The St. Johns herald., 1892-04-28
HOW MARGIE DIED.
Pathetic Incident of a Railway
 Travellers Journey.
A Homely Story from the Daily Life of Homely Peopie-The Mis- takes of Life of TciI
 and DrudSery.

The train was half a hundred miles out of Chicago, headed for the city, and at little station an old farmer came aboard. He was a little, weazcned man, with sensitive mouth half con- cealed by an iron-gray beard. His ill., fitting clothes were evidently his most uncomfortable best and he moved awk- wardly and stifly in them. There were no vacant seats, says the Chicago Mail, and after some hesitation he slid softly into one occupied by grave stranger, intent upon his paper. The old man was ill at ease and as he turned care worn, haggard face toward the brown, flying landscape it showed marks of some recent trouble. The stranger laid aside his paper after awhile and half wistfully the old man glanced at him. He spoke at last, with strange huskiness. 'fl'm goin' to the city for the second time in my life," he said, half startled at his own voice.
 "Yes?" and in the intonation of the others there was an invitation to go on.
 ''The second time, repeated the old man; thirty year ago, come. June, I went there for a weddin' suit, and I'm a-goin' back there to-day for coffin and shroud for-thc little woman that married me-
 His voice broke, and turning again to the window he looked out upon the dull, cold landscape and was silent many minutes.
 "You don't know what it is, mister; you can't understand" and he was cry ing very softly and hopelessly. "You don't know what it is to live and work 'longside of a woman for thirty years, day in and day out, to find her always patient and willin' and worlxin'-and then leave her a-layin' dead and cold with her worn-out hands crossed on her breast. You don't have no idee what it is" and the sleeve of the old man was drawn apologetically across his eyes.
 ''I've ben thinlzin' good deal since last night when Margie died; it kinder puts man to his thoughts. It was just little after the turn O the night, and nobody but me was watchin', when she kinder woke up, like, as if she'd ben asleep.
 "'David,' says she, its restful-so restful, and took hold of her hand; is that you a-singin', David?' says she. Go on, but hadn't sung a word and couldn't a done it-'go on, David, says she, and I'll be restin', for I'm so tired. And so she went to sleep again and walked up in eternity.
 ''And do you know, stranger, them words O her'n have set me to thinkin'. Poor, tired souli and 1 never thought how much she needed rest I thought es 1 set there, watchin' her breath a-goin' out last night, that mebbe we'd make a mistake of it all. We never thought of it while we was a-worl1in' and a-skimpin' and a-savin'-tryin' to make both ends meet and to lay up somethin' for the children. But l thought about it all last night when only me and her was waitin' for the last. She never had no pleasure. She never took no holidays nor visited like other wimmin. She raised the chil- dren and stopped pigs and milked cows and churnod and cooked for harvest hands. l never knowed nor thought how she done it all till I saw them poor, crossed hands with little white posies in 'em. Some 'un O the neighbors put lem there, and it kinder choked me when looked. I knowed she'd never had no time for posies when she might have smelled 'em. She didn't have time for nothin' but the thorns, mister, and-thats what hurts me-
 After moment he looked up through his tears.
 "Some folks may flow it won't do no good, mister" and his voice grew stronger; but I'm a-goin' to see that she's put away in somethin' rich. We wasn't skimpin' and savin' thirty year for this, but I'm a-goin' to have the best moneyn buy. She's earned it, God knows; and she's earned somethin' else-she's earned that white raiment that the good book says is washed in the blood of the Lamb"
 The old mans voice sunk into that reverend whisper so common to the God fearing of his class at the utterance of holy things, and in the silence which followed he sunk into a reverie. He was awakened from 1t only by the stopping of the train at Van Buren street. At the door of the car he shook hands with his companion and a mo- ment later was swallowed up in the crowd.
 1t was pitiful-all of it. And yet there was passenger on that train who is the better man for recalling it; the better man for the recollection of the old farmers look and gesture, and for the thought that there are silver handles to the coffin that holds his sacred dust, lying out under dark mound amid the barren brown of an Illinois prairie.
 He Wanted to Say Good-By.
 During the reign of Frederick Great one of the singers of the Berlin opera left clandestinely, in order to re- turn to Italy. The king immediately