The Jackson standard. [volume] (Jackson C.H., Ohio) 1847-1888, 1869-06-17

y, and IN walked Ablnadab Quirk, with
bOquet Of China pinks in the button
hole Of bis green-gray linen coat. He
had taken evident pains to smarter
himself up a little, for his hair was
combed into two horizontal daJs over
bis ears, and the green-gray coat and
blue-checked shirt-sleeyes were quite
clean; but he certainly is the most un-
couth specimen of six feet five that it
has ever been my privilege to behold
| feel sorry for him though. / heard
Meta Tripp laughing at him in Sunday
school the other day,-"QuadranguIar
Quirk," she called him, a little too loud ,
and the poor fellow heard her. He
half turned, blushing fercely; then
skunk down in his corner with as pita-
bic look as is often seen upon a mans
face
He came up to Auntie awkwardly,-
a part of the scene saw from the win
dow, and the rest she told me,-head
hanging, and the tiny boquet held out.
"Clo sent these to you," be STAN
mered out, Tiny cousin Clio. was
coming long, and she thought, you
know, shed get me, you see, TOTO
that is, to--bring them. She sent
her-that is--let me see. She sent
her neutrality-suspicious., her
love; that was it. She sent her love
long with en-
Mrs. Forcythe dropped her weeds,
and held out her white, shapely hands,
wet with the heavy dew to take the
flowers.
80, thank you! Clio knows my
fancy for pinks. How kind in you to
bring them! Won't you sit down d
few momentSl l was just going to
rest little. Do you like fowers!"
Abinadab eyed the white hands, as
his fingers Just touched them, with a
sort Of awe; and, signing, sat down
on the very edge of the garden bench
beside her. After a singular variety
of efforts to take the most uncomforta-
bic position of which he was capable,
he succeeded to his satisfaction, and,
growing then somewhat more at his
ease, answered her question:
"Flowers are sech gasg things. They
just blow out and that's the end Of 'em.
/ like machine-shops best"
"Ah! well, that is a very useful
liking; Do you ever invent machinery
yourself?"
Sometimes, said Abinadab, with a
bashful smile. "There's 4 little i'm
provement of mine for carpet sweepers
up before the patent office now. Don't
know whether they'll run it through.
Some of the chaps saw in Boston told
me they thought they would dot in
time; it takes an awful sight of time.
I'm alwers fussing over something Of
the kind alwers did, sence | was a
baby; had my little wind-mills and
carts and things; used to sell 'em to
the other young uns. Father
don't like it. He wants me to stick
to the farm. don't like farming. |
feel like fish out of water, r,-Mrs. For
ceythe, marin ?"
He turned on her with an abrupt
change of tone, so funny that she could
with difficulty retain her gravity.
II heard you saying sight Of queer
things the other day about heaven.
Clio, she's been telling me sight more.
Now, I never believed in heaven"
"Why2"
"Because don't believe" said the
poor fellow, with sullen decision, "that
benevolent God ever would ha' made
sech derned awkward chap as am!"
Aunt Winifred replied by stepping
into the house, and bringing out fine
photograph of one of the best of the
St. Georges,-a rapt, yet very manly
face, in which the saint and hero are
wonderfully blended.
II suppose" she said, putting it into
his hands, "that if you should go to
heaven, you would be as much fairer
than that picture as that picture is
fairer than you are now"
"No! Why, would l though? Jim
miny! Why, it would be worth going
for, wouldn't it?"
The words were no less reverently
spoken than the vague rhapsodies of
his father; for the sullenness left his
face, and his eyes-which are pleasant,
and not unmanly, when one fairly sees
them-sparkled softly, like a child's
"Make it all up there, maybe ?"
musing,--''the girls laughing at you
all your life, and all7 That would be
the bigger heft of the two then, would
n't7 for they say their amt any end to
things up there. Why, so it might be
fair in Him after all more'n fair, per-
haps. See here, Mrs. Forceythe, I'm
not a church you know, and
father, he's dreadful troubled about
me; prays over me like span of min
listers, the old gentleman does, every
Sunday night. Now, don't want to
go to the other place any more than the
next man, and I've had my times, too,
of thinking I'd keep steady and say my
prayers reg'lar,---it makes chap feel
on a sight better terms with himself,
but l don't see how I'm going to wear
white frocks and stand up in choir
never could sing no more'n frog with
a cold in his head,--it tires me more
now, honest, to think of it, than it does
to do a weeks moving. Look at me
Do you s'pOse I'm fit for it' Father,