The Ottawa free trader. [volume] (Ottawa, Ill.) 1843-1916, 1890-01-18

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finishing with piece Of mince pie, i
occurs to me that this is good time Il
write home. It's hard work writing
home. put it off for weeks and months
It lays load on my mind. l receive al
times letters from people complaining OF
my neglect. | know ought to write
but what is there to write? Nothing bu,
the same old story, Hope soon to dc
we'll" have written in this strain fol
the last six years, until l am tired and
sick of it. 1t is of no use telling any
more about the country. All that has
been told. If my people knew how
much I suffered in this endeavor to be
dutiful, perhaps they would not insist on
my writing more than the line. Il am
still alive; yours truly
The ink in my cabin is thick, the pen a
bad one, apd my mind seems in this
epistolary effort thicker and rustier than
ink or pen. "Dear -" and then big
blot, and then long pause and the pat
ter Of tho rain and the roar of the river.
write about page and half, feeling
as if every stroke of the pen were encum-
bered with ball and chain. / accom-
plish half dozen more blots, and | fin
ish in wretched state Of mind and in a
prickly heat. 1t is barren, pithless,
sapess effort. will go out and get a
breath Of fresh air and rain. 1t is 4
o'clock. Still it 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. 1t is
gone. The river has not reached the
spot where placed it. 1t is the work Of
those thieving Cinnamon on Chambers
bar, half a mile above. There is no use
in going after them. My lumber is de-
posted and hidden amid the piles they
have today dragged out of the river.
spend about an hour getting in fuel.
have a woodward on the hillside yonder
Nature has kindly felled and seasoned
there few scrub oaks for my use.
drag down few branches. The land
here is free-very free. No fences, no
boundary lines, no gates, no proprietors.
It's pretty flat when the sun shines. A
dark background of mountain, in front
a river, with its curving and varied out
line of tule and bank up and down
stream, and close about the oaks are &c
scattered as to give one the impression
of a park and an old mansion hidden
somewhere in the background. What Q
luxury would be this spot to thousands
In crowded cities who haven't even the
range Of back yard nor the shadow OF
a tree! Yet am discontinued and would
get away to these crowded cities. The
early darkness has come. l Light my
candle. My candelabra is of glass-dark
olive green-a bottle. / did use big
potato with hole therein scooped. But
the esthetic nature requires constant
change and adopted bottle. Ispread
the evening repast. sit down alone.
From the window see lights glimmer-
ing in the few other neighboring cabins.
take refuge in the effort to repair
my best and only pair Of broadcloth
pantaloons. l brought these with me
from the States. They show decided
signs of wear. lam putting in patch.
1t is job take hold of at intervals.
There is about it mystery and COM
plication can't fathom. can't get the
patch to fit, or rather to set. There is
more in the tailor's art than imagined.
Every time l put them on find differ
ence and a seeming division Of action and
sentiment between the new cloth | have
sewed inside and the old cloth outside,
They won't hold together. The stitches
rip apart, and everything goes by the
run. seem to fail in making the new
cloth accommodate itself to the varying
proportions of this part of the garment.
And SO thu dreary night wears on. Rain.
rain, rain; roar. roar. roar. Is thus
living? -