Perrysburg journal. (Perrysburg, Wood Co., O. [Ohio]) 186?-1965, 1879-08-08
THE "UNF0RTINITs,"


THE "UNT0RTINITs"
"Pm sorry enough" said the red
checked, gray y-bearded old station agent
at South Verona junction as l alighted
from the Ashuckum express. 1.-THE
Boston train has gone. It's the new
'rangement made to accommodate the
tunnel line at Greenville, and there s
been somebody left over here every day
since it took effect; it amt goin' ter
do" he went on in a voice of chagrin,
rs if he was personally responsible for
the company's miscalculations.
"NOw you've got four mortal hours
ter wait, and it's q terrible dull place
for stranger ter wait in. This ere
havin' passengers left over nj Soutb
Verony is new business but" with q
little start of recollection and in dep
recatory tone, there's swamp honey
suckles out here just n leette way. lots
on EN-. Ladies come up from the city
on PURPOSE ter pick 'em-but perhaps
go" Cont care nothin' about 'em, eh?"
40 thank you orspeaking of them, ..
said, they are my especial delight
Do you think you can direct me so that
can find where they growP'
"Pll send that leetle unfortinit along
with you; she'll be glad ter go. Where
is the childP She's ginerally som'ers
round in sight er hearin'. Hillow
there, unfortinitr' he shouted in a voice
which was a laughable imitation of a
low pitched locomotive whistle.
Directly in response to the call, a
yellow, bushy head, followed by a
plump, square little body, appeared
from half-open doorway of a neigh
boring shanty, and, in moment, q
nondescript, wee creature stood beside
us. nodding her round head shrewdly
In eager confirmation of the directions
the good natured station agent gave
me.
"What is your name!" l asked look
ing down into the square little girls
face and shy blue eyes, as we went out
OF the station together along the edge
of the shaded bank.
"Och! sure an don't ye know l be
Brislin's girlp" she answered in a dia-
lect which was curious mixture of
Irish and ankee. Z" / be the wun what
was left when Brislin's house was burnt
up-last year twas now-an' all the
Brislins, 'cept me, was burnt up in it.
1 1crawled out the windy dom t We knawP
1t tole all about it In the papers. ii
hain't any home since that day; but
they all be good to me in the shantv
village, an get enough to eat mostly.
stays anywhere where there bees chill
der to look after. l was used to that;
but our children-there was q load of
'em--was burnt in the fire, an Uncle
Sammy's wife took to callin' me the an
fortinit, an now that bees what Pm
called mostly, though some of them
says, kinder soft like: 1T be Brislin,s
girl Uncle Sammy, it was he that
Sint me with ye-his wife and all of
'em calls him Uncle Sammy-he saws
its dretfel strange how so many o. the
untortinit sort happens round here
There be tree o. them up here in the
Wlllers, or four, countin the baby.n
pointing with the short forefinger of
her brown, fat, grimy hand. HUphr'
as the long, 1.-the, swaying branches of
the tall willow tree near us whipned
about IN the freshening breeze, turning
the white undersides of their tender
leaves to the light: "Ugh! do YOU be-
heVe that be ghostP"
"Why should it beP" l asked. shiy-
ering in spite of myself at such sep
ulchral tone coming from the diminu-
tive body of my guide.
WhyF bekase there be graves in
the little yard that the little willows
renee IN. The big willow be the shady
Tree; Uncle Sammy knows all aboutit.
he'H tell ye the tree stories if We ask
hJI, and they be curis stories. me-
SCI reminder when the ole man Law in
the freight house yonder, dead as a
hammer. Jake, the looker-oyer. said
he was, and Freeman's wife said the
ghoosts o. the young man an the young
woman an the babby watched wild the
body all night. l wint wild Brislin,
That was my father, an looked in a
windy, but we couldn't see nothin'.
But Ereeman's wife, she lives nigh the
irelghthouse, she seed them there, an
she sees them now every little while.
an they've been in her very bed room,
but not lately. She has ghost-seein'
eyes, Uncle Sammy says. The very
rieddest O. the sweet pinks grows lust
beyond the Willers over there, but we
childer be afeared to stay there an
pick 'em. l will be after goin' with
goa, though, if ye don't mind my takin'
hold o. your dress"
reached down and clasped the little
rat fingers, feeling well paid for the
sllght act OF protection by the eloquent
look OF surprise mingled with gratitude
cast up in my face from the sky-blue
eyes.
We childer, to keep 'em quiet, put
little punches o. flowers on the graves
most every day in the warm weather.
We runs an throws 'em over an wheels
an runs back wild our eyes shut for
fear we shall see suthin' ,-ugkr' as an
other gust of wind swept the long slender
branches of the willows disclosing their
shimmering CLEANS of white, " do you
see 'em, ladyP If they be ghosts, an
they may be, they be lovely ones"
After our hands were filed with the
wonderful wild, sweet azalea blossoms.
went up and looked through the will
low hedges at the three lonely, grass
grown graves, over which were scat
tered nosegays of wild flowers in vari-
Gus stages OF decay, offered by the sim
pie children of the "shanty village''
for the quieting Of the supposed rest
less spirits.
guess, as long as l be here now.
III trow over few" said the square
little girl. 81 shouldn't want 'em TO
feel sighted, for they be strangers in a
strange land-not as / know ghosts
would feel slighted," she added, naive
ly as she walked away, "but il seems
10 me / should If were in their places,
an had as few frens as they has-which
you can't count many, don't you see
only Uncle Sammy as planted the will.
lows an knows the stories about 'em.