The Mt. Sterling advocate. (Mt. Sterling, Ky.) 1890-current, 1895-12-03

Used to be moro rose2 What did ]
say? Sweetheart, there, there, that
tear on your oheek-there, it's gone.
/ kissed it--there isn't another one
coming either, is there--no, bright
eyes--what did / say--not quite SO
much rose? Oh, no, ] didn't say
that--I oouldn did I--no-there's
none brighter, sweeter, roster than
my own loved little wife. And that
pretty song, what is it, something
about
sob, boat Of my lover, go softly, go safely,
Though the dear voice is silent, the kind
hand is gone,
But, oh, love me, my love, and III live till ]
Till our parting Is DER and our dark days
are donei
Sing it for me, darling, as you used
to sing it before--you we'll
And Eva sang it, voice rich with
feeling and sweet, sweetness born
of the more somber exigencies of
this sweet bitter life.
And, alas, too true 1t was that
hard work, poorly recompensed,
and little relaxation, had ravaged
and thinned and dimmed and drawn
lines. For Eva knew Gabe purpose
and was helping him out, and the
years had passed, and SURPRISES to
such, exceeding daily needs, accu-
mulate slowly, very slowly.
And it did seem to them, too,
sometimes, that the greater city was
urged to crush out their hearts. Bad
luck or evil fortune, or by whatever
name the student of effects and
causes would call it, seemed to catch
up with poor Gabe no matter how
hard he tried to keep ahead of it.
And bad luck has variety of alias
es. Sickness is one of it's familiar
names-the most familiar--when a
strong man who in health feels like
bearing the world on his shoulders,
Atlaslike, then finds it hard to lift
the spoon that carries food to his
mouth.
Then work at brushmaking he
could not get, and man can do bet
ter at his trade than elsewhere. And
between little tasks here and there
and poor little efforts by both it be-
came day by day wretched putting
forth for bread and that little sur
plus, ever making little more
progress toward that purpose, just
as day by day came a little more
weakness.
And when man is so held by a
purpose, through a fallen estate,
against ridioule and contempt, the
other man, or, whatever it is that is
to benefit by this purpose, is safe.
1t is the DANGEROUSLY heroic action
that the world applauds. The quiet,
steadfast, patient doer gets none of
the worlds applause. For the world
does not know of it, and the world
is not an acute listener.
A man who has been accustomed
to far different things, who by bod
lily strait and industrial uncertain
ties and native shrinking against
forcing himself to the front is COM
PEELED to some wretchedly mental
occupation, accepting the poor trifles
that will compensate for such serv-
ice, is far from striving for hero's
reward, though his aim be praise
worthy. To him the only applause
is a small voice, but that being all
that is hoped for, is quite enough.
And Gabe put up with it all-siok-
ness and hardship and indignity
and even the so sad memory of the
faded roses and thinning shoulders
"a memory only now-and a grave
thinking maybe of brighter day
to come. And one day there came
that did seem brighter. Gabe had
been asleep, and where he slept was
not grand place. For a moment
he turned his face to the room and
opened his eyes. Eva, dear" he
said so softly, Il am rested now.
think will get up and try again. l
sent the letter yesterday. How glad
Tom will be to get the money! Eva,
dear, my Coat-there-I must go.
Eva-oh, you're not there; no-I
remember.
And there was a smile on his face.
And he still lay.
That day is always brighter for
one like Gabe then. And he may
say indeed, Il feel so rested now"
Rested like one going to sleep.
And as in unbroken sleep the time
to awakening seems nothing, be-
cause not measured by conscious
ness and we note not times pass
ing, so maybe the passing of a mil
lion years to the awakening from a
profounder sleep into a recreated
world may be but as between this
night and morning.
Perhaps Tom Mead deserved lit