The progressive farmer. [volume] (Winston, N.C.) 1886-1904, 1894-07-17

Don't curse the scribbler, the idea
manufacturers, but give them a smile
and a kiss, a tear and a prayer. It
may be we sometimes paint false pic
lures; if so, forgive us for the pens
sake-lt is so hard to always push
straight and then the ink gives out
ottentlmes and we are so worried. Oh!
have mercy on the scribbler. And if
we, In our ramblings to and fro in the
mountains and valleys of the mind find
gems that strike your fancy, or sounds
that soothe your ear, or flowers whose
fragrance you love, then show your
appreciation By dropping the scribbler
a line of praise or giving. him a word
OF love. All, it is worth a good deal to
know that our IF ,rCs are appreciated
1T is an incentive to do better in the
future.
Now Joe Jackson is not ~pandering
for people to praise him, but he is
writing for his fellow-partner's bene-
tit. He has got to that position in life
where he don't expect anything much,
and besides he is fully aware that his
thoughts and words and deeds are too
worthless, too frail, too foolish to com
mand the readers notice, but there are
minds we'll worth your praise in North
Carolina, and it should be freely given.
Of course a tramp like me would treas
ure fondly to his heart every word of
sympathy spoken for him, but then
you know he has no one to share with
him his joy. Should he pen things
that would elicit the plaudits of the
mlghtiest men in the country and
should Joe Jackson's name be heralded
with praise all over the country and
should he be considered a writer of
matchless genius, still what would it
all amount to SO long as there is no
loved one to share with him his glory.
But If there was some tender heart
that beat in unison with his, that wept
when he wept and smiled when he
smiled, that would collect all these
kind notices and read them to him in
the silent eventide and help him enjoy
these blessed words of praise, ali, then
he might covet such things.
My pens good night. I'm weary, I'm
sleepy, I'm worn, good by, dear pen.
Thou never growest weary but the pen.
man does. I may die to night, dear
pen, but if I do don't weep for me for
some worthless hand will push thee on
and on and on. Thou hast been a noble
pen-so faithful and true, and I'm
sorry I've done 90 little with thee. II
does look like some poor world or
thought might have been penned that
would make the people glad after all
our efforts, but l reckon not. So good
night. If I die, then bye; if I live I'll
give to the world some more frail, tickle
stuff for conscience sake. Adieu, loved
pen. And 1 lay me down like a tireG
child and was o dreaming Of thai
glad day when the laboring people
we're happy and prosperous And, or
my countrymen, what a blessed dream
that was-the memory of it etiIl makes
me happy. Oh that men would, al
Mackay says,
Clear the way.
Men Of thought! be up and stirring
Night and day:
Sow and seed-withdraW the curtain
Clear the way.
Men of action, aid and cheer them,
AS We MAY!
There's a fOunt about to stream,
There's q light about to beam,
There's a warmth about to glow,
There's q flower about to blow,
There's a midnight ~blaCkness changing
Into gray;
Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!
ITO BE CONTINUED