The Forest Republican. [volume] (Tionesta, Pa.) 1869-1952, 1878-09-18
THAT GATE.

"Confound that gate !" said Sam
Blackman, as he pushed and pounded al
the dooryard gate, one bitter November
night.
The gate was like the kid of old nur.
sery rhymes It wouldn't go;" and nc
beating would make it. At last Sam
flung his whole weight on the upper
bar, and with a wrench, aud a squeak,
and thud, it flew backwards, and Sam
with it.
His wife heard the noise, and came t.
the keepin' room door with the lamp
just as he had picked himself up.
"Confound that gate, 1 say T. he ut.
tered, with deep emphasis.
"Well, why don't ye fix it ?" dryly
remarked his better half
"rm goin' to to-morrer, sure's yel
born, Semanthyp p
"Hm !" sarcastically growled Mrs.
Blackman. She had heard Sam say tina,
before; in fact, one might almost stat,
she had never heard him say anythin,
else; for Sam never did anything to-da,
that could be put off till to morrow.
"To-morrer arrived the next day, a
usual, but Sam had the barn to mend.
This had been put off since early spring
and would not have been done now, o1
Sam got $50 everlastin cold at milk
ing-time.
" Pm clean tuckered out" he said,
when 'Manthy called him in to dinner.
That ares no fool of Job. mother.
you'd better b'lieve couldn't ha' di,
it in three days, save'n' except Jeremy
Dow come along jrst in the nick, an
held mp them boards while naile,
them"
suggested " mother" while she helped
ont the "b'iled dinner"
"Bless ye l haint got the barn no.
ways near done yet. The gate aint
really work O. necessity. 1t jest jams
a mite, that's ali"
"But you said you was a-goin to fix
it to-morrer, pa, yesterday" chimed in
Semantha the younger, who was one of
the irrepressible kind.
Well, what et l did ? To-morrer
amt here yit. You're ALFRED smart, amt
ye, little gal? Guess you think pas
ketched, now; but tell me that, how m
I a-goin' to do things to-morrer, when
it amt never here ?"
Samantha was puzzled. Her brains
were not mathematical; she began to
TANNER and stumble over the problem.
" You eat your vittles I" sharply in
terposed Mrs. Blackman. "There amt
no day but to-day, only your pa hsint
never found it out.
Sam ate his dinner in silence. His
wife had summed mp all his life and
character in that brief sentence. But it
did not hurt him. You can't preach to
some people. They are impervious to
words. The whip of bitter experience
sometimes drives them into other tracks,
but they are never taught of men.
So the winter went on, and the gate
were not mended, or amended. Deep
snow came, and then Sam set the wicket
wide open, jammed it back with a stone,
and let it snow. There was no garden
to be injured now; critters did not
stray about the roads in these drifts,
and an open gate was delightful to his
soul.
But of our pleasant sins, as the old
dramatist informs us, Heaven often
makes whips to scourge us. When
spring came, and the gate had to be shut,
it stuck worse than ever, if that were
possible. The winter had been very
cold, and Sam had lounged more than
ever.
The corner grocery was warm, and
about its ruddy stove all the like-mind-
ed idlers of the village gathered. There
was no want of wit, coarse, it is true, but
still wit, in certain of these idlers; and
Sans sense of humor was Eeen.
1t was quite another thing from home,
where his wife was busy, and his girls
either at work or at schOol-this cosey
back store, with it's wooden chairs tip
ped back against the wall, its heated at
mosphere, its cracking jokes, its village
gossip, and the spicy breath of nutmeg
and lemon, mixe1 with more pungent
aromas of rum, gin and whiskey.
Sam learned to touch, to taste, to
handle, the abominable thing, while
cold weather gave him an excuse. When
spring came, with soft, damp evenings,
and breaths of springing grass and open
ing buds, he had got beyond needing
any excuse. He meant every day to
stop drinking "to-morrow;" but as we
all know, tomorrow never came to him,