The news & observer. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 1894-current, 1897-11-21
JUST Il CHRT.
BY W. E. CHRISTIAN

the nTids, Jr Sorrow" / am going TO
take the liberty of recalling here a
Thanksgiving experience that occurred
to him: it is all well meant and he IS
helpless in the matter, and there will be
no harm done. Among those things |
hold most precious" he said to a friend
one day, SIS the place / have in a certain
widowed mothers heart and the memory
of her grateful smile that used to come
in light to me along the streets during
the desolate days of 1879 1t was in
Memphis during the frightfnl fever
seourge. She had come seeking a favor:
she had gone leaving happiness that |
hope to have as part of my joy in the
great Thanksgiving service of the Re-
deemed
The story? In the rough,it was about
noon. and the pastor was at his post, in
his study, upheld in his loneliness and
sadness only by that deep ground swell
Of the spirit which at such times is the
life under these men of God unknown
Of the world. The ring at the door was
sharp, quick, decided. A woman Of
fifty. plainly clad, stood there she tried
to keep back the tears "Oh, he is dying,
sir" she almost sobbed. You do not
know me. sir; my church is without a
pastor; they are going to take my boy
to the Potter's field; would be willing
to sew or scrub, sir, yes, sir, on my hands
and knees to pay back the money to put
him away right"
The streets were silent, sepulchrally
silent under the suggestion of the pesti-
lence as the two hurried distinct in the
deserted Wilderness to the little home. He
could not have been twenty from his
young lace, and he was all she had; he
/ was just breathing-that was ALL And
yet in an hour that lad was being borne
to the cemetery-not to POtter's field.
1t had been quick work, the coffin and
the grave at Elmwood-but the good man
was back to sustain the poor woman
while the clods fell.
Could the intervening weeks have
wrought such a change? 1t was she
who rang the bell again, and pastor and
mother stood on the same spot of their
first meeting. The violence of grief
. had swept over and gone leaving the
face white, with that grief that fingers
like the ''murmur Of the harp when the
hand that swept it's chords is still" she
had been true to her word; she had
worked and had come to bring the mon
ey for the grave and the coffin and the
hearse; there was kind of gladness in
her face when she held it out in her
/ hand that had scrubbed and sewed for
it. The pastor told her he could not
| take the money, for the account had
been settled. Lots of folks might guess
the name Of this maxwell it's no harm
anyhow-it was Rev. DIR. Daniel, the
| beloved pastor Of the Presbyterian
church. / happen to know another incl
dent in which he was concerned, which,
| to me. at least was more touching than
/ this-but. no matter, / perfer keeping it
as a treasured Thanksgiving memory of
my own.
/ There is nothing complex in this kind
/ of thanks; it don't require theological
training, or profession of religion-I
know some people with both without any
such recollections. I'd like to konw
the experiences of all the preachers OF
this town or Of other tOWns-specially
little outskirt towns-thcy would I'll a
book--and a man would have to have
dull feelings to find such book dun.
TT one could look in too upon the family
dinings Thanksgiving Day, fashionable
or otherwise, | venture to say that he
would discern tone more softly tenn
pered than usual, and just as like as not
there would come some story that was
out Of the common run covering some
thoughtful deed somewhere. I happened
TO be at such a dinner on Thanksgiving
Day-cold and gusty in a big city.
There were an artist and his wife and
two young men invited guests. From
appearances the young artist could have
hardly been making q bare living. A