Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1883-06-05
THAT WIFE OF MINE.
BY GEo. X. PARISH.

"Are you sick 1t was the soft
voice Of young girl that asked this,
and as | heard the words, half in q
dream, | opened my heavy eyes, and
looked up to what seemed for moment
glimpse of Paradise. There were the
dark-green leaves of the low bushes,
among which dimiy remembered drag
ging myself, tired and faint, it seemed a
year ago, and there, thrown upon their
dark background, girls face, with soft,
sunny hair, and great earnest eyes.
"Was she handsome :" you ask. No, |
suppose not. don't think there was a
single pretty feature in her whole face ;
still it always seemed lovely to me, and
that morning, as l looked up at it, her
face was an angels,
| was as nearly worn out as man could
well be, and everything looked black and
dreary enough, even in that bright sum-
mer day.
| was only tramp then-not rag
ged, dirty tramp, such as you drove on,
of your doOr-yard yesterday, perhaps, but
tramp nevertheless, and kind word,
and a plying face were now strange
things to me. had been what, thank
God, l am to-day, lawyer, with-for a
young man-a good practice back in my
eastern home, but love for strong drink
yet not altogether drink, but with it q
reckless expenditure, Of running into debt
had brought me down.
remember the day that the final crash
came, and how hard | tried to avert it.,
not waking to a realization of my situa-
ton until it was too late. 1t seemed to
me impossible that |, always SO favored,
should be, could be, penniless, and if not
absolutely beggar, still certainly in a
beggars friendless position. Unable to
remain where was known, for fear Of
my creditors, | struck off into new re-
gions, and begged-yes, that's the word
begged for work, any honest work, and
begged for i. in vain. | did get odd
Jobs. here and there, but nothing last
ing, only just enough for me to live
along from hand to mouth-and some
times it was poorly enough, even at that.
The night before, With fever burning
in my veins, | had left Ridgeield-left
without supper or money-and all the
long night had trudged onward, down
the great, white country road. Sick,
with the hot fever coursing through my
veins and parching my tongue; faint and
hungry, footsore and weary from long
travel, disheartened, and caring bet little
whether / lived or died, just as the sun
came up sank into the low, cookbook
ing bushes by the roadside, and lost all
consciousness.
"Are you sick, sir -
The question was repeated with even
more earnestness than before.
81 fear | am / said, pressing my
hand to my throbbing temples to still the
pain.
"Where are your friends, poor man ?
There was look of pity in those great
earnest eyes, that if l should live forever
| could not forget.
Friends" echoed; the words sound
ed almost like a mockery to me. "Did
you ever know such men as to have
friends ;"
What have you done-are you a
criminal ;"
It-was said with the action of start
led fawn, and l hastened to answer: "a
criminal. Yes, Of the worst kind, so pso-
pie seem to think. am guilty Of being
poor.
"Oh, that is all !" What a relief there
was in her voice; sick as was noticed
it. "We are poor, too, mother and !
but still we have friends, and will never
leave any one sick at our door withou
help. Can you walk at all, sir ?" u
al will see," said, family; and in
spired by new courage, with a hold OF
the thick bushes, / managed to gain m!
feet and staggered, rather than walked
out into the road but when at last ! 60
once more into the sunshine, the old diz
Nv faintness came over me, and in swool
l fell forward in the dust.
For days following ! was conscious
nothing but pain-a throbbing and ach
ing Of the head, a feeling throughout
hunger and suffering. / had closed m
heavy eyes in the heat and dust, and eve
as / lay there day after day, l seemed I