The Fremont weekly journal. [volume] (Fremont, Sandusky County, Ohio) 1867-1877, 1870-06-24
miscellaneous SeI&rti0ns.
zHNAs cARHY's REWARD.


A Soldiers Thanksgiving Story.
Red and sullen, like the eve of
some baneful demon, the low sun
glowed thro' the tangled depths of
the November woods, casting bloody
lines Of light across the fallen trees,
whose messy trunks were half hid
den in drifts of faded yellow leaves,
and evoking faint, sweet scents, like
orient sandal wood and teak, from
a thousand forest censors hidden
away, who knows how, or where.
And through that line of dull fam
ing fire, the sky frowned-a leaden
gray concave, frightened, as the
weather-wise could tell you, with
snow-f1akes sufficient to turn that
broken forest into fairy grove Of
pearl and ermine. So the day light
was ebbing away from this Thanks
giving eve.
Now 1 wonder where l am!'' said
John Siddons, pausing abruptly in
the scarce visible path that wound
among the trees. Gas completely
turned around as though l stood in
the deserts of Egypt! 1 wish 1 had
been sensible enough to keep the
high road; these short cuts general
| ly turn out very long ones. How
ever, if l keep straight ahead, 1 must
inevitably emerge from these woods
somewhere"
He sat down on q messy stump,
leaning his head carelessly on one
hand, while with the other he played
unconsciously with the worn brim
of his blue soldiers cap-a slender,
pleasant faced young man, with
gray blue eyes, and dark hair thrown
back from bronzed iorehead, which
had been touched by the fiery ar
rows of many Southern sun in
lonely swamps, and along the fever
reeking shores of sullen rivers.
"Houseless, Homelessp he MUIR
INJURED to himself. II wonder how
many others are saying the same
thing this Thanksgiving eye2 To
think that I fight through the cam
paign unhurt, and return with an
honorable discharge in my pocket
to place where no one cares wheth-
es I'm alive or dead, while SO many
brave fellows were shot down by
my side with bullets that tore
through score of hearts at home,
carrying sharper pangs than death
has to give! It's a queer thing to
have only one relative in the world,
and he total stranger. If l find
this second cousin of my father he'll
probably kick me out of doors for a
|shifJless, soldering yagabond. But
hang it, man can't live alone, ike
a tortoise in the shell. 1 remember
wondering when 1 was a boy, why
the Madeira vines over the porch
stretched out their green tendrils,
and seem to grope through the sun
shine for something to cling to. /
think understand it now."
Herose up and walked on through
the russell leaves that rustled, ankle
deep, beneath his tread, still musing
-musing; trying to study out the
unknown qualities in life's great
equation, while the sun went down
behind a bank of lurid clouds, and
the chill night wind began to. sigh
sorrowfully in the tree tops. And
suddenly the sturdy woods tapered
off into silver -stemmed thicket of
white birches, and the white birches
fringed a lonely country road with
a little red house beyond, whose
windows were aglow with freight,
and whose door-yard was full of the
peculiar perfume of white aud ma
roon-blossomed crysanthemums.
Zenas Carey was leaning over the
gate, surveying the stormy sunset
with critical eyes.
81 told Melindy sor' calculated
Zenas, apparently addressing him
self to the crooked apple tree by the
road. 81 bet my best steer we have
a good, old-fashioned fall of snow
to keep Thanksgivin' with. smelt
it in the air this mornin', but wo-
men don't never believe nothin, un-
til it comes to pass right under their
nose"
This rather obscene sentence was
nipped in the bud by a footstep at
his side. Zenas turned abruptly to
reconnoitre the new arrival.
"Will you be kind enough to give
me glass Of water, sirY' said John
Siddons, YEARLY.
"Sartin, sirn' said Zenas. $50
you're a soldier, hey?"
"A returned soldier" said Sid
dons, draining the cool clement
from the cocoanut shell that always
lay close to the well curb, at the side
of the house.
"Goin' home to keep Thanksgiv-
in?" questioned Zenas.
"Home! Sir, / hare no home!
Siddons had spoken sharply, as if
the thought were goading to him.
'Zenas put out his brown, knotted
hand, and grasped the retreating
mans arm.
"My boy" he said, with kindly
abruptness, 'you're a soldier, and to
tell by your looks, should guess you
were about the age of him that is
buried at Gettysburg-my only son!
l love that blue uniform for Davies
sake, and if there's soldier in the
world that hasn't home to go to
on Thanksgivin' eve, there's a corn.
Ter for him by Zenas Carey's fireside.