Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1894-05-02

son. When l was a gal, Joe, was call
ed good looking, though you wouldn't
believe it now''
"Of course l believe it-you know
do, mother!" interrupted Joe, with such
fervor that the pleased, unready color
IS there anything in the world so dea1
and pitiful as an old woman's blush?-
crep5 into her cheek
AN so Willie took likin to me, an
on our last trip that season when we
was a-lyin to at Lockport minister
that ran a little mission on the docl;
came down to the boat an married us.
Father would have us married Oh Tho
Wandering I had a green meri
no dress-it's in the little trcrl1 with
your baby clothes, Joe-an the next day
me an Willie had our daGcrry types tax
en- together. 1t hangs ever my bunk,
yer know-it amt bad of me, but ii
don't do jestice to Willie
1.-THE next year you come along, Joe,
a4 how proud we all was of you! l felt
II lder sorry you didn't have big blue
81 es like yer father, but there, we can t
h e everythipl It seemed as if the
klkM Esd' goAe back 25 years when l
see you a-sittin by father tied into my
little old cheer. Father never seemed to
git rightly over his accident He was
more civil an didn't swear an drink so
much, an some time he'd look at the
foul water an shudder an then look at
Willie so grateful it'd bring tears to my
eyes. One winter, in the old tavern at
Lockport, when he'd been ailin fur a
week or so, he says to me, My gal, you
will soon have two Willies to look ar
ter-Willie yer husband an Willie the
boatp I told him not to talk like that,
but he jest turned over in bed an didn t
seem to hear me. He didn't speak nor
stir when the doctor come, nor till the
next mornin, when he springs up in
bed an calls out loud an sharp, Low
bridge, low bridget Them was the last
words ever he spoke"
She paused to wipe her eyes on her
apron.
"Well, I'm maxim long story out of
it, amt I, dearie? But it seems every
time I tell it as if it might be the last
time. There amt much more now. We
worked on, year in, year out-fur you,
Joe. 1t was only two year ago last spring,
though it seems like 20, that Willie be-
gun to fail. He had doctors an medi-
cines, but they didn't do no good. They
work. They said the fresh air would be
the best thing fur him, so we staid OF
the boat all summer as usual, only he
sat an rested while the men worked
We couldn't very well have spared the
profits OF even one trip, fur you were
at college, you know, Joe But he got
worse an worse, an at last I made up my
mind as soon as ever we got to Buffalo
I would take him to the tavern an tel
egraph fur you.
Zone afternoon in August we was 60
in into Buffalo, jest passin along under
the bluff, with the lake an river on the
other side, SO broad an blue you couldn't
tell where the lake ends an the river be-
gins. Willie lay back in a big easy chair
under an awnin, jest where we're sit
tin now, an l was holdin the tiller-I
hain't ever had the strength to do it
sence, Joe; I've been all broke up late
ly. There had come an awful gray look
on his face in the last mile or two that
frightened ME SO didn't dare ask him
how he felt, but now an agin he'd smile
at me with his big blue eyes, that was
jest as pretty that day, Joe, as they was
the fust evenin l saw him. At last
says, as the COOL strong wind off the
lake blew over us, It's nice breeze,
amt it, Willie?' An he says, Yes, lass,
but it's talzin my soul along with it.
An had only time to drop on my knees
by him an kiss him once before it was
all over. An ever sence, when we slip !
along by that bluff, I feel the same
breeze that took his soul away with it. "
Her tears ran unchecked for some
minutes before she resumed
That's all, Joe-that's why | can't |
never leave the canal an this old boat. |
I sometimes feel as if cared more fur
it than do fur you. Of course tain n'tso
Il only jest feel So The boat belongs |
to my whole life some way-but you're |
SO young an such a stranger from bein |
away so much-but there, l KEEP assay |
in all these years it'd be all right when |
you was home fur good, we'd be jest the |
same as if you d never gone away! Such |
store as your father sot by your fust fig |
gers an writin, Joe! I don't know what
he'd have said, nor your grandfather
either, to see the French an Latin an
Greek books in yer cabin nowp'
And her brown eyes, so like Jde's
1o1 hi xxrifh ir,raoor,t
pride, only to cloud suddenly.
"But it would have shamed them,
Joe, an angered your grandfather most
terrible, to think their work want good
enough fur you to follow in. An I'm
lonely old woman, Joe-say that you'll
stay an keep me comp'ny. 'Twon't be
fur very long,
Mother, said Joe very gently, 81
want to do what is right by you and by
myself. Give me an hour Or SO to de-
eide. 1 don't want to be bad son to
such a good MOTHER
"You couldn't be bad if you tried,
Joe,'' said his mother fondly. At that
moment Jenny's young voice called mer-
rily, "Supper, superb and Joe, having
uOuSSu tHo SltSpluS Iudu dIlu Tollu- |
quished the tiller to him, sat down with
the two women and ate the plain, care
lessly served meal Then the man ON
the towpath came on board for rest and
surrendering to Joe the
guidance of the mules.
He could have laughed at his situa-
tion, only that its grotesqueness was so
inseparably mingled with pain and per-
plexity. He thought as he walked along
of the ill matched team Ulysses drove,
of Apollo's magnificent coursers, of the
snowy Paphian doves that bore Venus
through the blue ether, and the more
of these classical steeds and drivers he
recalled the more incongruous and alb
surd his own position seemed. He felt
that he was better fitted to teach my
thology than to drive mules. And yet it
would break his mothers heart if he
left her. She had said he would not
need to stay long. He shrank from spec
ulating on her death, but if she were to
live 10 years, for instance? What high
hopes and aspirations might he not for
get, what vile habits Of thought and
speech and manner might he not acquire
in 10 years?
At 8 o'clock he gave up the lines to