The Jackson standard. [volume] (Jackson C.H., Ohio) 1847-1888, 1873-06-26
The Man Who Didn't.
BY MARY HARTWELL.

1t seems hard that mans mother, by
the conformation she gives his head, de-
yeloping this bump, suppressing that,
may shape his course to happiness or mis-
cry before he has a voice in the matter
Yet ever do great effects hang on little
hooks of causes. Mr.. Spurzheim tells us
if that little bony process is fattened,
whereunder Hope is supposed to taber-
nacle the the man is predisposed to mel
struction in fact
My Tom had brave olive face, but his
fleece must have grown over that bump
depressed, as grass grows over sunken
grave. You see l want to handle Toms
case impartially to find excuses for him
if l can. You have no right to judge a
man before looking at all the motives
under which he moved.
When Tom was very young, finding
himself in the mud, he determined to
stand high and dry as soon as endeavor
could put him So He took hold of life
with hs might. Now every son of Adam
must expect to be turned out of his gar
den once or twice in his lifetime. The
trouble with people is that they expect
too much of the world. Tom held it only
honest of the world to give him success
for his honest endeavor. But the world
is just "leetle near" like Barkis, hard
fisted in dealing out rewards to begin
ners
Toms natural bent was towards jour
nalism. So he begun in the chrysalis
state of carrier, and wriggled through
the intermediate stages of printer, report
er, correspondent, hoping in time to sport
in the high sun of prosperity, full
spread, green-6acked editor-a mighty edi-
tor, who should reach all over the nation,
and mould the masses.
That was Toms ideal Tom. And do
say, and shall maintain till my latest
breath, it is nobler to point your arrow
at the sun, and miss it, than to spend
your life growing vain over your ability
to bring down game flying on a level
with your nose.
Toms peculiar genius was not appre-
ciated by the public. He was a progress
i've, independent fellow, but failed to
make himself "the style" He was a
! faithful reporter, ran up and down whole
Babels of stairs, played Nero over fires
till he could scent fWmes for miles, out
ran the coroner to every murder, and
knew everything that was going on al
most before it happened But there were
things my spirited Tom did not do. He
never borrowed Jenkins quill, and went
to Mrs Grundy's ball with Webster's Un-
abridged under his arm to squeeze dry OF
adjectives on the dry goods there whirled
before him. He never whispered to the
public how lovely the regned and elegant
Mrs. A looked in sand-papered flounces
how Miss Florence NJ on this occasion
found something to wear in the shape oi
a transcendent robe de sole, finished by an
elaborate dress-coat with tails en- train
and the stately Misses B. disporteo
themselves in superb and overpowerinG
point shawls.
But he was father to many of those
startling paragraphs, now so common tc
the reporter that they cease to shocl
YOU. Instead of telling you that Patrick
Murphy fello fl train and was killed, III
would dish you up spicy item abou
Mr.. Murphys diving from the top of
car after his hat when running at THIRTY
miles an hour, and his sons filially wear
ing that hat at the funeral next day.
Unfortunately, just as Tom was comm
out nervous correspondent, he fell il
love. Now, generally speaking, it is goot
to fall in love. The best mental exercis
you are capable Of, is loving, 1t isn't til
'saddest of all the sad things of life" a
Mr.. Millard sings. Nor life, nor dcatl
nor principalities, nor powers, can sep;
rate our souls from the crowns whic
rest on them when we learn this self-r'
nunciation. You had better even love
human grind-stone, and have 1T wear yo
to intense keenness and sensibility, tina
tumble about rusty and blunt all you
days. But no two people look at a thin
a in the same light Ny ardent, impassioi