The Dawson journal., 1883-09-06
MY EARLY LOVE.

ar 1OA0ooIy III lOV6 VIII
Matte Brooks, and the day sh,
told me, with a pretty air of supe
rlority, that it would be the heleh
OF folly for her to marry a PENN
less young printer, seemed to m,
the most dreary and sunless tha
ever dawned over the earth.
She did not deny that she like(
me, and even limited that she MICH
have loved me had I been less The
plaything of adverse fortune. II
vain | pleaded that [ was Young
hopeful, fairly educated, and will
ing to work. She would not lis
ten to me, or see beyond the pres
ent moment; SO | bade her good.
bye, quite broken-hearted by her
refusal to be my wife, and utterly
indifferent as to whether [ lived
or died.
The next day I left HartsyiIle,
and month latter Matte married
Jack Palethorp, stalwart young
farmer, and the dream of boyhood
was ended.
During the ten years that fol-
lowed the sudden, disastrous over
throw OF my first fond hopes, [
managed to live and to make mon
ey. From printer l became a re-
porter, and finally " an editor. Pa
tience, industry and steady habits
brought their reward in good
time, and, when [ had secured a
comfortable competency and some
little fame, yearning desire siez-
ed me to visit my old home, and
see once again my early love.
So to Hartsville I went, on a
lovely June day, and, with only
memories crowding thick and fast
to my mind, walked along tie
dear, familiar old road that led
past the small brown house VIII re
Matte had lived in her girlhood.
1t was there, under the naples
OF stlll September evening, [ had
told her of my love. Oh, well-re-
membered scene! and Matte, with
nut-brown hair, and eyes dusky as
the night, standing close beside
me, with a little trembling hand
resting on my fustian sleeve, and
smile lowering on her lips that [
eagerly fancied might be born of
awakening love.
Strangers lived in the small
brown house, now; so [ went on to
the old Palethorp homestead, with
its currant bushes, and lilacs, and
emerald-green hop vines hang all
fragrant and bloom laden in the
dreamy afternoon sunshine.
A little, tow-headed boy, play
ing in the middle Of the dusty
road. scampered to one side when
he saw me approaching, leaving
its dirt pie to it's fate, and eyed
me with a long and distrustful
stare.
"What is your name, my little
man?" l asked, reassuringly.
johnny Palethorp," answered
the urchine, quickly enough.
And, without further remarks,
he took to his heels, and sped up
the road in advance Of me, as fast
as his bare, brown feet could carry
him.
When 1 arrived opposite the an
cient farm house, Johnny was
swinging on the gate, greatly to
the perils of its hinges, and only
stopped long enough in his gleeful
exercise to put his tongue in his
cheek and favor me with an often
sive wink.
At the we'll, drinking from the
bucket rested on the messy curb,
was brawny-handed, sunburned
man, in his shirt sleeves, and with
beard week old, whom | recog-
nized at glance to be Jack Pale
thorp himself, while in the door
way, clad in faded calico wrap
per, her hair twisted up in a frizzy
knot at the back of her head, and
her face wearing a tagged, fretful,
overworked expression, stood his
wife; that sharp-featured, sallow-
complexioned, slovenly-attired wo-
man, Matte Brooks.
Gracious Heaven, what a change!
Clinging to her skirts was little
three-year-old girl, and in her arms
an infant which seemed to have
but recently entered upon the stage
of existence. A yell from Johnny
announced the arrival of two more
little girls with satchels, and
thinking visit at that hour, un-
der the circumstances, might be
inopportune, | saunted on defer
ring my call evening, with the
secret hope that Johnny would be
in the bed and the hurry and the
toll Of the day over.
Married ten years and ten chll-
drenl A staggering truth which
made me wish that Jacks farm
was twice as large as it was. He
had rather looked down on me IL
his bachelor days, when | was a
poor printer and he a well. tod
farmers son; but 1 bore him no
grudge, although he had won
from me my first and only love
and by SO doing made my life fol
a time very dark and desolate;
1t was seven o'clock when | fin