Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-08-03

had poked many a bear out of its hole and
then sat down and stripped the carcass
while the smoke from their pipes curled
among the pines and tamarack. There were
singing and dancing at the wedding, and
nobody thumped the floor with more vim
than Mark and Abe. Pretty Bess, redder
than usual because of the worry and excite
ment through which she had passed, sat in
an old-fashioned rocker and smiled nervous
ly as she watched the flying feet, and once
she coughed when the dust from Mark s
big boots lifted cloud of dust from the old
white floor.
Mark didn't change much after his mar
riage. He wore the same old milk-bespat-
tered boots, whose heels were run over to q
scandalous angle, the pincushion remained
beneath the lapel of his coat, and he kept
right on whiting spigots, but not SO many
of them as he did before he took Bess to his
home. He was the same old eccentric Mark
Perkins, only he got more crotchets into
his head from time to time. He wouldn't
give up his pewter plate at the dinner table
for love or money, and when Bess used to
tell him that his woolen stockings must be
uncomfortable in summer, Mark would
grow excited and declare that if he were to
make change he would surely die of
rheumatism.
OF Marks home dull, sullen gray, and its
only chimney grimy and slightly out Of
plumb. Mark was still there, although
somewhat feeble and pale, for asthma had
got him by the throat and was slowly but
surely strangling him. Bess was there, too,
but she wasn't the Bess of old. She was
wrinkled and gray but she still carried with
her those great, round, iustrous eyes that
had burned deep into more than one mans
heart Abe Pritchard grew old, too, but
not so old that he could not go out into the
forest and hunt for bears and cats in the fall
of the year.
Mark grew worse from year to year. The
village doctor, who used to go about the
country in dusty, rattling blackboard,
couldn't help him. And so he coughed and
wheezed until the neighbors began to pity
him and send him things to burn in his
room while he tried to sleep. Then he took
to his bed, where he could see from his mar
row window the purple clouds build
themselves in an ampitheater in the West
ern horizon when the sun went down.
Mark knew he was going to die before
snow came. Bess tried not to think SO, but
some of the neighbors had seen her crying
when Mark was at his worst, and it was
common belief in the neighborhood that
she. too, was apprehensive. If not dis
cOuraged. Old ABE was ua1ly VISITOR at
the house. When he came into the sick
room he seemed to bring with him the in
yigorating odor of the balsame. For it was
always noticed that when Abe did come
Marx grew brighter, and his rasping cough
fell away to spasmodio rattling in the
throat, which was often mistaken for
laughter.
One day late in autumn Abe squared
himself in a chair close to the bedside
OF his friend, as was his custom when
he called. 1t was one of Marks bad
days. His eyes were feverish and his long
bony hands clutched the bedclothing with
nervous grip. The doctor had said that the
sufferer was dying, and even Abe, who was
not much OF o student Of death, saw
change for the worse in the condition of his
friend.
"Glad you came, Abe," he said with
weak voice. I've got something want to
say to you. 1t won't be long before I'll
drop out, but afore I go, Abe, want you
to swear to do as tell you"
He ceased the knife-blade he had been
twirling about his fingers and looked
steadily at his friend.