Iron County register. [volume] (Ironton, Iron County, Mo.) 1867-1965, 1885-03-05


once calculating and passionate. bold
other ways strong. He might have
been fanatic or financier, as well as farm
er; but something beyond mere farmer
he must be, unless faces always lie.
The young man laughed. '.Oh," said
day and all day long. We take holt
day now and again.
''Aye? Well, don't know much
about such things myself-time enough
for play when one can't workout 1
man get through holiday, if one may
be so bold?"
The other laughed again, and colored
little besides.
''Oh, somehow" said he. s'Of
very mischief downwards. But, as you
say, it is hard to know what to do with
few days. So l thought I'd look up
Farmer Blackthorn-he was kind to me
when | was a lad-just for want of any
thing better to do"
.'Oh! Just for want of anything bet
ter to dor" echoed Patience to herself.
"'Just for want of anything better to
dor A pretty reason, indeed, for a
young coxcomb to call on them that
were kindest to him, just when they're
down! I'm glad the beers run out and
the milk skinned three timesH'
'H'mr' grunted Farmer Marrish.
1--WE come over to see Tom Black
thorn, too. But as mines business and
yours pleasure, you won't mind giving
me first turn, 1 burst say?'
Not a bit. You 60 in, and I'll have
a stroll round. Don't look much like
high farming this, from the look of the
yard"
Tom Blackthorn always was the
man for muck-specially in the wrong
place." said the man of business, with
something like a sheer. ''Muck's
money in the right place; but that's not
at mans door. Well, take your
stroll, Harlow. May be We'll meet
again before l CO.
Marrish pushed open the broken gate
and crossed the yard to the house door.
The young man leaned on the topmost
rail, and looked about him, a little puZ-
zled by what he saw. And, since he is
the principal person of this story, will
say at once that he was Stephen Har-
low, who had been left alone in the
world, at the age of nine, by his father,
as drunken blacksmith as ever famed
horse or poisoned COW. 1t was
Farmer Blackthorn, of Leys Croft, who
had saved the lad from the parish, and
had sent him out into the world to such
good purpose that, at Internationally,
he was already high in the service of
firm of land-suryeyOrs at MillpOrt, a
big town full two hundred miles from
his native village of Merriam. 1t did,
therefore, sound not little ungrateful
| that he should come back to see his ben
efactor. and his old playfellow young
Dick Blackthorn, not to speak of Pa
tience, just because he could find moth
ing better to do. No wonder Patience,
as she heard him. clinched her little ach-
ing fist with Indignation, and tossed
back her brown curls with scorn.
But what puzzled him was the general
| look of the place, once so much the
model of all that was tiourishing; now
so neglected and bare. The low, stone
house had a naked. comfortless sort of
lock, instead of the hospitable warmth
with which it was identified in his memo
ry. The yard, all foul and Uttered,
was silent, and empty of man, beast
and fowl. Was it that his memory
played him false, and exaggerated its
own impression of Legs Croft, to be
disillusioned by becoming familiar with
Millport and all its glories? 1t might
be so; memory does play such pranks
with us all, and twenty-three has few
| illusions left-though it is true they
come back again by thirty-two. But
still, Legs Croft to strike him like this
Tom Blackthorn's place. the jolliest
place of the jolliest good fellow that
ever was born, and the best farmer to
boot; it was uncomfortably queer. And
then he began to think
But just then he caught sight of a
bright little face set in the window OF
the shed like picture in its frame;
and
"Ohr' exclaimed he.
Meanwhile Enoch Marrish had en-
tered the house, of which the outer door
stood ajar - neither self-respectingly
shut, nor cordially and frankly open
and, with nobody to announce him, had
walked straight into a sort of-what is
the name for such a room9-a sort OF
sanctum where Farmer Blackthorn used
to pay his men. to study his accounts,
to take his Sunday nap after dinner, to
write his letters, to clean his gun and
punch his wadding, to take his night
cap, and to retire when he wanted to
growl, as even the jolliest of farmers
will now and then. Farmer Blackthorn
| was there now.
But-alas for Stephens memories
he was jolly Tom Blackthorn no more.
When Marrish entered he found a pre-.
maturely aged man, with his still burly
frame fallen away beyond the recogni-
ton of his own shabby clothes, and
with certain crushed look; the look
of one who has not the courage left to
look the world in the face; the look
which (when seen in an honest mani
tells of the transmutation of excessive
pride into correspondingly excessive
shame. Whatever he had once been,
Tom Blackthorn was a broken man
now. 1t was even difficult any longer
to find any trace of what he had been
but few years ago-a very model of 8
British yeoman in the palmy days OF
the breed. reveling in work, reveling in
sport; standing his seventy-three inches
and carrying his thirteen stone as light
ly as if they were ten; proud of his son
proud of his daughter, proud of his
farm, proud of himself; paving every.
body on the nail. and spending-well
with both hands. Difficult to recognize
all this in him now? No, not difficult
impossible.
When Farmer Marrish entered, Farm.
err Blackthorn was engaged in what is
either the most delightful or else the
most miserable of occupations-porine
over accounts; in which all the differ.
| lotr sfrht md Al *