The Forest Republican. [volume] (Tionesta, Pa.) 1869-1952, 1898-03-23

%<#170EVr,s1TffNlSA up from the DooK
he was reading
and then rose with a 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 to
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 for
the first of February; the rain, indeed,
was similar to summer shower
Small torrents rushed madly along the
pavements, the window-panes ratified
vehemently, and then suddenly there
was a silence and up above the oppo-
site house-tops stretched the varie-
gated ribbon in the sky.
John Powel's lips parted in smile
as he thought of the pot of gold away
off at the end of the rainbow and of
various other things connected there
with. Years ago, very long ago it
seemed to him, he had lived out in the
country in weather-board house
situated on grassy hillside. Now he
was floor walker in the great dry
goods store of Jones & Cashall. The
young fellow had good mind. you
could tell by the expression of his
eyes, and that he was resolute and
true showed in his firmly set lips; in
fact, his whole appearance indicated
khn 4 -
honorably would hold an honorable
position in life
With the sudden sunshine and the
rainbow, a third beautiful thing made
its appearance, flock of white pigeons
circled about in the dazzling glory,
and then settled tumultuously upon
the window-ledge, whereupon John
Powell threw up the sash with rap
turous welcome. In little while he
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 not
vanish as he called the pigeons by
names of his own choosing. But he
no longer wished to live in the coun-
try; he had ambitious dreams connect
ed with the firm of Jones & 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 a good idea for
man situated as he was situated to
marry. He was we'll able to marry;
home was a sure thing to keep aman
steady and Industrious; it gave him
the greatest possible interest in life.
81 am certain that Miss Rosie is
everything that a man could wish.
Isn't she, Snowdrop," he asked, gen.
tly caressing the friendliest of the
pigeons. She has made that third
story Of the corner house around yon-
der hcme for herself and her mother.
ALI 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, /
know you do" He gave half-trou-
bled sigh. He did not want to make
a mistake where such a 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 a warm glow crept into his
cheeks; "but I'm sure she wouldn't
do. She's spent years Of her life be-
hind 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 good daughter, and she
will make a good wife, ell, Snowdrop?
The man who gets her will be
lucky fellow, will he not?'
Again the bird cooed.
81 wonder who will get the other
one!" said the young fellow, still
speaking to the bird. 'Of course ne
won't be lucky, but 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 sure she
has it sometimes. Yes, marriage is a
lottery l daresay the man who mar