Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1893-06-10

| everybody to do the same He was clever
enough. but there wasn't ever any fun in him.
and he couldn't see the use Of it, You couldn t
eat it nor drink it. he said, and folks were put
into this world to make living. Twas pretty
hard on, Abner when he wanted learning so bad
1t was neat and drink 20 him. 1 don't know
! what would have become of him il they'd let
/ him have his head, but he'd been some sort of a
scholar, and likely as not made living by II. :"
"He run away" interpolated Uncle Arad
| from the doorsill
Yes" sighed Aunt Tishv. che ran away: and
when they got him back his father was con-
siderable stricter with him.
HE thrashed m" said Uncle Arad,
bending his neck to give Tabby comfortable
perch.
well, SO they said," replied Aunt Tishy
mildly. "and shouldn't wonder. His father
wasn't saint, and 1 suppose Abner was
trying But in these days they don't draw
the lines SO tort. Well, that boy would stay
up nights to read till they took his light
away; and then he'd get up as soon as he could
see. The minister lent him books all about
birds and beasts He was fond OF them him
| self. There was Whites Natural History Of
something that he read twenty times over, till
he could tell everything in it. Many a time has
he sat on that doorsill and told me things
couldn't hardly believe. Seems as if he'd die il
he couldn't get learning some way. I've seen
some OF the things he wrote out, and Parson
Todd said they compared favorable with pieces
|
making twas OF no use. The boy got so he
hated the sight of q last. and waxed end was
an abomination. and his folks just about went
distracted over him.
more fools they! piped Uncle Arad. "He
want the sort that goes wrong a-purpose.
| Ihey nagged an nagged enough to Spite the
soundest boy-timber that ever growed; till one
| DAY ne up an run away in good 'arnest, an
nobody to answer fort but his pa. Out west he
went, like many another. an picked up work
enough no shirk about him, an bymeby home
he come to marry our S'mlry. Folks flung out
| everything they could about him, but Jess ho
| stood up for Abner, an twas him, reckon,
heiped EN- get away. Parson Smith, over
noun tain. he married EN- one Monday mornin
afore breakfast. She'll tell ys the rest
| Well, said Aunt Tishy with comfortable
sigh, "tisn't much more to tell. He got work
to do and books 10 study. and Samiry wrote
| home that he was just good provider
as any man could be, and that she'd yet to sec
the day she was sorry. But 'twasnt moro than
two or three years before Abner took the fever
end died, and she came home with her baby.
and kind Of faded away to nothing. The old
folks did as we'll as they knew how for the baby
and never would give it up to his folks. Mother
Ridge was a good hand with babies, easy going
and always trying to excuse their ways. We
| used to say she recollected when she was little
She could see good in other folks children, too
| and was always laying up the reddest apples
| and the biggest but'nuts for them. But that
poor motherless baby didn't seem to belong to
Abner. He hadn't any spunk. You could put
him in one place and he'd stay there. When he
was big enough they tried him at shoemaking
| and he stuck to it. So he would to anything,
though he wouldn't have thought it out for him
self. When folks put things into his hands he
held on. It's born fool, they say, that
hasn't got any grip.
going man, though for the life Of me l couldn't
| feel drawn toward him. even for his poor
| fathers sake, and when his time came he got
married and settled down. They logged along
| pretty comfortable for some years. without any
children to keep them spry and looking into
things, so that when our Abner did come along
| late in the day, twas like miracle.
They do say family looks and other things
will likely as not skip generation and crop out
again. It's somehow like a piece of failow
ground. And Abners peculiar ways hadn't
been worked up much for one generation.
First anybody knew this child blazed right out.
| another Abner, the very image and super
scription Of his grandpa. They couldn't have
| named him better, though they didn't know
| it then. He's all books, books, books, and
| nobody to encourage him, only when he
comes over here of Sunday. l have to tell
him all about his grandfather. every single
| word. did hate to mention his pranks. but
there's no keeping anything back from this
one. I've told those same stories over and
over till half the time l don't believe them
myself. He lives over there on Davy's hill all
alone since the old gentleman died last winter.
One OF the neighbors cooks his breakfast and
supper and sess4 sto< hs-s.heuss and he carries
his dinner to school down there in the hollow.
expect he studies too much nights, but he
won't own up to it. We get him over here to
dinner Sundays, and when Uncle Arad goes
out to do the milking l make him talk over
his plans. But. poor boy! he'll be as old as
Methusaleh before he gets money enough to
60 to college. You're sure You haven't run
across him anywhere? Well, I must say
wonder at it, for l reckon you like to climb
| rocks and wade round in the swamp most rs
we'll as he does"
"Shes comm to the pint now" said Uncle
Arad. slowly getting up and Strengthening his
cramped muscles. II amt In O hurry but
mebby you two be. an I've seen better COM
modations than this ere door sill. Tell em
now, Aunt Tishy, what You was thinkin about
dom for Abner. Yo' see, for spell after we
got Jess money we use to lie awake nights
| about it. We couldn't take it with us. an we
hated dretfully to leave it. au we hedn't got
long to stay, though she's nigh onto twenty
year younger'n l be. An for one spell last
winter we'd lie an hear the wind squealn'
round the chimbly. an we d say, Les fix up
the oil house, an raise the ruff, an make it two
stories between jints. an put portico over the
south stoop with PLIERS But, land-a-massy!
what could we do with mansion over our
heads? 'Twouldn't it, Some creturs
can crawl out o their ole shells into
bigger ones an rattle round in 'em
till they grow to fill em out. Of they hev good
luck But was too old. 'Twould make a
kind o. division amongst the neighbors. too.
They wouldn't drop in after supper, friendly,
if we he'd a front room all fixed up with a
store carpet an sofy. She thought we'd
move the bed out an use the room common
But we'd miss it in case O. sickness Top
chamber rooms don't fit old folks with stiff
Jints. You wants to go right from the kitchen
fire to bed An a front room amt reel COM
Portable anyway yo' can fix it. You set round
kind o starchy like comply, an nothn' to
say. Folks amt plagued with idees when they
live in the front room. Now she II go on
Thus encouraged. Aunt Tishy took up the
dropped thread Of her story again, while the
cat crept out behind the rose bushes to lay
plans for a robin that stalked just beyond
reach.
"What l was coming to was about Abner.
We'd be glad enough to help him if only we
knew how. But that's the business that keeps
us awake nights. He's in favor Of giving the
boy enough right out to tako him square
through college; but 1 can't seem to see nv
way clear to it. OF course he's our folks, but
then--and I get to thinking it over and over
till it don't seem to have any sense I
shouldn't want folks to give me money that
they could use for themselves, and he's
enough like his grandpa to say he wouldn't
touch it. I'm free to tell you it's harder for
me not to hold on to money than tits for him.
It's partly in the blood. and it's partly bring