The state herald., 1890-04-11

but the fourth is of larger shape and
newly made; and tear rolls down
his wrinkled face, as the old man, sit.
ting In his lonely office, surrounded by
tho types and presses with which he
has laboTcd SO many years, thinks that
they for whom he toiled so steadily
have left him, and nothing visible Is
left to record their former presence
save the quartette Of graves on the
hill, which he sees In his Imagination
on this cvo Of the Christ child birth.
A few weeks ago and tho mounds
numbered three, but now his silvered-
haired wife had left him to Join her
loved ones, and no bcs sadly and silent.
ly secn the yellow earth placed oyel
the dear familiar form. and turning
away picked up his work and toiled un-
complainingly and lonely on. But to-
night 1t seems as though he could not
endure another year in harness, with
NO one at home to chear him, and no
home but his cherries room at the vii
iage hotel.
The entrance of boy for copy
of the last Journal reused HIN from
his dreamy thoughts, and putting on
coat and hat he descended to the street
and was one of the passing tlrong.
AS he passed the gay store windows
he thought:
al will buy present for some one
my foreman's little girl, Florrie," and
going into shop he soon had large
package for the LITTLE mail
Back TO his office he went and
placing the package OH his desk, In his
ragged and hurried chlrography, wrote
the inscription: "Merry Christmas to
little Florrie, from her old friend,
Mark Arnold And then tho old man
dropped his head in his hands again,
and he thought of the Christmas
gatherings years ago around his fire
side, when he bought presents for his
own children, and painful longing
for those days that never would come
again filled his heart, and then wish
arose that he might soon see his loved
ones on the other shore.
The clock in the nclghboring church
tower struck ten, then eleven, and the
white-haired scribe still sat at his desk.
Twelve chimcd out the old bell, aud n
band of singers passing through the
deserted street looked wonderingly at
the light in the office window as they
sang the old Christmas hymn,
40 come, all ye faithful
and the old man In his chair uncon-
sciously took mp the strain, aid with
the song on his lips fell asleep to
awaken and unite with wife and chill
dren In singing Christmas Carols In a
land whero sadness and longings have
no place.
Last June our State Press Associa-
tion journcyed through the Granite
State, and on quiet Sabbath the par
ty boarded steamer and were taken
to village three miles up the lake,
where they attended services ut n little
church. My wife and myself resisted
the allurements Of possible cloqucnce
from the village pastor and strolled
about tho settlement. Our wander
ings took us TO the village churchyard
with its growth of weeds and briers,
and with lazy curiosity We read the
inscriptions OH the various tombstOncs,
but as we reached large white stone
of modern shape and cutting, our
curiosity was changed to sadness and
surprise US we read:
'Niark Arnold, ~
Born Nov. 81, 1871.
Died Dec. y, 1883,
Aged - years."
From resident of tho village We
l'anred that our old friend had been
found dead in his Office on Christmas
morning, sitting at the desk, with a
package Of toys for little girl beside
him; that OH tho next night the build
ing in which his Office was located had
been burned, and tho contemporary
village paper purchasing the good will
of the Journal Of the heirs, the paper
had ceased to bc, and SO passed away
with It's founder.
My wife looked sadly toward the
grave of the veteran editor. and slowly
said. "Now we know why the New
bury Journal came for the last time en-
Christmas week.-Gideon Grim.