The Wheeling daily intelligencer. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1865-1903, 1890-02-21
an animated bill Of fare. He secured

But the man didn't enjoy eating hi
deliberately prepared meals go much a
Ibid. He worked too hard getting then
up. He exhausted too much Of bis fore
In planning, worrying and cooking. FL
worked his mind In too many channel
at once. He lacked repose. There
where ! had the best OF him. I was re-
poseful, and II you please so 10 term Il
lazy. He Is doal-I AIN alive. There
the result OF different mental conditions
It Is noon. have no clock 10 tell III,
hours, but We acquire n faculty Of feel
Ing when noon arrives. The rain La
ceased temporarily, but 1t will soon re
commence, for which I am glad, as |
Twill prevent work on the claim durin,
the afternoon. Having eaten dinner
finishing with q piece OF mince pie, /
1t occurs 10 me that this Is a good time I.
write home. Tia hard work writinl
home. Iput It OF for weeks and months
1t lays q load on my mind. receive NJ
times letters from people complaining o
my neglect. | know l ought to write
but what Is there to write? Nothing bu
the same old story, "Hope soon 10 de
we'll" l have written In this strain iol
tho last six years, until am tired and
sick OF 1t. 1t Is OF no use telling an,
more about tho country. All that has
been told. II my people knew how
much suffered IN this endeavor to be
dutiful, perhaps they would not insist on
my writing more than the line, " an
still alive; yours truly"
The ink in my cabin Is thick, the pen
a bad one, and my mind seems In this
epistolary effort thicker and rustier than
ink or pen. "Dear -" and then a
big blot, and then long pause and the
patter Of the rain and the roar Of the
river. I write about a page and half,
feeling as il every stroke OF the pen were
encountered with ball and chain.
accomplish half a dozen more blots, and
I finish in wretched state OF mind and
ina prickly heat. LISA barren, pithless,
sapless effort. will 20 out and get a
breath Of fresh air ind rain. 1t is 4
o'clock. Still 1t rains. The heavens are
dark, and already the first shades OF the
winters night are coming on. revisit
my haul OF lumber from the river. It is
gone. The river has not reached the
spot where placed 1t. 1t is tho work OF
those thleving Cinnamon on Chambers
bar, half mile above. There is no use
in going after them. My lumber is
deposited and hidden amid tho piles
they have to-day dragged out Of the
river. .,..I
Ispend about IN hour getting in fuel.
! have q woodward on the hillside yon.
der. Nature has kindly felled and sea.
soned there lew scrub oaks Tor my use,
| drag down few branches. The land
here IS free-very free. No fences, no
boundary lines. no gates, no proprietors.
It's q pretty fiat when the sun shines.
A dark background Of mountain, in
front OF q river, with it's curyiny aud va.
ried outline of tule and bank up and
down stream, and close about the oaks
are so scattered as to give one the i'm.
preston OF park and IN old mansion
hidden somewhere In tho background,
What luxury would DO this epot to
thousands in crowded cities who haven't
even the range Of back yard nor the
shadow OF q tree! Yet am discoptent-
ed and would get away to these crowded
cities. The early darkness has come. l
light my candle. My candelabra is OF
glass-dark olive groen-a bottle, I did
use big potato with hole therein
scooped. But the esthetic nature re-
quires constant change and I adopted
bottle. l spread the evening repast. l
sit down alone. From the window I see
lights glimmcrlng In the iow other neigh.
boring cabina.
I take refuge in the effort to repair my
best and only pair of broadclothi panta-
looms. I brought these with me from
the States. They show decided signs Of
wear. | am putting in a patch. II is a
job take hold Of ut intervals. There is
about it a mystery and complication I
can't fathom. ! can't get the patch to
tit, or rather to set. There Is more In q
tailor's art than imagined. Every time
l put them on l find a difference and a
seeming division OF action and sentiment
between the new cloth have sewed in.
side and tho old cloth outside. They
won't hold together. The stitches rip
apart, and everything goes by the run. I
seem to fail in making the now cloth &c.
commodate itself to the varying proper
tons Of this part Of the argument. And
so the dreary night wears on. Rain,
rain, rain; roar, roar. roar. Is this liv-
ing9 rs PRlSrlcE MuLFoNn.