Greenbrier independent. [volume] (Lewisburg, Va. [W. Va.]) 1859-1980, 1896-05-07
MISCELLANEOUS.
The Turn OF the Wheel.
A TRAVELLERS STORY.

| Inc paSseDReTS Smlleu
For the twentieth time the man
in the middle of the car was rear
ranging his luggage. A dozen time;
before they had supposed he was pre-
pairing to leave the train, but he
stayed on.
"Do you think he is going this
time ?" said lady on the opposite
side of the car to her husband.
Igiveit up," he responded. "It
looks like it, but he looked like it be.
FORE"
And he didn't go. Stations came
and went, but he remained, only
seeming to get more nervous as we
neared New York.
81 think the man is crazy" said
the lady.
But he didn't look like an insane
person, though his actions were GER
tainly queer.
Sometimse he would drop his head
on his breast in deep thought. Then
he would smile-softly at first, but
the smile would grow wider and
come a burst of laughter; but be-
fore it broke out he would suddenly
remember where he was, and put
his hand over his mouth, or turn and
look out of the window.
Once when he opened his big port
manteau, the lady observed that it
was filed with parcels, and when he
peeped into one of the packages
with satisfied smile, she discovered
a piece of dress goods of very gay
pattern; again, she saw doll's legs
sticking out of parcel, and then
she concluded he was good husband
taking bag full of presents home
to his family. She knew this must
be so when she saw him take pho
tograph from his pocket, and kiss it
slyly when he thought no one was
looking.
AT last, after examining his watch
half dozen times, and holding it
to his ear to discover if it had not
stopped, he turned to the gentleman
at the other side of the car, and in
quired the time. The gentleman
told him, and then he wanted to
know if the train wasn't late. No,
1t was on time.
"Some way I thought it was late,"
said the stranger.
You're pretty anxious to get
through, I imagine" returned the
gentleman.
Yes; and the trains 80 slow; it
seems to me it will never get there.
I've been five days on the road
Come through from San Francisco"
"Do you live there ?'
"NO, l live in New York." he re-
turned, "bnt I've been gone two
years, and Pm getting pretty ner-
vous. Some way IL doesn't seem
possible Pm hack"
Have you a family in New
York ?"
"We!l, / should say !" he ex-
claimed, rubbing his hands and smil-
ing. There was pause for mo-
ment, and then he took photograph
from his pocket and passed it over
for examination. That's my wife.
1t was taken ten years ago, and looks
kind o. old-fashioned, I guess, but
it's all the one I've got"
They looked at it with interest,"
1t was pleasant face, a hopeful face
"a face to trust and depend upon.
"Have you children, too?" queried
the lady. Strange what trivial
things interest and attract us on a
railway train.
"One," he replied "a girl eight
years of age; we had little boy,
too, eighteen months old, but he died
year ago."
"Ah, that was too bad" said the
lady.
(" Yes," he responded "and she
had written me 80 much about him
that l felt just as if I'd been with
the little fellow right along. / de-
clare. when she wrote he was dead
some way / had to sit down and cry
over IL just as If he had been grown
up, you know. / couldn't help 1t
but l think ir was on her account
more than the baby's that felt bad
She was 80 wrapped up in him, anC
had worn herself out trying to save
him. And alone, too, and poor, yor
know 1t was mighty tough"
"And you've been gone two years, ,
said the lady. "Won't she be glaC
to see you, though !"
81 guess so !" he replied, conf
IDENTIFY. "And I've got some gooC
news for her, 1 tell you - He hesi
tated few moments, then said:
"It was a hard struggle to live II