The tribune. [volume] (Beaufort, S.C.) 1874-1876, 1876-02-16
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
4 Story of Life.

Story of Life.
Ahi how time does take the romance
out of our lives and leave us high and
dry on the lee shore of conceit.
1t does not seem so many years ago
that Mary Jane and we attended the
same country schoolhouse, divided the
| same apple, chewed the same piece of
gum, and slid down hill on the same
sled. 1t does not seem many years since
we stood together and pledged each
other by all the faithful promises we
knew that around the same love our
young hearts should ever twine.
Fate called us away from our early
home and separated us from Mary Jane.
Distant lands sent forth call for us and
we went.
And tho parting-the tears shed-the
last embrace-the promises renewed un-
der the flaming branches of the old oak
tree. Ah! how fresh they are in our
memory even to this day.
Mary Jane could not be expected,
much as she loved us, to spend hor time
moping and mourning. She must go to
singing school, to pairing bees, and to
candy pulls. We arranged all that.
Perhaps we were selfish in selecting
Tom Jones to do escort duty for us, for
Tom was bashful, freckled, little lame,
slightly cross-eyed, and anything but q
"girl's boy" He was good fellow,
Tom was, and if we had been half-witted
we must have seen the intelligent
twinkle in his eye as he promised to do
his duty we'll.
Those letters we received. What a
tale of love they told How miserable
Mary Jane was, and how different the
enjoyment was with Tom Jones instead
OF the absent one by her side How we
wept over those lines
Gradually those letters of Mary James
did not make us weep. There seemed
rather more Of Tom Jones in them than
we liked, and we wrote cruel, wicked
letter, telling Mary Jane that if she
thought so much of Tom Jones to take
him. It was the last thing in the world
we meant, but jealousy is blind brag-
gart, you know, and we were Jealous.
1t was too true, alas and the next
thing we heard was that Mary Jane and
Tom Jones were engaged. We smashed
up her dagucrreotype and burnt the
hair chain she made us with her own
hands, tore up her letters, and drew q
picture of an Indian on the broad
prairie, with his victim tied to tree and
tho fagots heaped all about him, ready
to be set on fire. The victim very much
resembled Tom Jones-the Indian was
-ourself.
The other day as VIC stood by the
post-otfic family wagon drove up, and
for the first time in many years we saw
Mary Jane. How very stout she had
grown, and how very coarse those fea-
lures and how very red that auburn hair
that was so soft as it twined about our
fingers There was young Tom, and
younger Ezekiel, and still younger
Hezekiah, and pug nosed, freckled
faced girl, and pair of twins. There
was old Tom Jones, too, more awkward,
lamer, more cross-eyed and homlier than
ever.
And when Mary Jane scolded old
Tom for not helping her out of the
wagon, the notes that once SO much re-
mined us of the nightingale now sound
ed like raft scraping against the abut-
ment of bridge in a spring freshet.
Then we thought of what the poet
wrote:
" OF all sad words of tongue or pen,
Tho sad'Iest are these-it might have BEEN"
We do not hate Tom Jones as badly as
we once Chicago Ledger.