The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1892-04-13
IN A SNOWSTORM.

The snow was whirling down silent
ly, throwing its pure beauty even over
the dirty, grimy streets, sooty high
chimneys and ugly square factories of
the Northern manufacturing town.
But the poor soul who came shiver-
ing from the hospital steps into the
comparatively quiet white street did
not see this unusual beauty. He was
thinly clad and the piercing north
wind cut through him.
He had been discharged as cured,
word which seemed a CHASTITY mockery
if you looked at the white, drawn face
and heard the racking cough which
shook his enfeebled frame. But what
can be done in such cases? Others
were waiting to take his place, and he
was well enough, the doctor said to
leave.
He told them in the hospital that he
was going back "to th' ould place."
mentioning a village some miles dis
tant and which he had not seen for
many years; for when taken i'll in Lon
don he had been drawn as by mag
net noFthward, and with a sick mans
longing thought he would get well if
only he could breathe again his fresh
native air and see the home unvisited
so long.
No one knew his story, saving that he
had been brought in by a friendly
policeman, who found him when on his
beat lying desperately i'll in the shelter
of doorway. He had no friends that
he could find, he said,so they admitted
him.
It was the oft-told tale. John Lear
was country lad who left home to
find work and had left, too, behind
him a girl to whom he was to return
when he had made home for her.
That home had never been made, nor
had he had any fate but hard times.
Gradually he drifted lower and
lower, still, however, honestly strug
Cling for work. He had said when
leaving Mary Romer, that he would not
come back till he had a home for her,
and she had waited, wearying through
long years for news, while she, too,
worked for her bread and kept her
fathers house till the report came that
John Lear was dead.
Dead, indeed, he was to her, for no
word came from him-to him, too, it
had ended-in illness from want and
then the hospital. Now he was dis
charged, with the longing for home
| strong in him. He would make his
way home; perhaps the Squire or some
farmer would give him work; he would
not trouble Mary Romer, but he must
see the old place. This last desire
overpowered all others.
1t was a weary tramp, always
through the binding snow, to his des-
tination. Hard enough for a whole
man in such weather, but Well-nigh
| impossible to him in his weakness.
But he was true north country in pluck
and doggedness. His poor, thin clothes
clung to him, though the heavy drops
gathered often on his forehead and his
worn boots got clogged with snow, but
he trudged on patiently, asking nc
help, pausing only when his cough
caught him with a sharp pain, and he
had to stand still to ease his painting
breath.
He had a little money which had
been given him by the kindly doctors
to help him, for his honest, simple
courage had won on them; but it was
his fixed idea that this must be KEEP
to pay for food and lodging when ht
reached the village, so that he nigh
not disgrace his name by returning s
beggar.
Resting perforce at intervals, spend
ing as little as possible on food just t.
help him on, he walked through th'
day. Nightfall came. Still the snow
swirled down, making drifts by tn
hedges and stinging his face as i
eddied round him in the wind. Th
smoky town was far behind; he wa
among his own wolds now, and il
spite of the leveling, obliterating e1
fects of the snow his eager eyes trace
well known landmarks in the dir
light.
"It is but a sma' bit now," he NUT
tered; 81 nun see t. old place, thong
they are all gone, most like" A col
tage or two by the road and twinklin
liGhts further on showed he was neal
inc the village. at is her house, br
I couldna go there" he went on, as b
passed a small cottage. "Pll knock 8
\ the farm. No one will know me-" b
added, scornfully, ga poor clemme
body, but tits t. ould place, sure"
A little further on he came to
larger, more substantial house, whic
was the farm. Entering the gate an
going up the tagging path, he knocke
at the door. A bright, buxom-lookin
8 woman opened it. She did not recoi
J nize him, but he knew her at glant
as Mary Romer, his old love. A lit
, pirl clung to her skirt and peept
. around at the strange man.
He stared and stared at her. 1t 3
flashed across him. She had marFiC
z Farmer Brownie remembered ne
he was an old admirer. So it wa
Z having heard he was dead in Londo
that far bourne from which so fe
Or travellers returned, she had accept,
e. her well-to-do and constant suitOr,p
suaded to this by friends, who urg
"what use to wait for a man who, if n
W dead, had never Youchsafed her O.
y word of news?"
He asked hurriedly: "Could he ha
q warm by the fire?"
"Eh, poor soul, COON in," she sal
n holding the door wide open, coon
and warm; tits cruel, bitter nigh
Without word he followed her in
the bright, warm room.
"You'Ye travelled far and lo' was
like" she said.
n. Eyes, [ am from the hospital"
IA answered, and sank down weari
III coughing. He was too dazed by
W. light and heat and shock OF seeing
to speak for some little time. She's
inc this, busted herself in getting son
thing for him. Mechanically he tc
it from her.
AS he grew better his eyes follow
n. her every movement and he repl
vaguely to her questions. "Did