St. Paul daily globe., 1895-11-28
The Old Folks Rg
aSa That anksgiving.
Observation-Disclosures

L m right IildHhlul W you, loi tiis
warm fire and friendly greeting, for
was a bit discouraged when l came ur
the walk alone; but as soon as 1 saw
you somehow felt all right. After all,
home wouldn't be home without your
face near by. There's no friends like
old friends, you know"
Indeed, there amt" replied the dea-
con, emphatically. Let me see, it's
! twenty-eight years this fall, amt it,
since you and your husband moved
into this house? l remember Amanda
telling me about it when l came home
! that very night. Dear me, dear me,
+ and now my son is gone, your daugh-
; ters married and Westfield and Amanda
! in their graves. What a world of
change and sorrow" The deacon
brushed away a tear, and the good
woman by his side whisked her hand
kerchief suddenly to her eyes.
! Well deacon. the Lords ways are
not our ways. It's a lonesome life to
/ be left without a companion, to be
sure: but we mustn't be downhearted.
My husband and your wife have been
singin songs in glory these twenty
years, and it's not for us to wish 'em
back, however much we miss 'em. The
thing for us to do is to cheerfully per-
form our duty and think of our mer-
cies, not forgetting to be thankful.
And that reminds me, deacon. Can't
! YOU come over tomorrow and eat
] Thanksgivin' dinner with me? 1t must
! be lonesome with Selma married and
Eben gone. Come over; do"
The deacon glanced into the whole
some, kindly face, and grasped the
! firm hand heartily. "Well, l should
say I would come; I'll be real thank
full, too. 1 do get pretty tired of my
own company; that's fact.
With another good night the door
| closed and Mrs. Westfield went back
to her fire. Left alone the good woman
| Immediately fell into a reverie. She
sat by the fire some twenty minutes;
then rising began folding and putting
| her wraps away with her accustomed
! neatness.
"How foolish I am," she said aloud,
her face broadening into smile; but
! he was so glad to see me. Here I've
been a widow for twenty years, and he
a widower. But, there, I won't think
! a thing more about it, but if he should
ask me"
1t did snow, sure enough, in the
night, long and steadily, and the
I Thanksgiving morning that greeted the
| deacon as he opened his front door
| was a. beautiful one The early morn
| ing sun fell with dazzling brightness
! upon the spotless landscape, and each
| tree and shrub stood weighed to the
earth with its spotless, speckless bur-
| den.
| But better to the deacon's eyes than
| the beauty of the morning was the
| blue curling smoke that issued from
his neighbours chimney. He felt
| cheered and strengthened by the near
| ness of this cheerful friend, and he
| sang contentedly as he went about his
work The deacon's voice had lost but
| little of it's old-time vigor, and right
| royalty did he sing the good, old-fash-
ioned hymn:
When all thy mercies, oh, my God,
My rising soul surveys,
| Transported by the view, I'm lost,
In wonder, love and praise.
The true spirit of Thanksgiving had
| gotten fast hold of him al last. He had
| seen sorrow and trouble, and he had
| been lonely and unhappy; but he would
never be so again, for the vision of a
! comfortable, womanly, motherly face
| rose before him, and he felt comfort
| ed. He had one friend left him, at
| least; a tried and true one that he
had known for thirty years. And as
| he thought of her this Thanksgiving
! morning a sudden resolution filled his
| breast He would ask her to marry
! him. He went over to the mirror and
| gazed at the reflection there with cal
! culating glances. The face he saw as
long past it's first youth, and there
wo'e wrinkles and lines in plenty
and white hair; but the eyes were kind
| and their expression gentle.
"I'll ask her anyway" thought he,
determinedly. "She can't more than
say Mo- and Amanda wouldn't care;
1 know she wouldn't. She always
wanted me to be happy, and if she's
busy singin' in glory, she won't grudge
| me few years of comfort here below;
! and 1 do,'' said the deacon to himself,
81 do actually love her; I knew it as
| soon as she turned the corner last
night
| The good man laid out his Sunday
g, clothes and brushed his best coat en-
\
and gazed at the coat in surprise, for
in one of the sleeves was huge rent.
Now, I wonder how in the world
I did that" gasped the deacon in as
| tonishment. Max, did you?" But
Max only wagged his tail and looked
wise, and with a groan, the deacon
| got out Selina's work-basket that she
had fitted up for his use. He thread
| ed a needle slowly and laboriously
with a thread quite yard too long,
$50 it'll last longer" he thought.
! He pricked his fingers, the thread
! grew tangled; but he persevered,
| and bungled up the sleeve,
man fashion. But he looked
| very nice in spite of it when he was
. dressed, for Deacon Humphrey was a
remarkably well-preserved man. His
hair, though quite white, was thick
and abundant, his figure erect, and his
eyes still bright, and-he was extreme
ly we'll dressed, which, no doubt, had a
great deal to do with his looks.
Mrs. Westfield saw him on his way
to church. "Bless me, that turkey
must go in this minute thought the
F.! good woman, and suiting the action
! to the word that toothsome article
| of diet was speedily put to roast
81 believe I'll ask Patience Warner
! to come over, too," was the next
| thought that came into her head as
| she saw the tall, angular woman in a
! gray dress go by.
"Oh, Miss Patience, Miss Patience -
. called voice, and Miss Patience