The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1875-03-25

proud Of you, and had such high hopes
OF you. You were going to be famous
poet, reform preacher, and the Lord
knows what, and you've not been any of
it. When you die, [ shall have this
label tackled across your coffin He
began life as q poet, full of grand hopes
and aspirations, and ended by being a
sloyenly old bachelor, who made a fort
une in the brick-pressing business. /"
/ {" Cousin Mary, let's start to the camp
meeting" N
| At the camp ground Sam Harrington
and little Mrs. Gerty sat among the de
vout part of the congregation, and
listened to the sermon like old folks.
When it was over, and they had all left
the wooden benches, q tall, pale lady,
with lustrous black eyes, and dark, waYy
hair, stood up facing Them An aged
lady, with silyery hair and a sweet,
placid face, leaned on the others arm,
and the younger lady carefully supported
her feeble steps.
"That's widow and her mother"
whispered Sans cousin. "Isn't she
lovely?"
Sam looked. The fine, delicate face
was the least bit faded and tired looking,
but not bit soured or gloomy. Oh,
no! not the least. It was clear, true
face-fine, strong, and pure, like steel
or silk, or something of that sort. Lit
tie Mrs. Gerty caught the schoolmistress'
hand. 81 a.u.ta ati.
Widow" said she, "this is Cousin
! Sam Harrington, a rich. slovenly old
bachelor. I wish you'd take him off my
hands. Sam-Miss Kildare. y =
.@" W-h-a-t!" screamed he crafty.
e" Don't hurt my arm so. What did
you do that for 2" said Mrs. Gerty.
C Mr.. Harrington and I used to know
each other long ago, when I was young"
said the schoolmistress calmly, but with
an inefable look from her dark, softly
fringed eyes. "I met Mr.. Harrington
fifteen years ago, at camp-meeting. I
have never seen him from that day to
this"
Then she moved in a calm, graceful
way, with little spot of quivering sun
shine glancing across her gray dress as
she passed. And the first thing Sam
Harrington did was to look sheepishly
down at his dusty boots, while his face
redeemed slowl y with the memory of an
old flame. He laid his hand upon Mrs.
Gerty' s arm.
" Cousin Mary, you said a while ago
that l used to be poet and an en-
thusiast, with bright hopes and aspira-
lions, and it had all ended in my being a
useless, slovenly old bachelor, who got
rich at patent brick-mal1ing: That wo-
man knows why"
'"Then [ am sure youW%ronged her
more than she wronged you. She is the
truest, best, brightest woman I ever
knew. [ do wonder if you are the man
she nearly broke her heart about long
ago? I've heard whisper Of that, Tn
sure. You were always too hard and
unforgiving, Sam
Little Mrs Gerty, romantic as a girl,
watches them narrowly. Were the old
flames kndling into life again? Some
times little Mrs. Gerty thought they had
never died entirely out from the hearts
of either Sam Harrington began to
blacl1en his boots and button his wrist
hands.
One summer moonlit evening Alice
Kildare sat in the porch of the little cot
tage In which she lived with her mother.
She was looking down the avenue of
trees in front, toward the west, where
the sun was sinking in the glowing sky.
Sam Harrington came slowly up the walk
and joined her in the porch.
"Widow Kildare he said, GIVE
come to bid you good-by."
Have you?" said the widow. She
would not ask a word more.
eyes, | must go back to my muck
raking. Bricks, you know, and clay,
and furnaces and things. I meant to be
a poet when / used to be. in love with
you, fifteen years ago. Now I ain a
brickmaker
Used to be. That was what she had
stayed an old maid for. Her heart was
Like lead in her bosom, but she smiled
and said CATER all brickmaker is as
good as poet
Are you sure you think that, Widow
Kildare?"
eyes; quite sure"
"Wouldn't you like to see 'em-great
brick yards, and the huge furnaces,
baking the patent bricks by the half
million"
eyes," answered the widow. Ell
could tell the school children about it
you know"
Sam Harrington made face. Then
he looked at her, and saw that, in spite
of the brave, proud head which she held
up so stately, her face was pale and sor-
rowful as face could be, as though she
were parting with last great hope.
And he actually smiled to see it. She
had tortured him bitterly once. He
threw his hat across the floor, and sat
down on the edge of the porch at her
feet.
"Alice,' D he said, "why haven't you
been. married? What have you stayed
single all these years for?"
She looked at him and tried to answer,
b11t the sound died auav in O cOrrOxuf,,l