The Arkansaw traveler., 1886-02-13
THE OLD scHooL-MAsrRR.
lH. S. Ksllar, in Bowen's BudRe,.I

A quaint old chap, full of Greek roots
 and Latin verbs. Rumor had it that he
 was the author of text book which was
 used in the preparatory schools. If he
 was, authorship in his case was not a
 financial success :; for cannot remember
 of ever seeing him in any other than a
 seedy, thread-bare suit of black. The
 pauts bagged at the knees, and the coat
 fulled at the small of the back. The
 vest was buttonless for three stations up
 from the bottom and was crossed over
 the bosom. Men who made a practice of
 patronizing the fashionable literature of
 the day said he was savant. But he
 wasn't. He was just plain, unfortu-
 nate man, sent into the rural parts to
 teach the young idea how to sprout
 The young idea has been sprouting from
 Adam up, with different degrees of sue.
 cess. If it happens to have leaning
 toward the prescribed channels, it's
 growth is painfully rapid. If, however,
 it leans towards the other channel it will
 in time assume the grand appearance of
 a tree. say appearance, because many
 oaks of majestic magnitude have rotten
 hearts, although green ivy entwines
 around their rough old trunks and green
 acorns grow among the boughs. The
 old school-master has, of course, fig
 ured more or less prominently in the
 current literature of the day. It is about
 time that he received some attention, for
 too long has he been but an item of
 dust-laden curiosity laid away among the
 diversified archives of growing repub-
 lie. love the old style school-master for the faults he never had. Some men cling to man because of the enemies he has made. The old school.master had no enemies for he was as gentle snd unassu.ning as child, as pure as God makes men, and a genuine personi. hcation of the genus homo without the attendant qualities of sin and petty little. nesses. presume gave the smart old man as much reason as any of his pets for disbelieving in the future regenera- tion of Young America. But my faults were all rendered unconsciously. if had 1t to do over again, know l would strew his path with roses instead of and words of advice in my behalf But it's too late now; and a chill grave-stone under the stars where the rays of the moonlight play hide and seek among the bare branches of the trees, is a silent reproach to the remorse that comes, as of old, pro. too late.p
 From his scant store of worldly goods he gave me much. From the grand ar. ray of his noble learning, l, with the others, scorne1 to take that which was laid out before us. gave him many mo- ments of sore distress. After school | hours he held me by the hand, and in eloquent words he tearfully told me of the mistakes. knew all about life then. | didn't propose to have an attenuated old fossil of humanity lay out the path | was te travel. twas my mistake, and he | knew 1t. was pig-headed, !, and l lost the golden chances he tossed down be. | fore me. Casting jewels before the swine fitted my case precisely. If he would | come back to-day would listen to his | low. sweet tones of advice. But he stays | there under the grave-stone and only sec the queer shapes of the trees branches distorting in the moonlight up- on his grave, where million crystalized | lights reflect the glitter of the midnight stars. He disclosed the wonderful wealth of his store-and then he left me. lfII had been wise would have plunged both hands, soul and body into the won- drous array. But wasn't wise. was as were others. Time enough for wisdom after the worlds plea sures grow vapid and unsatisfactory. They grow vapid rapidly. They were after plucked. Then, with the dry shucks of vanished pleasures in my bosom, went back to the place where the old school-master was once. And tonight, after all these years of sor- row and bliss-talse bliss s-I find the dearest friend of my youth sleeping under he frost of winters night. Dead!