The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1889-07-05
AUNT HANNAH; FROM
MAINE.
lMal and Express.l

lMai and Express.]
would they put her in the asylum" she
wondered. ''if they caught her?"
Folks would surely think she was crazy.
She stopped at the stone wall to rest and
looked back timoiously. Far behind her
stretched the meadow, a symphony OF olive
and green in the late fall. Here and there by
sunken boulder stood soldierly golden-rod,
or berry bushes clothed now in scarlet and
gold. At intervals in the long slope stood
solitary trees, where fluttering, brittle leaves
fell in the gentle chill air. In summer time
she remembered we'll the hay makers resting
in the shade, and the jug with ginger water
she made for the men was kept there to be
cool. She seemed. as she sat there, to remen-
Der everything. The house was all right, she
was sure of that; the key was under the
kitchen door mat, the fire was out in the
stove, aud the cat locked In the barn.
She held her work-hardened hand to her
side, painting little. for it was good bit of
walk across the meadow, and she was
eighty years old on her last birthday The
cows feeding looked homelike and pleasant.
"Good-by. Critters she said aloud;
'meny's the time I've driv' ye home an,
MIXED ye, an allus let We eat by the way,
nor never hurried We as the boys DONE"
With farewell glance she went on again. I
smoothing as she walked the scattered locks
of gray hair falling under the pumpkin-ho0d
and keeping her scant black gown out of the
reach of briars. Across another field. then
on through a leafy lane where the wood was
hauled In winter, then out through gap in
STUMP fence. with its great branching arms
like petrifed octopus. to the dusty high
"a In bQ mi mo- fxyi-
light John. the children and scolding wife
who made her so unhappy would not De home
for an hour yet, for East Mills was long
drive.
Down the steep Hill went the brave little
figure, followed by shadow of itself in the
waning light, and by tiny stones that rolled
so swiftly they passed her often and made
her look behind with start to see II pur-
suer were ceming.
They'd put me in the asylum, sure" she
muttered wildly.
At the foot of the hill she sat down upon
an old log and waited. Across the road
guarded by q big sigB, Look ont for the
engine" ran two parallel iron rails, that,
were to be her road when the big mon ter
should come painting an nnd the curve. At
last the dull rumble sounded, a shrill whistle.
shawl to signal. This. in the conductors
vernacular, was "a crossroads station"
where he was used to watch for people waving
articles frantically. The train stopped, and
IL.
ticed she was bright-eyed old lady, very neat
and precise.
"How fur?" he asked.
-'Bostn."
'.Glt there in the momin'," he said, kindly
waiting for the money, as she opened queer
little reticule, where, under her knitting,
wrapped in clean cotton handkerchief, was
her purse with her savings of long years-the
little sums Sam bad sent her when be first
began 10 prosper In the West, ana some
money she had earned herself by knitting
and berrypicklng.
At crossroads. as they went swiftly on,
she raw the old sorrel horse. the rafting
wagon, and John with his family driving
homeward. she drew back with little cry,
fearing he might see her and stop the train,
but they went on so fast that could not be.
and the old horse logged into the woods, and
John never thought of his old Aunt Hannah,
his charge for twenty long years. was running
away. At Boston a kindly conductor bought
her ticket for Denver.
IT'S long journey for an old lady like
Cor my age she SAID anxious
days sickness since 1 was
al0ne?"
g." she answered, brightly
help herself, but silent and
ne train took her into strange
acre the miles v ent 50 swiftly
&c the past years Of her life a.
hack on them. ''rhy works Is
~" she murmured often, sitting
hands folded, and icy idle days
ere been in her world where she had
I'D rested so long. In ii,r tla, -caach the
rplr were kind and gen, ruu,, Sharing their
askets with her and seeing She changed cars
right and her carpet bag was SAFE. She was
IKE any Of the dear old Rrandnas in Eastern
huDcs, or 10 griZZled men and weary women,
like the memory of dean mother as faint
and lar away as the scent uf Wild roses IN a
hillside country burying ground. She tended
babies for tired women and talked Ia the men
OF farming and crops, or told the children
Bible stories; but never word she said OF
herself not one.
On again, guided by kindly hands through
the great, bewildering city by he lake, an.i
now through yet a stranger land. Tired ard
worn 10y nights in the uncomfortable seats,
her brave spirit began to fail a little. As the
wide, level plains, lonely and drtar, uawn ned
on her sight she sighed aftcn.
ITS dreful big wnrld," She said to
gray -hearded oil farmer near her; "s0 big
feel e'eDm0st lost in ii, but" hopefully,
across them deserts like this long ago
providence sent star to guide them wise
men of the East, an haint lost MY faith"
But as the day wore ON, and still the long,
monotOnOus land showed no human habia-
ton. no oasis of green, her eyes dimmed.
something like sob rose under the black
kerchief ON the bowed shoulders, and the
spectacles were taken off with trembling
hands and put away in the tin case.
"De ye gGin fur, m0tber?" said the old
farmer. lie had brought her a cupOf coffee
at TIE lsiSI SthIlOIl. anu Ilhu pointed out OH
the way things lie thought might interest
her.
ITO Denver"
wal, wal an you're from New England,
I'll be bound?"
From Mane," she answen d and then She
grew communicative, for she WAS always
chatty old lady. and she had possessed her
soul in silence so long. Sh told him all the
relations she had were two grandnephews
and their families. That twenty years ago
Sam flor she had brought them both M when
their parents died of consumption. that takes
so many of our folks, went out West; he was
always adventurous, and fer ton years she
did not hear from him, but John was diff
Irleht and steady, and when hr rane Of age
she had given him her farm, with the pro-
vision she should always have q home, other
wise LIE would have gone away too Well,
Tor hve years they were happy, then John
married, ana his wife had grown to think her
burden as the years went on. and the chill
dren when they grew big did not care for her.
and she felt she had lived too nng.
II growed so lonesome" she aid ,,nth.tic-
ally, lit seems couldn't take M heartio live
day by day, an yit ! kn0wed our folks was
long lived. Ten years back, vi en- Sam wrote
he was adoin' fair an sent me- money, / be-
gun to think of him fur he was alus generous
an kind, an the grafefulest boy. an, so be-
gun to save to go to him, for kn0wcd could
work my board fur good mpEy years to
come. Fur three years he amt hardly wrote,
but laid that to the wild kentry he lived in.
/ said, bars an IDjuns don't skeer me none,
fur when was gal up in ArO0stuk kentry
there was plenty of both, an as fur buffalers,
them horned cattle don't skeer me none, fur
I've been used to a farm allus. But the lone
someness of these medders has s0rter upset
me an made me think Sam WAS further off
than l ever calculated on."
but what will you do If Sam amt in Den
ver?" asked the farmer.
Il hev put my faith in Providence" she
answered simply. and the stranger could not