Catoctin clarion. [volume] (Mechanicstown, Md.) 1871-1940, 1890-11-27
4 BELlTDO ROMANCE.
4 STORY OF THANKSGIVING.
BY HELEN S CONANT.

When Herbert Russell arose Thanks
giving morning and pushed aside the
window curtains he wondered why he
had come. Il was no satisfaction after
all. His disappointment began the
night before when the tram dropped
hum at the station and he rode to the
hotel IN 4 rattling, uncomfortable Omnl-
bus through streets ablazo with electric
lights and lined with shops, the win.
lows of which were filled with goods
suited to the requirements oI a New
England factory town.
He knew that in the twenty years he
haI been absent the water power Of the
stream where he used to fish when Il boy
hal been utilized, that mills had been
built, and that the p lace had changed
from a uuet village 90 a town Of con
siderable Importance ; still lie WAS not
prepared for the magnitude of the
Transformation. There had been no
railroad within ten miles when he went
away, and lie remembered as if it were
yesterday, the summer morning when
lie mounted the old stage, all his posses
sjons in trunk strapped on behind,and
all his money, very small sum, IN his
pocket. He had started out with all the
confidence Of youth that The world
could he conquered, and he had con-
uuered it. He had been successful rom
the very outset. and now he Was one Of
the solid mcrcha nts Of the city where he
had located. He WAS yorite IN So
ciety, and his luxurious bachelor apart
ments were the envy of all his associates
Still ne did not feel that his life had
been success. 1t was empty. He was
I2, and already little lines of white ap-
peared in his dark hulr, and yet he WAS
alone in the world. In the struggle for
fortune ne had forgotten to seek for love
and home.
1t was in one Of the hours of loneli-
hess which came to him often now that
he suldenl y determined to spend
Thanks giving in his native town. He
had no relatives left thera, but at least
the place would be familiar. 1t was
not familiar, and he was disappointed.
Only the outlines of the surrounding
hills reminded him Of his boyhood
home.
1t was a clear, frosty morning. Ice
had formed on little puddles in the
street, and the air was crisp and brac-
ing. After breakfasting in the s'uly
room Of the hotel in company with a
party of loud talking travelling men and
few Irregular boarders' Herbert put
on his overcoat and went out into the
street. He wished to 60 first of all tc
the graveyard where his parents We're
| buried. He wondered if he could find
it among all these Few surroundings.
AS he walked along he saw here and
there houses which he recognized
roomy. old fashioned farm houses which
once had stood among broad, open fields
but were now crowded in between
modern cottages, the verandas and bay
windows of which formed a striking
contrast to the square, severe outlines o1
the older buildings And there was the
old village green. A neat iron fence
surrounded it now, and it was laid on
in walks edged with naples, Their
branches, bare Of leaves. forming sharE
silhouettes, against the cold November
sky.
On one of the grass plots party ol
boys We're playing ball. Herbert leaned
on the fence to watcn them. How many
, Thanksgiving games of ball he hal had