vously fingered the glass
that still contained few drops of liquor.
Then, with determined effort show
ing itself in his compressed lips, with a
gulping noise in his throat and dash
OF his arm across his face he struggled
with his feelings to continue the story.
after this misfortune, I tried to OBJ
tain work. Now and then l got job
that gave me enough to buy us a little
food. But what could l, a farmer and a
farmers son, do in q great city that
needed artisans, not farmers? 1t was q
hard and bitter struggle for life. l had
just got place as porter, at good wages
when--when-my dear, darling Bessie
when she-she died"
His groans and tears and sighs mas
tered his firmness and he bowed his
head upon the table. could understand
the loneliness of his life, and that the
dead wife was being wOrshiped above
all else in the world. 1t seemed so cru
el of me to obtain from my guest so sor-
rowful story, to recall memories so
fragrant with keen, undying grief, that
l placed my hand upon the head of the
weeper, and tried by words of sympa-
thy and of cheer, to lead him away from
the sad story of his life and leave it I'M
told. But after little while he raised
his head the face white and the eyes
fearful.
"You must excuse me this weakness"
he said. at is nothing new. l suffer
every day, as now. cannot forget my
darling. Only when Pm dead will the
trouble end, and the heart-ache stop,
and the tears be unshed. 1t doesn't
seem right, perhaps, for poor man to
nurse his sorrow for so many years. Yet
many man does it, and no one knows
it but himself. One cannot forget the
happiness and misery of the past the
memory of them grows upon him like a
cloud. l ask God that it may soon end"
For little while he was silent, his
eyes closed and his lips moving as if in
prayer.
"After Bessie's DEATH" he continued,
with shudder, 81 took to liquor just to
stop thinking, to have an easy spell.
But l only made matters worse, and fl
nally, after a touch of the h'emens, |
went on board ship and sailed to Cape
Town, in Africa. 1t was five years be-
fore | got back to America. l was tired
of sailing and of life; but not having
the cowardice to commit suicide, though
was always wishing myself dead, |
struggled along as of old to get my dali
Iy bread. Drifting hither and thither,
working week in one place, a month
in another, finally brought up as a la
borer in an elevator in Chicago. 1t is
not nice work, / must say; but one
grows to be proud of the great things
that dot the wharves along the nasty
creek. TO me an elevator always seemed
a monster, restless with hungry life /;
and we poor fellows did nothing but
tend to its wants, running up stairs and
down stairs through clouds of choking
dust, and deafened with the din of rat
tling machinery-no light job, sir, can
assure you, seeing that an elevator is
seven, eight, ten stories high, and big
enough to hold the houses of small
village. All, they are wonderful things