Ashtabula weekly telegraph. (Ashtabula, Ohio) 1880-1886, 1880-11-26
JAMES WARNINGS LESSON.

"DEAR me, so to-morrow's holidayl
What senseless things holidays are, for
people like myself! Not relation left
NOT a friend who cares for mel"
"Who's fault is ftp" asked con-
science. But James Waring had so
long silenced conscience that its voice
was hardly audible, and he pitied him
self, as was his wont.
g l wish there was something could
do-is there no business that can be
transacted on Thanksgiving DayP Let
me see," and he opened his letter case
in search of something to help him.
"Ah; here's the very thingl Thornton
writes me that he's not received any
rent from his cottage for the last six
months, and suspects his agent is not
decided enough with the tenants. That's
it! I'll 60 there tomorrow, and if the
rent isn't paid by the first-out they
shall go. Well, I'm glad there's some
thing to dol hate holidays!"
The camel coal fire burned brightly,
and the elderly man sitting in front of
its cheerful blaze gave himself up to
dreams, as was his nightly custom. But
on this Thanksgiving Eve his visions
took strange forms. Instead Of living
over the last historical scenes of which
he had been reading, or laYing fresh
plans for greater business ventures, his
mind wandered back into his own past.
He saw a little boy eagerly pleading for
the entire charge of the poultry-yard,
sure that he "could make money by it.
A year had passed, and the boy, but ten
years old, was proudly showing his ac-
count to his father and mother; there
was a clear profit of nearly twenty-five
dollars.
The father had praised and encour-
aged the boy, but his mother said little
and looked anxious. Years went by,
and the boy is at last sent to take posi-
ton in the city. He does not go penni-
less, for he has earned and saved till his
bank book is an important part of his
outfit.
oh, my son, what part have you
given to GodP" asks the mother, and
the boy, who cares little for God, but
would fain please his mother, makes a
great effort, and for her sake parts with
some of his dearly loved savings.
"Spend this for your poor, mother, {"
are his parting words.
"Oh, James, if you would but have
your poor! You are going to a city
where there is much want0real desti-
tution--learn the delight of giving"
For years those words, the very last
that his mother ever spoke to him, had
been forgotten-buried deep and covered
over by money calculations and business
plans; and now he was veXed at his
own memories.
"Poor motherl If she could have
lived till really could afford to give, l
would have been different; but Just as
was getting comfortably off just
when had at last made up my mind TO
take a good hohday-I heard of her
death. Is it any wonder hate holi-
daysP I'll go to bed, and forget those
old times"
But one does not always find forget
fulness in sleep. James Waring went
from street to street, looking for the cot
tage where he was to collect the rent.
1t seemed TO him that again and again
he saw the place, and each time voice,
strangely familiar in its tones, would
say, Do not let him find it yet; show
him the poor he might have helped, be-
fore he throws away this chance" and
then he would suddenly find himself in
one of the few homes of the poor that
he had dealings with.
The first was his washerwoman's She
had always seemed very respectable,
worthy person TO him, and certainly he
had paid her regularly, though he was
careful to make an arrangement by the
month, instead of paying by the piece.
A" Mother can't you rest tomorrow,
and keep one holidayPn asked boy,
evidently the widows SON.
"Ah, yes, mother,r pleaded the girl
from the other side of her mothers IRON
ing-table, " do rest tomorrow. Let us
have real Thanksgiving Day-church
and games and dinner-as we used to
do.
go children, don't ask mel There
is no coal in the box, and Mary has no
shoes for winter; and you, John, must
have an oVercoat, and there's the rent.