The progressive farmer. [volume] (Winston, N.C.) 1886-1904, 1898-01-11

ing right IN 60 dgnG Tor MS nanny.
It always brings the tears TO my eyes,
somehow, when I come in contact with
that manful little chap of Jack Con
nor's."
Peter Glass was not the only one
whose heart softened for Jack Connor's
son Aye, many an eye wept and
many a heart bled for him when the
little fellow ceased to appear on the
hill above the railroad track.
1t was June, glad, sunshiny June,
when Jacks mother went one morning
to call on a sick friend, an old neighbor,
at the station lst above Antioch.
Jack thought he had never seen SO
fair a day-the sun shone, the birds
sang, and the flowers were every
where.
You can come to meet me attwelve
o'clock, Jack" his mother said, as she
kissed his cheek. "I1l be sure to come
on that train unless something hap
pens"
I'll be here mother" said Jack, 'to
every train until you come"
The sun still shone when the train
came in 81 noon. Jack thought the
whistle sounded mournful, somehow.
And the engine slowed up" sooner
than usual, so that the train came in
''slow and solemn like.
And the telegraph operator had laid
his hand in q very gentle way on the
boys head as he hurried past him.
And Engineer Robinson never once
looked out to speak to him. The fire
man, too, turned his face the other
way and was busy with his shovel.
The brakeman leaned on his brake and
never lifted his eyes as the cars pulled
up. Jack thought it all very strange.
Here / am, mother"
The conductor cleared his throat
when the we'll known welcome rang
rang through the train. Passengers
turned from the windows and put their
handkerchiefs to to their eyes, as if the
sight of an eager little face aglow with
expectation and delight were painful
to them.
Here I am, mother" He was scan
ming every face eagerly, longingly,
when the conductor stepped out.
Jack" he said, ''she isn't aboard"
A shadow fitted across the bright
c~ountenance. The conductor took the
boys hand in his and held it close.
Jack, my boy" he said, you must
be a man. Your mother has not come
will not come, Jack. Your mother
is dead, my son."
And the sun still shone, but for Jack.
He never knew the terrible story,
how in stepping from the train her
foot slipped and she fell beneath the
wheels, which passed over her body.
He lever knew-for from that day he
never knew anything, except that she
never came back to him.
Day after day when the whistle
sounded a little figure was seen to climb
the wood piie-Jerry Cranes wood pile
now-to watch for his mother.
Here l am, mother, the shrill, clear
voice would ring out. And when the
train had passed on some would
explain: Its poor Jack Conner come
to meet his mother" They grew &C
customed to seeing him there as the
days drlfted into years. Every train
until you come back" he had said
and day or night, winter or summer,
the trainmen would see the cottage
door open, and knew it was Jack wait
ing for his mother.
One day they missed him; he was i'll,
raving with fever. Jerry Cranes wife
bent over his pillow; the poor little life
was going. At ten o'clock he opened
his eyes.
us No. 6 in yet2' he asked.
mot yet, JACK" they told him.
He smiled and closed his eyes again.
She'll be here on that train" he
said. II must go down to meet her
when No. 6 comes in"
At eleven he started and sat up in
hbed. us she in yet2" he asked. lis
No. 6 in2"
mot yet, Jack, dear" they told him,
and he dropped back among his pillows,
where he lay for an hour talking, first
to the engine, then to Engineer Robin.
son. Then his mind wandered to his
father and the night he died.
"'Ssick to your engine and stand by
your mother, jack" they heard him
whisper.
At midnight a whistle sounded sharp