The Forest Republican. [volume] (Tionesta, Pa.) 1869-1952, 1882-09-27

Il
topher Memyu is very busy just now
, and would not wish TO be disturbed
l But stand here outside and you cal
9 take peep at him within. Is he no
t a fine-looking man? Mr.. Christophe
! Memyu is just eight-and-thirty, re
puted to be wealthy, and-such pity
: matchmaking mammas declare-mar
2 rled. Such a dear woman; such ;
pretty, tender-hearted little woman
/ such kindly beaming eyes as she has
! such a helpful smile, glad and sunny
for ALL Mr.. Christopher Memyu doe
not agree at all with matchmaking
mammas. There was a little boy
once, too-a dimpling, Growing, glee
ful young tyrant, whose hair exactly
matched the little strip of sunshine that
every morning comes in at his Office.
window. But alas Greenwood holds
many sunbeam like that which
lighted Christopher Memyu's home, and
it holds his. There is no needless re-
pining, though. Perhaps the wifely
eyes will always grow dim at sight of
that shining curl that lies between
the leaves of her little Bible-right
there at the place where the mighty
heart of Israel's king breaks forth in
its anguish, "Oh, Absalom, my son,
my son p And, perhaps, little quiv-
ering pain will always reach the
fathers heart when he hears voice
like unto "the one that is still " cry out
Papa p
But their eyes are not shut to the
sunshine Of life, and none of it's work
is left undone-ay, it is better done.
1t is he "who never felt wound
who jests at scars, and it is not the old
veteran, furrowed by the bullets falling
hail, who sleeps at his post.
What did you say2 Christopher
Memyu has put aside his papers now
and is coming out. Yes, he has turned !;
you can see his face better now, and
Why, why, what is the matter? He is
as haggard and pinched in features as
any man of sixty. Surely, Mr.. Chris
topher Memyu must be in trouble. AT
all events, it is not for us to stand and
watch. What you will lose your
train? So we will if we do not make
haste. What can be the matter with
Mr.. Christopher Memyu's?
Chips does not sit long on the old
stone steps. Somehow he seems grow
ing reckless. He thinks he will go
"home." Alas, the pitiful word!
There-no. He will go back down
Broadway, he thinks, and so he comes
now down the street. Here is the
restaurant at whose window he stood
an hour ago. He does not stop there
now, observe; he walks hastily by,
with his head turned the other way in
very resolute manner indeed.
Chips has almost decided to become
a king. He walks on and stops right
in front of that same counting house.
The light shines out with genial
warmth; it attracts the boy and he
softly climbs the steps. The snug
Office looks cheerful. The man with
his back to him seems comfortable.
He's swell un," mutters the prince
to himself; "he's"-with a sudden
thought of happy compromise" ct
two dinners"
The man turns about. Chips see his
face and recoils.
What sadder sight does the world
hold than the despair of human face.
Moved by that instructive pity which
one wretched mortal has for another
equally miserable, Chips presses nearer
the stove, as if thereby he was closer
the suffering.
Suddenly the man filings up his arms,
Ruined, ruined!' he cries, and sinks
down, his head buried in his hands,
resting upon the desk.
There is something sacred in misery. |
Chips felt it as he moved quietly |
away.
Within Mr.. Christopher Memyu, |
banker, with millions slipping from
his grasp without, Chips, bootblack,
shelterless, supperless. OF the human |
world tonight, these two-seemingly |
so far apart, measured by that great |
divining rod, capacity for pain-were
not, perhaps, so far distant after all.
"Only few weeks" muttered the |
man" but few more weeks and l |
could safely tide it over, but now"
Something comes to him just here,
something that causes him to start and |
Tecoil with shiYer of horror, but |
something that keeps coming and |
coming and coming
In that drawer yonder lies $4,000. |
No one knows it is there but him, for
he holds it in trust for one who is on
his way across the Atlantic by this
time. If
The devil, they tell us, tempted |
Christ in the wilderness for thirty |
days, and in the end Divine Majesty |
rose triumphant. Alas for us for whom
the tempting is oft but thirty seconds,
yet whose voice rings not out in the
cry, SECT thee behind me, Satan !"
But Christopher Memyu has been the
soul of honor. Never before has he
had cause to blush for act of his. Shall |
he now ?-nO, no He turns away. |