The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1891-12-24

the young man was leaning against an
other of the fir trees, of which there was
a cluster, with his face upon his arm.
touched him on the back. Looking up
and seeing me, he says, in our deaf and
dumb talk, ''Do not be angry"
Il am not angry, good boy; am. your
friend. Come with me-"
/ left him at the foot of the steps of
the Library cart, and went up alone.
She was drying her eyes.
"You have been crying, my DEAR"
"Yes, father"
"Why?"
ga headache"
"Not a heartache%
: 81 said headache, father"
doctor Marigold must prescribe for
That headache"
She took up the book of my prescrip-
lions and held it up with forced smile,
but seeing me keep still and look earnest
she softly laid it down again, and her
eyes were very attentive.
''The prescription is not there, Sophy."
"Where is it?''
"Here, my dear"
/ brought her young husband in, and
| put her hand in his, and my only fur
Their words to both of them were these:
'Dr. Marigold's last prescription. To
be taken for life." After which bolted.
When the wedding come off, mount
ed coat (blue and bright buttons) for
the first and last time in all my DAYS.
and give Sophy away with my own
hand. There were only us three and the
gentleman who had had charge of her
for those two years. / give the we'd
ding dinner of four in the Library cart.
Pigeon pie, leg of picked pork, pair
of fowls and suitable garden stuff. The
best of drinks. / gave them speech,
and the gentleman gave us speech, and
all our jokes told, and the whole went
off like skyrocket. In the course of
the entertainment explained to Sophy
that | should keep the Library cart as my
living cart when not upon the road, and
that | should keep all her books for her
just as they stood, till she come back to
claim them. So she went to China with
her young husband, and it was a parting
sorrowful and heavy, and l got the boy
l had another service; and as of old,
when my wife and child were gone, I
went plodding along alone, with my
whip over my shoulder, at the old horses
head.
Sophy wrote me many letters, and
wrote her many letters. About the end
OF the first year she sent me one in an
unsteady hand: dearest father, not a
week ago had a darling little daughter,
but am so well that they let me write
these words to you. Dearest and best
father, | hope my child may not be deaf
and dumb, but | do not yet know"
When l wrote back l limited the Ques-
ton; but as Sophy never answered that
question, felt it to be a sad one, and
never repeated it. For a long time our
letters were regular, but then they got
irregular, through Sophy's husband be-
ing moved to another station, and
through my being always on the move.
But we were in one another's thoughts,
was equally sure, letters or no letters.
Five years, odd months, had gone since
Sophy went away. | was still the king
IF the Cheap Jacks, and at a greater
height OF popularity than ever. | had a
irst rate autumn Of it, and on the 23d
If December, 1864. found myself at
Jxbridge, Middlesex, clean sold out. So
logged up to London with the old
horse, light and easy, to have my Christ
mas eve and Christmas day alone by the
ire in the Library cart, and then to buy
regular new stock of goods all round,
% sell 'em again and get the money.
am neat hand at cookery, and I'll
ell you what l knocked up for my Christ
mas eve dinner in the Library cart: I
Knocked up a beefsteak pudding for one,
With two kidneys, a dozen oysters and
ouple of mushrooms thrown in. It's a
udding to put man in good humor
With everything except the two bottom
uttons of his waistcoat. Having rel |
she'd that pudding and cleared away, |
urned the lamp low and sat down by |
he light of the fire, watching it as it |
hone upon the backs of Sophy's books.
Sophy's books so brought up Sophy's |
elf that l saw her touching face quite |
lainly before / dropped off doing by |
ne fire. This may be reason why |
ophy, with her deaf and dumb child in |
er arms, seemed to stand silent by me
II through my nap. was on the road,
It the road, in all sorts Of. places-North
nd south and west and east, Winds
ked best and winds liked least, Here
nd there and gone astray, Over the hills
nd far away-and still she stood silent
y me, with her silent child in her arms.
ven when l woke with a start she
emed to vanish, as if she had stood by
% in that very place only single in
ant before.
had started at real sound and the
und was on the steps of the cart. 1t
as the light, hurried tread of a child
ming, clambering up. That tread of a
lid had once been so familiar to me
at for half a moment 1 believed was
going to see little ghost.
But the touch of real child was laid