Kansas City daily journal., 1897-01-03
THE HOMECOMING OF JOB.

Florence Henniker, in London Weekly Sun.
1 know that the world, this world of ours,
VIII never a moment stop
To see which dog may be in the fault
But will shout for the dog on top.
But for me, shall never pause to ask
Which dog may be in the right,
For my heart will beat, while it beats at ALL
For the under dog in the fight.
The rain fell in miniature cascades from
the station roof, swelling the puddles by
the line into one swirling yellow stream.
The harsh easterly wind shook the forlorn
little shelter intended for passengers, and
swayed the holly and laurel bushes that
grew beside it with brutal harshness.
There We're very few travellers by the late
afternoon train from London, and only one
alighted at the small country station. He
was slight, dark man, with patches of
gray in his beard, and an anxious, depre-
eating expression in his eyes. His luggage
consisted of one shabby bag, and a torn
plaid that hung damp over his arm.
In the teeth of the gale, that made the
use of an umbrella an impossibility, the
man walked slowly along the slushy path
and handed his soaked ticket to the sta
ton master.
"Very unreasonable weather, SIR" said
the latter, eying a row of undelivered
Christmas hampers, through which
glimpses of feathers and fur were visible,
The stranger drew up his coat collar.
You don't know me- Jackson" he asked
abruptly, with an odd laugh.
The official puckered his forehead into a
series of wrinkles.
81 beg your pardon, sir, I am afraid I
can't say as l do
II am Job Collins" said the passenger.
well, never! Old Mr.. Collins son as
went toilet me see, wherever was it?"
Mexico" interposed Job.
''YeS, MeXico-to make his fortune"
The station master glanced at the shabby
luggage and regretted that last observa-
tion.
Again the stranger broke into his strange
unmirthful laugh.
And how are the old people?" he asked.
ITS many long day since heard word
from them or anybody else at home"
Going strong and WELL" said the sta
tionmaster, rubbing his cold hands to-
gether. so you've come to keep Christ
mas with them, eh?''
Job Collins nodded and, carrying his
small bag, went down the steps, out into
the dreary country road.
All over the bare eXpanse of plow that
lay to left and right no living creature
moved, saving a few hungry rocks The
hedges, stripped of all leaf and almost
every perry, QuNereQ under the DlJnS
blast. Yellowish gray clouds hinted of
coming snow. Job hurried along in the
sticky mud, splashing through the pools
that trembled in the wind. At last he
reached the village, where a few furtive
CLEANS Of light shone out. He stopped in
front of q house of somewhat more pre-
tentious appearance than the rest in the
| street. It adjoined a grocer's shop, and
| both shop and dwelling were the property
Of old Elisha Collins, church warden, auc-
tioneer, and general censor of morals OF
the community in which he had lived for
some seventy-five years.
Job glanced up at the curtained window,
through which streaks of light filtered, to
shine pale upon the wet road. He shivered
little, hesitated, took a step forward and
step back, and went slowly on past the
door. AT the end of the street he came to
another familiar house-a market gar
! dener's-and here he drew in his breath
sharply. 1t was through that gate that
she used to come-more than twenty years
ago. He could remember her so plainly,