Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1875-12-16
NO. 297.
TWENTY YEARS OF WAITING.

When hear people talking about ro-
nance having died natural death in this
busy nineteenth century, and how prosaic
and uninteresting our lives have become,
1 always think Of my old friend Phil Ro.
dent. l don't think ever heard story
quite like his. Twenty years of mans
life spent in waiting and waiting is the
hardest kind of work.
The other day he came into my study,
looking worn and anxious. "What is the
matter. PHILIP" / asked, as he threw him.
self into an easy chair.
"Why, that Johnston woman is dead.
No need Of her dying any more than you
or me. And her husband just come home
AS fine u lad as ever stepped. Nice news
to meet man wth-'Here's your wife
dead; now, what's to be done with the
children?' His vessel was wrecked. you
know and though she heard the crew
were picked up, that foolish woman
was bound to have him drowned.
tried my best to keep her alive, but she
just fretted herself into her grave
''All have not your patience, Phil" |
said gently.
lie sat thinking for some minutes, while
that calm resolved look came into his face
that | SO loved to see there. The lines
OF his forehead smoothed themselves
away. We often sat thus, each thinking
his own thoughts. could guess what
Pills were. l knew the thought that
brought that light of rest and strength.
What grand. grave face my friend
had! His powerful frame bore very light
ly the burden of its threescore years. His
step was quick and elastic, and his hand
soft and white as woman's yet with q
grip like steel-was as firm and steady az
it had ever been.
Presently he rose and begansdrawing on
his gloves. II must go now, Archie; my
patients will be very impatient this morn
ing. fancy. You have done me good, or
taught me how to do myself good, which
is better; and Archie. if you think the sto.
ry of my lite 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"
So | laid aside my sermon and began
my labor of love. Need say my sermon
was laid aside, for what nobler sermon can
there be than a good mans lifep
must ask your patience while 60 back
a long, long way to begin my story prop
erly. How like picture galleries seem the
years as we look back upon them. Here
an open meadow, with the sunlight Sleep
ing warm and bright upon it; there bit
of rocky coast, ON which the long line of
breakers crash and thunder, the only hint
of life tiny sail far out to sea /; and as we
grow older we see more and more plainly
that to learn the real beauty OF the pic
lures. the light must come from above.
One evening about ten years ago was
sitting in my cheerless, unhomelike hotel
parlor, when letter was handed me bear.
ing the postmark of remote little village
among the Connecticut hills. had been
there once long years ago, and as took
the letter watt from the breezy hills and
fragrant woods swept overemy remem-
brance, causing again the thrill Of pleasure
with which first welcomed them.
opened my letter: the writing was ia
miliar. l glanced at the signature. 1t
was that oi NY old college friend, Phil
Rodent.
| shut my eyes then and thought while.
The tide of memory was too strong tor
me. had to let it float ME away. Twen-
ty six years before, Phil and had clasped
hands over our farewell, he had to finish
his medical studies abroad, to enter the
theological seminary. And now here was
an old man with failing health. and he
the physician of the quaint little village
where we had once idled away our sum.
mer vacation, with many a jest at the old
time ways and customs of its primitive in
habltants. Are lives what they ever hope
to be? How many eyes grow dim with
watching for the dawn that never breaks.
Oh, may we not hope that in the great
hereafter blighted buds may swell and
l. ;,tx bn
81 have heard 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 'bache-
lor's hail. and we need you here. Our
minister. good old man, has gone to his
well-earned rest, and we are q shepherd
less. We have had young man preach
for us, talented and good-intentioned, but
he scared among the clouds too much for
us; our heads grew dizzy watching his
aerial flights, so we shut our eyes and left
him. thinking some time to reach terra
firma again. But that is not what we
want. We want to be baptized and mar
ried and buried in the good old way, and
You must do it for US. Say when you will
come, and Ned (my horse) and will
meet you at the station"
Kind and hearty as ever. ''If any man
can give me strength and happiness, it is
Phil Rodent l said to myself.
Early in the next week the train left me
at the quiet station, little different from
what remembered it; and no sooner had
| stepped upon the platform than CHEEKY
voice exclaimed, Welcome. old fellow:
come at last and Phil clasped my hand
in both Of his. saw the brakeman smile
rs we two old men walked of together,
Phirs arm thrown across my shonlderN-a
boyish trick of his-but thanked God in
my heart for this strong faithful friend,
who had kept the memory of our boyish
days still fresh and green amid the frost
of age and the chilling winds of change
and absence.
One balmy September morning l was
installed pastor OF the old-fashioned little
church, and then went to housekeeping.
Phil and were busy all one week getting
my home ready, and then wrote to Abby
who, poor girl. was glad enough to leave
her boarding place and come TO keep house
for me. Many years ago she had buried