Gallipolis journal. [volume] (Gallipolis, Ohio) 1837-1919, 1876-01-06
THE ONLY PUMPKIN.
A Good Story.
BY MARY KYLE DALLAS.

1t was on Thanksgiving night, af-
ter all the friends and relatives who
had spent a merry evening at the
house, had taken themselves away,
with loud laughter and invitations to
"come over soon," shouted out of the
darkness as the wagon rolled away;
after the children had been sent to
bed in high glee at the unwonted in
fraction on early hours, and while his
wife was still putting away the silver
and fine table linen, that farmer
Fielding went out alone with Ian
tern swinging in his hand. to take a
last look at the stable and COW house,
and make sure that the great barn
door was properly fastened.
He should have returned in ten
minutes, but twenty had passed,
when Mrs. Fielding, looked at the
clock, asked herself in sUnIc sur
prise. what Hiram could have found
to do? And when ten more followed
without bringing him, and ten more
followed them, she grew little
alarmed, and tossing shawl over
her head, went down the path that
led from the kitchen to the barn,
calling:
"Hiram! Hiram"
There was no answer.
"Hiramr' she called again, her
voice taking on that shrill unmusical
tone which fright brings with it.
"Hiram! speak. where are you?'
She stood by the barn door now,
and it was wide open, swinging in the
wind on its great hinges; and within
all was silent and dark. There was
not sound, not glimmer Of light
from the lantern. Surely her hus-
bandlwould not have left the barn
door open like that. Surely if he
were there, she could see him, or
hear him at least, even if the lantern
had gone out.
"Oh, Hiramr' she cried, ''don't
scare me, don't try to scare me, dear,
for indeed I'm turning faint. I'm
So
There she paused, struck dumb
with terror. She had taken a step
forward, and her foot had struck
something soft and heavy that lay on
the. barn floor-something that did
not move, but that felt as though it
ought to have done so. The faint
ness had gone; in its place was that
of horror which we all know and
which is different from any personal
terror, and far worse. She guessed
what it was her foot had touched.
She did not utter his name now.
She knelt down and stretched out
her hands and felt about. The first
thing that she touched was a cold,
limp hand that fell inertly over hers
as she lifted it up. Then felt up
ward from it, and touched face,
also. She gathered it up to her
breast. Dark as it was, she knew
well enough that it was the head
that had rested there so often; her
hand went through his curls and
little moan escaped her.
Dead" she sobbed, "dead, dead,
dead" And then her voice came
back in a wall that rang out upon the
night air and brought from the
kitchen Madge, ''the help" and her
beau, Ben, who had been lingering
over parting there.
Ben, great stalwart fellow, lifted
the master in his arms and carried
him into the kitchen. How Sarah
Fielding got there, she never knew,
but as she knelt by the long settee
and wondered whether, with all those
babies up stairs, whether it was right
for her to pray to die, too; hope came
back to her in word from Ben:
"Missus," he said, "boss amt
dead-he amt no such thing; he's
stunned like. No doubt he's hurt
mighty bad, but lor, no-not dead. l
wouldn't say SO if warn't sure. I'll
fetch him into bed, missus, and go
for the doctor. He will come to--he'll
come to; tell you he'll come to, mis-
sus.n
Then it seemed to the poor woman
as if heaven had opened its gates and
given her glimpse of glory.
She bent over him as he lay on his
pillow, snd heard the clatter of the
horses hoofs over the stony road,
dulled by the planks of the wooden
bridge for a while, and then sharper
though fainter, on the highway lead