Millheim Journal. [volume] (Millheim, Pa.) 1876-1984, 1881-08-04
The White stripe.

| can't be lived In white KID gloves ani 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, wal he,
sir2 He'd better hold his tongue. There's
more profitable subjects OF conversation
than | am. But Old Jones means we'll
enough, and If he told you to ask me how
that stripe Of white hair came on my black
name, amt the man to go back on him.
Oh, you needn't beg my pardon, sirl
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.
SO, when they raised my wages, | took
heart and asked her il she would have them
with me, with wedding ring thrown in
the bargain.
'Do you really mean it, Jake2" SAID she,
looking me fully in the face, with those
dark blue eyes of hers, that are like skies
in the night.
al do really mean it, Polly" said |.
''Thcn," said sheputting both her hands
into mine, 'I'll trust you, I've no living
relative to advise me, so can only take
council with my heart"
So we were married. ! rented a little
one-story house, under the hill on the
height that overlooked the Hudson-a CO.
zy place, with a good sized wood-pile at
the rear, for winter meant winter IN those
parts and the snow used to be drifted up
even with our door yard fence many and
many cold grey morning. And every
thing went smooth until Polly began to
object 10 my mates at the White Black
bird. and the Saturday eVonings | spent
with the boys, after my train was safely
run on the side track at the junction.
why, Polly, GIRL" said 1, where's the
harm2 A man can't live by himself, like
an oyster in Its shell, and social glass
never yet harmed any one"
'No." said Polly, mot q social glass,
Jake, but the habit And If you would
only put every five cent piece that you
spent for liquor into cur little Bertie's tiny
savings bank
"Pshaw!" SAID l. 'I'm not 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 deal of trouble"
kissed her and went away. But that
was the beginning Of the little, grave sbad-
ows. that grew on my Polly's face, like a
creeping fog over the hills, and that she
has never got rid of since
Ii was sore point between us-what
the politicians call vexed question. ]
felt that P)liy wHs uf~~r@H u-4.ching me:
anu r>-s~Esei1 10 be puV s1--9------sr
strings by a woman. Sol shame to say
tt went to the White Blackbird oftener
than ever and | didn't often count the
glasses of beer that drank, and once or
twice, of a 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, don't like to
think of all these things now. Thank
goodness they are over and gone.
That afternoon as l stood on the back
platform of my car, with my arms folded
and my eyes fixed on the snowy waste of
fiat fields through which the iron track
seemed TO extend itself like an endless
black serpent, looked my own life in the
face l made up my mind that had been
behaving like brute.
"What are those senseless fellows at the
White Blackblrd to me-" muttered /, ''as
compared with one of Polly's sweet, bright
| looks? | will give the whole thing up. I'll
draw the line just here now We shall be
off duty early to-nig ght. I'll go home and
astonish Polly!"
But as night fell, the binding drift of a
great snow storm came with it. We were
belated by the snow which collected on
the rails, and when we reached Earldale
there was 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 In the cold and cheerless station, or
be taken home across q snowy field by
some one who knew the way.
thought of my own little children. "Tll
take her." said land lifting her up, l
gathered my coarse, warm coat about her,
and started for the long, cold walk under
the 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 time-piece that it was ten o'clock.
'Polly will think have slipped back
into the Slough of Despond, said to my
self, with half smile; ''but I'll give her an
agreeable surprise!"
Ploughing down amid the snow drift
through grove of pine trees that edged
ravlne at the back of my house, sprang
lightly on the door step; the door was shut
and locked. l went around to the front.
Here | effected and entrance, but the fire
was dying on the hearth and little BERTHE,
tucked up in his crib called out.
''Papa, is that youG''
'Where is mamma, my SOM" | asked
looking eagerly around at the desolate
room.
''Gone out with the baby in her arms to
look for you;" he SAID. "Didn't yon meet
! her, papa3"
1 stood minute in silence.
''Le still, Bertie," said l, in voice that
sounded strange and husky even to myself
And \ thought with dismay, of the
binding snowstorm outside, the treacher-
GUS gorges which lay between there and
the White Rlackbird, the trackless woods,
through which it was difficult enough to
find ones way even IN the sunshine of
MONDAY, and--worst of all-the lonely
track, across which an express shot like
| a rootoor a fovu noYnrtea before midnight