The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1884-07-25
Temperance Reading.
"TATE, AGOIN' BYy,


Farwell from the tavern platform. His
remark served double purpose, it ac-
eosted Tate Sykes, and also let the other
frequenters know of his approach. He
added, with the peculiar infection of
maudlin sympathy: ''How do you find
yourself, after yesterday"
'.Middlin' well, said Tate, gravely;
but walking on.
"Why, look ahere We amt dg0ira By.
be ye? Why. boys, here's Tate GgOin' byPh
Farwelrs tone had changed from
sentiment to intense establishment, as if
it couldn't be that Tate was passing
their mutual haunt-Tate Sykes, whose
nostrils loved the scent of liquor that
foated through the open door, and who
always turned in for one glass. It
oftener became more.
But two days before, sad-eyed, tatr
tered woman burst in upon their revels,
her face full of agony.
Where's my MANI Where's Tate
Sykes9" Then imperatively: Come
home, Tate. Bess wants you; she's
dying"
Tate had some manhood left, for he
set his glass down with groan, and
followed his wife out, bareheaded, in an
unwonted stiffness.
That was the last they saw of Tate at
the tavern until then, and he was going,
by. Farwell felt that it was unnatural
What had gone wrongP Farwell
scratched his slightly muddled head
for the clew, then slapped his knee
emphaticany when he thought he
found it. /
Hold on, Tate. Mebbe We Thoughts
we'd ought to been there, us boys, bein'
as we was old friends?'
Tate stopped. but did not reply. His
hands were clenched, and "a great strug-
gle was written on his face. He looked
like one ready for conflict, and he was;
not however with the poor deluded men
he had drank with, but with the powers
of darkness. Farwell broke the awk-
ward silence: !
1--WE felt for We, Tate. If we'd had
the money we'd done the handsome
thing with flowers and SIGH. wouldn't
begrudged comm down with hack nj
span O horses; fact, Tate; but l hadn't
the needful; you know that, old boy.l
There amt man in the county I'd
help out sooner, but / couldn't. Ye
hadn't orter lay it up again US, Tate. -
Boys" said Tate hoarsely, with fire.
quent pauses to conquer emotion, II
didn't--expect veto folly my little gal
-to-to-the grave. And yer posies
would-a been-too late-too late. Ye,
see, it had been-all thorns for her
alluz-them her father planted" !
A deep sob swelled his brawny chest.
He sank upon the low platform. leaned
his head against decaying pillar, and
| wept like child.
The ''boys' were silent. Old FarweH
laid his pipe aside, and rose with the
majesty of a purpose.
There, there, Tate. don't We take on
SO, man. She's gone, an parting's
hard but we can't call her back. Come
in and have drop O. something. tn
tone We up. Come, all, I'll stand treat"
They started eagerly towards the bar
room, except Tate. There was fierce
longing IN his bloodshot eyes, and ev-
cry breath he drew of the impregnated
air increased his thirst but, to the sur
prise of all, Tate Sykes declined the
drink, even implored Farwell not to
urge him.
Farwell paused, angrily; the faces of
the others darkened, also. Their muir
murs would have been less gentle, only
they remembered that Tate's child was
dead. and most of these men, alas!
were fathers, too!
Don't never ask me to drink" cried
Tate, ''for / can't! Don't ever call me
in here again, for if do, I'll shoot my
self. [ wouldn't be fit to live if 1 forgot
the vows L made by that little grave.
Sit down bit; I'll tell We how l come
| to this.''
Then Tate began, in strange, hoarse
voice:
''Ye all knew why Meg come after me
that night. She said Bess was dyin'.
| thought she had left us-when | got
home, she was so white and still. She
wanted you, Tate says Meg. She
couldn't be easy 'thout ye. She telled
me to go fetch father; she'd wait. Oh,
Tate, how ran, and now it's too late!
She's gone; without her dyin' wish!'
Meg cried softly, whisperin' this bit by
bit, betwixt the tears. | can't tell ye
what l felt. boys, settin' there beside
my lettle gal. There WANT nothing
comfortable for such as she, in that
poor room. 1t goes without sayin'
there couldn't be, and me spendin' what
| did here.
t'Well, boys, whilst l was lookin' at
her, all of a student, the color flashed
into her sweet face, and them dear
Tate's voice shook--darlin' eyes flied
| open-but not to see me, boys, they
looked straight for ard, beyant and up
ards, and says she, startled like: Il
can't go alone-its dark-go part a0ay
a0jth me, father, dear!
Tate groaned as he had the night he
was summoned from the bar room.
When he could speak, he said:
Them was her last words. She
give great sigh, and left us. There
want no backin' out for her, boys,
even if her father couldn't go part way
with cheerin' words, an scriptur. She
had to go alone, in the dark, my poor
leetle gal. 1t come over me then,
what was and what l might ben.
There's one other left me; please God
| III go part o. the 9O0y aOjtk herr
Tate had arisen. Re stood erect as
he uttered his VOW, in clear, distinct
voice that reached even the man be-
hind the bar. The fierce appetite had
gone from Tate's eyes, they glowed with
his newborn purpose. None of his old
comrades detained him as he turned
and left the old tavern forever.-HeIee
Pearson Barnard, in N. Y. Observer.
| SoMETIDSZs-oncei in q great while