The Weston Democrat. [volume] (Weston, W. Va.) 1875-current, 1875-11-15
TWENTY YEARS.

When I hear people talk about ro-
nance having died a natural death in
this brsy nineteenth century, and how
prosaic and uuintercsting our lives have
become, I always think OF my old friend
Phil Rodent. don't think l ever heal d
n story quite like his. Twenty years OF
n mans life spent in waiting! and wait
ing is tho hardest kind OF work.
The other day he came into my study,
looking worn and anxious. "What is
tho matter, Phil3" I asked, as he threw
himself into an easy chair.
=" Why, TINT johnson woman is dead.
No need Of her dying any more than you
or me. And her husband just come
homG-as fine lad as ever stepped.
Sitc nows to meet a man with Here's
your wife dead; now, what's to be done
with tho children His vessel was
wrecked, you know and. though she
hearl the crew were picked up, that
foolish woman was bound to have him
drowned. I tried my best to keep her
alive, but she just rettedherself into her
grave"
Presently hc rose and began drawing
on his gloves. az must go now, Ache,
my patients will be very impatient this
morning, 1 fancy. You have done me
good, or taught me how to do myself
good, which is better; and, Archie, il
you think the story of my life may help
some other life that is weary Of living,
tell it, Archie, and tell them though the
way be long, the 'rest that 'remaineth
is at its close"
One evening about ten years ago Twas
sitting in my chcerless, unhomelike
hotel parlor, when letter was handed
me bearing the postmark OF a remote lit
tic village among the Connecticut hills
I had been there once long years before,
and as I took the letter wait from the
breezy hills anJ fragrant woods swept
over my remembrance, causing again the
thrill OF pleasure with which 1 first vel.
coined them.
Iopened my letter; the writing was
familiar. IglNnced Mt the signature. 1t
WAS that of my old college friend, Phil
Rodent. Twcnty-six years before, Phil
md l had clAsped hands over our fare
well, he to finish his medical studies
abroad, ] to enter the theological semi
nary. And now here was l M old man
with failing health, and he the physician
OF the quaint little village where we had
once idlel away our summer vacation,
with many Jest Mt tho old-time ways
and customs of its primitive inhabi-
tants.
az layc head OF you, my friend"
wrote Phil. "You are out Of health and
spirits. Come to me, and we will cheer
you up. have room ready for you in
my 'blchelor's hail, and we need You
here. Our minister, good old man, has
gone to his well-"0rned rest, and we arc
:: sl!ephcrllcss flock. We want to bs
baptized and married and buried l the
good old way, and you must do it for us.
Say when you will come, and Ned (my
horse) and 7 will meet you at the
statiJu."
Early in tho next week the train left
ne ut the quiet station, little different
from what | remembered it; and no
sooner Ind I stepped upon tho platform
than cherry voice exclaimed "Wel-
cone, old fellow; come ut last" and
Phil elnspcd my hand i'll both Of his. l
saw tho brakeman smile rs We two old
men walked oil together, Phil's arm
thrown across my shoulder, boyish
trick Of lis, but thanked God in my
heart for this strong, faithful friend,
who hnd kept the memory OF cur boyish
days still fresh and green amid the frosts
OF age aud the chilling winds Of change
anl absence.
Oac bulmy September morning I was
installed pastor Of the old-fashioned
little church, abd then l went to house.
keeping. Pill and were busy all ono
week getting my home ready, and then
7 wrote to Abby, who, poor girl, was
glad enough to leave her boarding
ing place and como to keep house for
me. We hid two brothers married, but
though "Aunt Abby" was very useful
II The children had measles or scarlet
fever, there Was 10 place she could call
her "homc;" so now We two, the odd
opcs in the family, planned to end our
days together. Phil aud I were much
with each other, and one evening in the
beginning of December We were sitting
in his sanctuIa smoking quiet pipe to-
gether, md he was telling me OF somc
improvements he meant to make on his
place, when I said, jestingly: "What n
pity It is you haven't made some woman
happy with the gift OF your hand and
pleasant home, with all its etcetcris Of
lame horses and charity patients" Phil
putled cloud Of smoke into the mir,
and sat watching the soft rings in silence
for some moments; then he said, quiet
": al havo been waiting these twenty
years, Archie, for my wife; and I still
believe that she will come, though it's a
long time, a long time" he repeated,
musingly. :,
Was my friend dreamngi l said
nothing, but sat waiting some further
enlightenment. :,
"You never knew my brother Paul,
did you, Archie" !" Phil commenced, in
his full, quiet voice. "Poor fellow, he
met with an accident when child which
nmod him for life. When he was-let