Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1883-06-12
GOHTNG VILD OTIS.

SOWING WILD OATS.
1he most magnificent specimen of
young manhood that [ have ever known
was young fellow student named Hen
~ Haines. As an athlete on the campus,
as a scholar in the school-room, as an
orator in the arena of debate, he was
faciie princeps, everywhere and always.
We were not so much envious of him as
proud of him, and we fondly fancied that
here could be no height of fame or fort
uue too difficult for his adventurous feet
to climb, and that the time would come
when hewould fill the world with the echo
OF his fame, and it would be a proud thing
for any Of us to declare that we had known
bin. A little tendency to dissipation
WIS by some of us observable-a little
dash CT dare-deyiltry-but this was only
the Wildcat sowing which was natural
to youth and genius, and which we did
not doubt that after years would chasten
and correct.
But the years came and the years
went, and the young collegians were
scattered through the world, and ever
and anon would some of Us wonder what
could have become Of Henry Haines.
We looked in vain for his rising star,
and listened long for his coming feet.
Some time ago, for single Sabbath, [
was preaching in New York. My theme
il the morning had been "The Ghost of
Buried Opportunity" On my way to
my hotel I discovered that was "shad-
owod'' by desperate-looking wretch,
whose garb. whose gait, whose battered,
bloated look ali Enthusiastically betokened
the spawn of the slums. What could
the villain want with me? [ paused at
my door, and faced about to confront
him. He paused, advanced, and then
hiskily whispered: clemson, do you
know me?" I assured him [ did not,
whereupon he continued, "Do you re-
member Henry Haines?" "Aye, aye,
well enough, we'll enough, but surely
You are not Henry Haines? ?" Ct am
what is left of hint am the ghost of
him" I shudiered as I reached for his
hand, and, gazing intently into his face,
discovered still some traces Of my long
lost friend, still doubly lost, though
found again. Iput my arm about him
IN hrotherly embrace, and drew him to
my room, and drew from his lips the
sad story of his shattered life. begged
him by the old loves and unforgotten
memories of better days to go back with
me to my Philadelphia home, and, I'M
der new auspices and with new sur
roundings, to strike out for noble des-
tiny, which 1 hoped might still be pos
siole. But, striking his clenched fist on
my table, he said: " Henson, it's no use
to talk to me- I'm dead-beat, and am
dead broke. I'm burnt-out volcano,
and there's nothing left OF me but Gin
tlers now. [ have come to New York to
bury myself out of sight of all that ever
loved me. I know the ropes here, and
shall stay here till [ rot. [ live in a
muskrat hole near the wharf. 1 shall
die as [ have lived, and I have lived like
dog"
In vain were my earnest protests and
brotherly pleading. He tore himself
from me, and went stumbling off to his
den by the wharf.
He had sown the wind and was reap
ing the whirlwind. He had sown to the
flesh, and was reaping corruption. He
had sown "wild oats. and the oats were
now yielding dread harvest of woe
Rec. P. s. Henson. Of Chicago.