Connecticut western news., 1891-04-29

"What do you follow, sirT' respect fully inquired the tradesman.
 "1 occasionally write for the stage, m."
 s'Oh!' returned the tradesman in 8 confused manner.
 ssHe means" said an honest villager, with desire to help the puzzled trades man out, ''he means that he writes the handbills for the stage driversv'
 believe that story is new, although perhaps it is not of an uproariously mirthful character; but one hears sto- ries at the store that are old enough, goodness knows stories which, no doubt, diverted Methuselah in the sunny days of his giddy and thoughtless boyhood.
 Sometimes I go a-visiting to 8 farm house, on which occasion the parlor is opened. The windows have b.en close shut ever since the last visitor was there, and there is dingy smell that strug- gle as calmly as possible with, until I am led to the banquet of steaming hot biscuit and custard pie. If they would only let me sit in the dear old fashioned kitchen or on the door stone-if they knew how dismally the new black fur niture looked; but never mind, am not a reformer. No, should rather think not.
 Gloomy enough, this living on farm, you perhaps say, in which case you are wrong. can't exactly say that pant to be an agriculturist, but do know that in the main it is an independent, calmly happy sort of life. can see how the prosperous farmer can go joyously a-feld with the rise of the sun, and how his heart may swell with pride over bounteous harvests and sleek oxen. And it must be rather jolly for him on winter evenings to sit before the bright kitchen fire and watch his rosy boys and girls as they study out the charades in the weekly paper, and gradually find out why my first is something that grows in a. garden, and my second is 8 fish. On the green hillside over wonder there is quivering of snowy drapery, and bright hair is flashing in the morning sunlight. It is recess, and the Seminary girls are running in the tall grass. Looking at these girls reminds me that l I, too, was once young-and where are 1 the friends of my youth? I have found 1 one of lem, certainly. saw him ride in the circus the other day on a bareback 1 horse, and even now his name stares at me from wonder board fence in green and blue and red and yellow letters Dashington, the youth with whom l used to read the able orations of Cicero and who, as a declaimer on exhibition days, used to wipe the rest of US boy pretty handsomely out-well, Dashing ton is identified with the halibut and coi fnterest-drives fish cart in fact iron a certain town on the coast back int the interior. Hubertson, the utterly stupid boy-the lunkhead who never hat his lesson-he's about the ablest lawyer sister state can boast. Mills is news paper man, and is just now editing , Major General down South.
 Singlinson, the sweet-voiced boy whose face was always washed and wh' was real good, and who was never rud' -he is in the penitentiary for putin, his uncle's autograph to financial docu ment. Hawkins, the clergyman's son is an actor, and Williamson, the goot little boy who divided his bread ant butter with the beggar-man, is failing merchant and makes money by it. Ton Stink, who used to smoke short-sixe and get acquainted with the little circu boys, is popularly supposed to be tn proprietor of a cheap gambling estah ishment in Boston, where the uncertat1 prop is nightly tossed. Be sure, tn Army is represented by many of tn friends of my youth, the most of whom have given a good account of them selves. But Chalmerson hasn't don much.
 No, Chalmerson is rather of 8 failure He plays on the guitar and sings lov songs. Not that he is bad man. kinder hearted creature never lived, an they say he hasn't yet got over cryin for his little curly haired sister who die ever so long ago. But he knows nothin about business, politics, the world, an those things. He is dull at trade,-in deed, it is common remark that 'tevery body cheats Chalmerson." He came t the party the other evening, and brough his guitar. They wouldn't have him fo tenor in the opera, certainly, for he shaky in his upper notes; but if his sin pie melodies didn't gush straight fro1 the heart, why were my trained eye wet? And although some of the gir gggled, and some of the men seemed pity him, could not help fancying tha poor Chalmerson wasnearer heaven tha
 any of us all!