Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1898-03-05

W ,Nj\yV%jEl turbed the occu
XsasSN\SSUZ$InI pant, who looked
.EaAssSsTMS.-...sMGA up from the bool
he was reading
and then rose with yawn. He was
not particularly fond of rainy Sunday
afternoons, but he walked across the
room to the window and stood gazing
out with apparent interest. The
streets were deserted except for few
pedestrians hurrying to the corners tC
catch the cars; but the street-cars
coming in from the parks were crowd
ed, for earlier in the day the weather
had been beautiful. 1t was warm fol
the first of February; the rain, indeed
was similar to summer shower
Small torrents rushed madly along the
pavements, the window.panes rattleC
vehemently, and then suddenly there
was silence and up above the oppo
site house-tops stretched the varie
gated ribbon in the sky.
John Poweps lips parted in smile
as he thought of the pot of gold away
off at the end of the rainbow and ol
various other things connected there
with. Years ago, very long ago il
seemed to him, he had lived out in the
country in weather-board house
situated on II grassy hillside. Now he
was u hoor-walker in the great dry
goods store of Jones & Cashall. The
young fellow had Il good mind. yor
could tell by the expression of his
eyes, and that he was resolute an6
true showed in his firmly set lips; in
fact, his whole appearance indicated
the man destined to succeed, one wllt
honorably would hold an honorable
position in life.
With the sudden sunshine and the
rainbow, third beautiful thing made
it's appearance, a flock of white pigeons
circled about in the dazzling glory
and then settled tumultuously upon
the window-ledge, whereupon Johr
Powell threw up the sash with rap
turous welcome. In little while ht
was scattering liberal repast among
his greedy friends.
That house on the green hillside
brought to the young mans mind to-
gether with the pot of gold, did moi
vanish as lie called the pigeons by
names of his own choosing. But he
no longer wished to live in the coun
try; hc had ambitious dreams connect
ed with the firm of Jones a. Cashall
there was one thing, however, that he
wanted above all others, and that was
home. This room was the place
where he stopped--his lodging; three
blocks away was the place where he
ate his meals, his dining-room. He
felt his homelessness and loneliness
very much as he fed the pigeons, while
the variegated ribbon gradually faded
out in the sky.
John Powell had told himself time
and again that it was good idea fol
man situated as he was situated to
marry. He was we'll able to marry;
home was n sure thing to keep man
steady and industrious; it gave him
the greatest possible interest in life.
81 am certain that Miss Rosie is
everything that u man could wish.
Isn't she, Snowdrop," he asked, gen.
tly caressing the frienlliest of the
pigeons. She has made that third
story of the corner house around yon-
der home for herself and her mother.
All of its windows are hanging with
bloom; her canaries hop about on the
cage and take flies in the sunshine,
but never dream of deserting; and you
pigeons, you look upon her as the per-
fectiOn of the good and beautiful, I
know you do He gave half-trou.
bled sigh. He did not want to make
mistake where such momentous
thing as marriage was concerned; he
wanted to marry woman as good as
his mother. eyes, L like the other
little girl, too," he acknowledged,
while n warm glow crept into his
cheeks; "but Tn sure she wouldn't
do. She's spent years of her life be-
hind a ribbon counter; she's awfully
delicate looking to work as hard as
she does; but she's fond of dress and
gayety: too fond of dress to
begin life with poor man. But Miss
Rosie is all right; isn't she, Snow,
drop?"
Snowdrop cooed.
''She is n good daughter, and she
will make good wife, ell, Snowdrop?
The man who gets her will be a
lucky fellow, will he not?"
Again the bird cooed.
Il wonder who will get the other
one!" said the young fellow, still
speaking to the bird. "Of course he
won't be lucky, hut he'll think he is.
She's never late at the store, and she
never complains of the headache like
the other girls, though I'm cure she
has it sometimes. Yes, marriage is a
lottery. I daresay the man who mar
ries our Miss Merriman will he of the
opinion that he has drawn prize"
Snowdrop gave peck at her friends
finger and flew away in the wake of
the flock, and John Powell drew down
the sash and went back to the table
and resumed his chair. But there
was still an attraction remaining on
the windowsill, box filled with some
thing green and growing. From
among the green divided leaves arose
tho red buds of the clover soon to
blossom.
"Thev look as If they had been
grown in the far pasture" said John,
full of his home longing. and then he