St. Johnsbury Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1867-1919, 1880-03-19
fnr the children.
How Uncle Tom Ran Away.

chair sat patiently awaiting the request
for ga story" which l knew would be
very sure to come sooner or later.
snake it a real true one, auntie," he
said at last, planting his chin on his
brown hands and gazing straight int
the burning Goals.
"When your Uncle Tom and | were
children" began l slowly, 1--WE were
ever such good friends and although
l am eight years older than he, we were
always together. My pleasure was new
er real unless Tom shared it too. Tatfy
was not sweet nor even my peanuts
good unless Tom had some half my
goodies were always saved for him.
But Toms temper sometimes got the
better of him, and when provoked but
wait little and you shall see what
happened to your big Uncle Tom for
letting his temper run away with him.
One afternoons cold, cherries,
rainy one like this, dear-I sat looking
out the window at poor little mead
ow-lark that stood shivering and wet
on the edge of the porch. / soon called
Tom to look too, but when | turned to
see if he was coming and not knowing
he was so near me, | accidentally
struck him in the face with my elbow.
'Horrid, awkward thing grOwled
Tom and | received blow from his
strong little fist, which | am sorry to
say was not accidental. Mother had
just come in and she saw the whole
scene. She made Tom sit alone on a
sofa, away from the window and the
bird, till he should grow good natured
again. But Tom was not to be soothed
in any such way, for he was really an
CRY.
'Horrid, awkward old thing = he NUT
tered again between his teeth. Il just
won't stay in the house with such a
away tonight he added in louder
voice, intending to attract my attention
and thinking to frighten me.
whats thatF said mother. Run
away from home, and tonight p
Yes, and | am going right off now,
if Jen don't say she's sorry
Very well,' said mother, looking at
me, and seeing no signs of repentance
in my face. 'Yon know l allow no one
in my house to tell lie, so l suppose l
must say good-by to you, Tom
Upstairs to his room, directly over
head, went the angry boy. We heard
him shake his long-saved pennies out
of bis tin bank, heard him pull out bu-
reau drawers, and then all was still,
till Master Tom, flushed, angry, yet
calm, tramped down the stairs. He said
good-by to all the family except
me, and started out in the rain and
wind.
l shall never forget how ferlorn the
little fellow looked as he walked down
the path from the house to the barn.
An immense umbrella, old and torn, he
tried to hold over him with one hand,
while in the other he held bundle,
containing his best suit of clothes, clean
shirt and his pennies. No overcoat had
he, no rubbers, and only an old straw
hat which he had pulled down over his
eyes.
Bang went the front door after him.
OO-oo roared the wind as it followed
him! Splash came down the rain
through his torn umbrella and even
the grim tall cypress trees swayed their
dripping tops over the path as he pass
ed, as though they would send down an
extra shower on poor Toms head.
Soon it grew dark. But no Tom re-
turned. OF course none of us thought
he would really go away. We sup
posed the hottest of tempers would
soon have cooled in that nights storm
An hour passed the darkness grew
blacker.
Poor Tomr | thought. It's all my
FAULT, every bit of it > and although l |
was IA years old and considered myself
quite a woman, began to cry.
But suddenly much to my Joy, heard
Toms step on the porch. l was about
to rush out to meet him, when my
mother stopped me.
No child said she firmly.
That minute the front door bell rang
then it was not Tom at all, thought.
Mother went to the door, and there
indeed was Tom. Lifting his hat to her
in the most distantly polite manner, he
said =
Good evening, madam. Will you
have the goodness to tell me the short
est way to B-P
We were then living at Alderwood,
in the country, and B was the
nearest railroad station.
ooh, certainly mother said; take
the first road to the right. B. is
three miles from the turning
THANK you, madame came the an
swer from Toms proud lips; but his
moist eyes said plainly, pm so sorry,
mamma
He lifted his hat once more and
walked clamly down the porch, off the
steps, into the dark garden and among
the moaning cypress trees.
ooh, mother, mother, how could you y
| sobbed, no longer ashamed of my
tears. tom will perish, l know he
will, and-I-and II
not know bestF And that answer was
all | could get her to make.
Supper was forgotten; we all sat
gloomily around the fire. l was most
miserable, could do nothing but think
how l loved Tom, and how lonely it
it was without him, and how dreary he
must be feeling.
But another hour had licked it's slow
way around the clock before we heard
those steps on the porch again. Then
the bell rang again, as before. This
time | went with mother to the door.
Tom stood there. His hat was gone
his umbrella too-his frowsy hair was
wet, and his hands purple with cold
but in a plucky voice he addressed
mother -
please tell me the price of a nights
lodging in b.
Il gave man fifty cents yesterday,
that bought him both bed and supper
will you take me in here tonight p
asked Tom. Il can pay YOU And he
coolly showed mother his handful of
pennies.
NO. mother replied; I'VE don't take
in tramps here. Perhaps they wonld at
Nichols's, across the road
But said Tom, his little lips trem-
HING sfT-T-lOva vou I,