The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1891-05-01

be found calico and nails and fish and
tobacco in kegs and snuff in bla1ders, is
q venerable establishment. As long ago
as 1914 it was an institution. The
country troops on their way to the de-
fense of Portland, then menaced by
British ships-of-war, were drawn up in
front of this very store and treated at
the towns expense. Citizens will tell
you how the clergyman refused to pray
for the troops because he considered the
war an unholy one; and how u somewhat
eccentric person of dissolute habits vol
unteered his services, stating that he
once had an uncle who was deacon
and he thought he could make toler-
able prayer, although it was rather out of
his line: and how he prayed so long and
absurdly that the colonel ordered him
under arrest, but that even while soldiers
stood over him with cleaning bayonets
the reckless being sang preposterous
song about his grandmother's spotted
calf, with its Ri-fol.lol-tiddery-i-do;
after which he howled disinally.
And speaking of the store reminds me
of little story. The author of several
successful comedies" has been among us,
and the store was anxious to know who
the stranger was. And therefore the
store asked him.
"What do you follow, sir?" respect
fully inquired the tradesman.
II occasionally write for the stage,
sir"
"Oh!" returned the tradesman in a
confused manner.
HE MEANS" said an honest villager,
with desire to help the puzzled trades
man out, ''he means that he writes the
handbills for the stage drivers!'
l 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 l go a-visiting to farm
house, on which occasion the parlor is
opened. The windows have been close
shut ever since the last visitor was there,
and there is dingy smell that strug-
gle as calmly as possible with, until
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, l am not
a reformer. No, l 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 he an agriculturist, but 1 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-field 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 AMI 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 fish.
On the green hillside over yopder there
is quivering of snowy drapery, and
bright hair is flashing in the morning
sunlight. 1t is recess, and the Seminary
girls are running in the tall grass.
Looking at these girls reminds me that
1, too, was once young-and where are
the friends of my youth? 1 have found
one of 'em, certainly. saw him ride in
the circus the other day on bareback
cta ~
me from yonder 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 n declaimer on exhibition
days, used to wipe the rest of us boys
pretty handsomely out-well, Dashing-
ton is identified with the halibut and cod
interest-drives fish cart in fact from
a certain town on the coast back into
the interior. Hubertson, the utterly
stupid boy-the lunkhead who never had
his lesson-he's about the ablest lawyer
a sister state can boast. Mills is a news
paper man, and is just now editing q
Major General down South.
Singlinson, the sweet-voiced boy,
whose face was always washed and who
was real good, and who was never rude
-he is in the penitentiary for putting
his uncle's autograph to financial docu-
ment. Hawkins, the clergyman's son,
is an actor, and Williamson, the good
little boy who divided his bread and
butter with the beggar-man, is failing
merchant and makes money by it. Tom
Sink, who used to smoke short-sixes
and get acquainted with the little circus
boys, is popularly supposed to be the
proprietor of cheap gambling estab-
lishment in Boston, where the uncertain
prop is nightly tossed. Be sure, the
Army is represented by many of the
friends Of my youth, the most of whom
have given good account of them
selves. But Chalmerson hasn't done
much.
No, Chalmerson is rather of failure.
He plays on the guitar and sings love
songs. Not that he is a bad man. A
kinder hearted creature never lived, and
they say he hasn't yet got over crying
for his little curly haired sister who died
ever SO long ago. But he knows nothing