The news and herald. (Winnsboro, S.C.) 1877-1900, 1881-07-30
The White stripe.

| am. we amt all responsible for our out
side husk, no more than horse. chestnut
or hazel nut ls. The kind of life l lead
can't be lived in white kid gloves and dress
coats. WASN'T brought up with many ad :
antages, and I'm only brakeman on
the Rensselaer, g. Saratoga Line. Old
Jones was telling you about me, was he,
slrf He'd better hold his tongue. There's
more profitable ubjects of conversation
than l am. But Old Jones means well
enough, and If ho told you to ask me how
that stripe of white hair came On my black
name, ain't the man to 60 back on him.
On you needn't beg my pardon, sirl l
don't mind talking about 1t now, though
! the time was when | couldn't speak of it
without big lump coming in my throat.
We hadn't been married long, Polly and
me. when it happened. Polly was as trim
and bright-eyed slip of girl as ever
you'd wish to see. She was one of the
mattresses in the Albany lunch room; and
the first ever set eyes upon her made
up my mind to make that girl my wife.
80, when they raised my wages, took
heart and asked her if she would have them
with me, with wedding ring thrown in
the bargain.
| do you really mean it, Jakc2" SAID she,
looking me fully in the face, with those
dark blue eyes of hers, that are like skies
| in the night.
~ DO really mean it, Polly" said L.
| "Then," said sheputting both her hands
| into mine, "lll trust you, I've no living
relative to advise me, 80 l can only take
council with my heart"
80 we were married. rented n little
onc~story house, under the hill on the
height that overlooked the Hudson-a CO.
zy place, with good.sz wood-pile at
| the rear, for winter meant winter In those
parts and the snow used to be driftcd up
even with our door yard fence many and
many cold grey morning. And every
thing went smooth until Polly began to
object to my mates at the White Black
bird, and the Saturday evenings 1 spent
| with the boys, after my train was safely
run on the sde track at the junction.
"Why, Polly, girl" said l., where's the
harm7 A man can't live by himself, like
all oyster i'll Its shell, and social glass
never yet harmed any one."
"No," said Polly, mot social glass,
Jake, but the habit. And if you would
only put every five cent piece that you
spent for liquor into our little Bertic's tiny
savings bank
"Pshaw!" said 1. 'I'm not a drunk
| ard, and never mean to become one. And
no one likes to be preached to by his wife,
Polly. Remember that, my girl, and you'll
| save yourself a deal Of trouble"
kissed her and went away. But that
was the beginning of the little, grave shad-
ows. that grew Oh my Polly's face, like a
| creeping fog over the hills, and that she
has never got rid of SINCE
1t was a. sore point between us-wh t
nuI
felt that Polly was always watching me;
Rqfhgs 6ydpIoHdfhE: tNs66""fs sGaiMe '1t3Sag
1T went to the White Blackbird oftencr
than ever, and didn't often count the
glasses of beer that drank, and once or
twice, of particularly cold night, | let
myself be persuaded into drinking some
thing stronger than beer; and my BRAIN
wasn't the kind that could stand liquid fir,
with irnpunity. And Polly cried, and
lost my temper, and-well. l don't like to
think Of all these things now. Thank
| goodness they are over and gone.
That afternoon as l stood Oh the back
platform of my car, with my arms folded
| and my eyes fixed on the snowy waste of
| flat fields through which the iron track
| seemed TO extend itself like al endless
| black serpent, | looked my own life in the
|
behaving like brute.
| "Wkat are those scnsclcss fellows at the
White Blackblrd to me-" muttcrcd l, ''as
compared with one of Pollys sweet, bright
looks2 I will give the whole thing up. I'll
draw the line just here now w We M shall be
off duty early tonight. I'll 60 home AMI
aston;sh Pollyl"
But as night fell, the binding drift of a
1 nraof cpnw etorrO pon,p with Va yyoro
belatcd by the snow which collected on
the rails, and when VIC reached Earldalc
there was a little girl, who had been sent
on in the care of the conductor, who must
wait either three or four hours for a way
train III the cold and cheerless station, or
be taken home across snowy field by
some one who knew tho way
l thought OF my own little children. "I1l
4 take her," said I--And lifting her up,
gathered my coarse, warm coat about her,
| and started for the long, cold walk under
tue whispering pines along the edge of the
river.
honestly believe she would have frozen
to death if she had been left in the cold
station until the way train could call for
her. And when had left her safe in
charge of her aunt, saw by the old kitch-
| Ell timc-picce that it was ten o'clock.
"Polly will think have slipped back
into the Slough of Dcspond," said to my
self, with half smile; "but I'll give her an
agreeable suIptisci"
Pioughing down amid the snow drift
through grove of pine trees that edged
ravlno at the back of my house, sprang
lightly on the door.step the door was shut
and locked. went around to the front.
Here effected and entrance, nut the fire
was dying Oh the hearth and little Bertic,
tucked up in his crib called out.
''Papa, is that you2"
'Whers is mamma, my son!" asked
looking eagerly around at the dcsolate
ICON.
'done out with the baby in her arms to
look for you;" he SAID. "Ddn't yon meet
her, papaf"
l stood a minute In silence.
'Lie still, Bcrlic," said /, in a voice that
sounded strange and husky even to myself.
And l thought with dismay, of tho
binding snowstorm outside, tho treachcr.
| Gus gOrQes which lay between there and