The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1898-02-17

apology. Genius sometimes halts-
and if my article goes on crutches
that much greater reason that | should
have the readers sympathy
For remember stopping by the way
To watch potter humping his wet clay;
And with it's all obliterated tongue
1t murmured gently, brother, gently,
play"
There may not be much romance or
genuine pleasure in the hard lines
that beset the tramp of to-day, but
the happiest days the writer ever
knew were when he first entered the
ranks of the wandering fraternity and
kicked the dust from town to town
some twenty-eight years ago. 1t is
true that at that time, outside of the
scattering buns that infested the
country at the close of the civil war,
the genuine hobo with his pictures
que garments and faithful tomato can
was a class unknown. The thrifty
hOusekeeper of that day had not
learned the necessity of giving the
marble heart to a weary wayfarer
begging for something to eat; and it
was seldom that he was ordered to
leave barn or out-building where he
had sought shelter for the night or
from a sudden storm.
Hard as the existence or life of a
tramp seems to be there is certain
fascination and sense of freedom in it
all akin to the spirit of bold Robin
Hood and his merry foresters, which
led them to shun the useful walks of
life and live at their ease, free as the
deer that walked the forests of old
England in the long ago.
began tramp life at the age of Is,
having grown tired of seeking for sor-
did wealth on the meager pay of
''picker boy in large wooden fac
tory. My chum and l had talked it
all over in our long walks to the river
where we went after the factory had
closed down for the day. We would
go out and see the world, go west and
make stake and come back with lots
of Doodle and spend it free-handed as
the factory-owner's son, a boy of our
own age who drove pony cart and
bought everything in sight.
Finally our plans were brought to
a head, and Sunday afternoon of the
last day of May in the year 1869, found
us on the road to Pittsburg, some fifty
miles away, light of heart and equally
light of money and clothing-for we
had little of the one and no good way
to carry the other. But nothing APP
pals the bounding heart of boy
and no rubicon so deep and wide as to
bar his way.
We walked 90 miles that afternoon,
and turned in for the night in an old
barn by the roadside. How refresh
ing and sound that nights sleep was
on the fragrant hey, and how hungry
we were the next morning-and not a
house in sight where we could get a
meal. We sauced our hunger with
water from a spring that dubbed
and emptied itself by a wooden pipe
into huge watering trough near the
old barn. With great scrub at the
trough and combing the hayseeds out
of our hair we started joyously again
on our way, drinking in the life giving
fragrance of the cool morning air. A
brisk, three mile walk brought us to
a wayside country store where we
bought some cheese and crackers for
lunch, and made inquiries as to the
right road to the city.
Night found us at the outskirts of
the city at a place called Cloverdale
Dairy Farm. Dreading to go into the
city after dark we found shelter in a
barn that stood at the foot of hill
along which our road lay. We were
like to finding but hard resting place
in barn for not blade of straw of
any kind was in the building. A
large closed carriage stood in one end
of the barn. We opened it and found
that it was nicely upholstered inside
and that two soft robes had been left
in it. What better bed could we want
it was equal to private Mulvaney's
heather car as described in one of
Kipling's inimitable stories. How we
enjoyed the nights sleep in the fam
lily coach and with what mirth and
jollity we stepped out of it the next
morning-asking the 'coachee" to
wait upon us twenty minutes for re-
freshments. Making our toilets and
eating what was left of our crackers
and cheese, we sought the highway
and pushed on for the city.
Our road now lay over the top of