The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1881-08-06
WHY HIS HAIR TURNED WHITE.

| Jul OulSlut HuSh, Ho ilOlC IMAM q lIOl re-
chestnut or hazel nut is. The kind of
| life ! lead can't be lived in white kid
! gloves and dress coats. | wasn't brought
up with many advantages. and I'm only
a brakeman on the Rensselaer, and Sara
| toga line. Old Jones was telling you
about me. was he sira He'd better hold
his tongue. There's more profitable sub
BILE subjects of conversation than | am.
But old Jones means well enough and if
he told you to ask me how that stripe of
white hair came on my black name, ain t
the man to 90 back on him. Oh. you
needn't beg my pardon, sir. l don't mind
talking about it now, though the time
was when couldn't speak of it without
a big lump coming in my throat.
! We hadn't been married long, Polly
and me, when it happened. Polly was as
trim AID bright-eyed a slip of girl as
ever you'd wish to see. She was one of
the mattresses in the Albany lunch room:
and the first time | ever set eyes upon
| her | made up my mind to make that
girl my wife. So. when they raised my
wages, l took heart and asked her if she
would have them with me, with we'd
ding ring thrown into the bargain
"Do you really mean it, Jake >" said
she, looking me fully in the face, with
those dark-blue eyes of hers, that are
like stars in the night.
81 do really mean it, Polly" said l.
"Then," said she, putting both her
hands into mine, "I'll trust you. I've
no living relative to advise me. so can
only take counsel with my heart
So we were married. | rented little
one-story house, under the hill on the
height that overlooked the Hudson-a
coy place, with 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 gray morning. -
And everything went smooth until Polly
began to object to my mates at the White
Blackbird, and the Saturday evenings
spent with the boys after my train was
safely run on the side-track at the june
ton.
"Why, Polly, girl" said l, where S
the harm? A man can't live by himself,
like an oyster in its shell, and Il 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
spend for liquor into our little BERTHE S
tiny savings hank
''Pshaw!' said I, I'm not drunkard.
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 n great deal of
trouble"
kissed her and went away. But that
was the beginning of the little. grave
shadows that grew on my Polly's face,
like creeping fog over the hills, and she
has never got rid of since.
1t was sore point between us-what
the politicians call a vexed question.
felt that Polly was always watching me,
and | didn't wish to be put in leading
strings by a woman. Sol shame to
say it 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, l
let myself be persuaded into drinking
something stronger than beer; and my
brain wasn't the kind that could stand
liquid fire with impunity. And Polly
cried, and | lost my temper, and-well,
l don't like to think of these things now
Thank goodness, they are over and gone.
That afternoon. as I stood on the back
platform of my car, with my arms fold
ed and my eyes fixed on the snowy waste
of fiat fields through which the iron
track seemed to extend itself like an end
less black serpent, l looked my own life
in the face. l made up my mind that l
had been behaving like brute.
"What are these senseless fellows at
the White Blackbird to me-" muttered l,
''as compared with one of Polly's sweet.
bright looks? Twill give the whole thing
up. I'll draw the line just here now
We shall be off duty early tonight 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 Earl
dale 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 cherries
station, or be taken home across snowy
field by some one who knew the way.
| l thought of my own little CD :ldren.-
I'm take her. said I-ano fling her
up, 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 that 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, l saw by the old
kitchen time piece that it was ten clock.
"Polly will think that l have slipped
back into the Slough of Despond, said
to myself, with half smile, ''but I'll
| give her an agreeable SURPRISE
Ploughing down amid the snowdrift
through grove of pine trees that edged
IA ravine at the back of my house, sprang
| lightly on the doorstep: the door was
shut and locked went around to the
front. Here effected an entrance, but
| the fire was dying on the hearth, and lit
tie Berthe, tucked up in his crib, cried
| out:
Papa, is that youa'
"Where is mamma, my son o. asked,
looking eagerly around at the desolate
| room.
"Gone out with the baby in her arms
to look for you," he said. Didn't you
meet her, paper?''
stood a minute in silence.
Lie still. BERTHE" said I. in a voice
that sounded strange and husky even to
myself. "Ill go and bring her back
And I thought, with dismay, of the
binding snow storm outside, the treach-
erous gorges which lay between there