Brookings weekly register. (Brookings, Brookings County, S.D.) 1898-1903, 1898-12-29

stubble fields, the clover blooms and the
wild flowers, the red barn and the old
frame house jumped in, too, and mixed
themselves up with the living things.
Your heart felt the occupancy Of the
old tenants. The demons had fed from
the temple they were desecrating. The
attack was so sudden they could offer
no opposition. Your heart quickened its
pulsations, and you unconsciously threw
your hand over it to still its throbbings.
You could not. 1t throbbed and thrilled
and beat against your breast as it had
never done before. 1t rejoiced that the
demons had been driven out and the old
occupants had returned. You looked at
the address, John Frostberg,' written
in a round, bold hand, which you had
never seen before. There was a wild
anxiety in your eyes, and your cheeks
were destitute of color. Your hanc
trembled and the letter dropped to the
ground. You stood there trembling as
does the smallest shrub in the breath Of
the fierce north wind. Your long, bony
fingers twitched and made motions to-
ward the letter, but you were powerless
to stoop for it. Your heart beat more
violently and then ceased. 1t was lying
still in your breast, gathering blood
from every artery to send it in fierce
tumult to your brain. How long You
stood there you know not-know not
when you fell, nor how long you lay at
the side Of the letter. AS you arose you
picked it up and entered your cabin.
You sat down on the rude bench and
were as child in weakness.
"For three years, John Frostberg, l
had been whispering of home, of
mother Of her. but you would not
listen. You had no ear for the old idols.
The demons were in possession. Greed,
avarice, revenge and hate filled your
heart. They were powerless to help
you in your extremity. The sun slipped
behind the hills and babe the world
good night. Still you sat on that rude
bench, and the letter, unopened, lay in
your hand. 1t felt cold and icy. There
was death in it. sent a messenger in
to your heart and gave you strength to
open it, 1t was very formal: Dear Sir
Il write to inform you of the death Of
your mother Your head fell forward
and you uttered groan that sounded
like prelude to death. Then followed
a stiffness unbroken by even breath.
The bright colors of the dying day
faded out of the sky, twilight yielded
to darkness and night settled down on
your cabin. Your agony continued. 1t
was only when l whispered, Weep,
John Frostberg, weep that you found
relief. Tears flooded your eyes and roll
ed from your cheeks. In your grief the
new tenants of your heart rejoiced.
Your mother in her grave was in it,
and she rejoiced. She was in it, and
she rejoiced. The chestnuts and the
elms were there, and they waved all
their branches and quivered all their
leaves for joy. The clover blooms and
wild flowers were there and filled it
with fragrance. 1t was your old heart
with its old tenants. The demons van
ished and shrank aghast at the scene.
Tears gave you relief, and sweet peace
came to calm the storm of anguish.
You remember your dream that night.
You were back at the homestead. In
deed you had never left it. Sleep hid
your life of misery and isolation and
surrounded you with those who loved
and were loved. In the morning you
were a new man. The forbidding scowl
you had worn for three years had given
place to an expression Of kindness and
gentleness. The tenants of your heart
had taken possession of your face, as
they do all faces. Even the grizzly old
miner who brought you the letter and
whom you hunted up that you might
thank him noticed the change and told
his fellows. He swore that you were
really human and could feel He knew
it by your face.
Thoughts of home absorbed you,
and the glittering ore lost its charm.
You would return to the homestead and
spend your days there. You would for
give her at least, and wondered if she
were living or dead. When you reached
the coast, you were impatient of delay
AS you jostled with the tide of life ebb-
ing and flowing through the streets of
the city, with its unrest, you compared
it with the quiet Of the homestead, and
you longed to be back again. 1t was a
fatal night when You went to. brooding
over that Christmas eve Of three years
before. You magnified your fancied
wrong until it absorbed your being and
changed all your purposes. 1t first drove
her from your heart, then the chest
nuts, the elms, the clover blooms and
the wild flowers. A mothers grave still
remained. You would not permit that
to be tossed out. 1t should remain, and
at some convenient time you would
visit the sacred spot. Some time, but
not then--not then. Iremained in your
heart with that grave and pleaded with
you to bring back the tenants which
were fit companionship for it. but you
would not. You invited back the de.
mons. Greed, avarice, revenge and hate
/ returned. The grave annoyed them, and
you were restless until you cast it out.
Your soon never came. You have not
I visited vour mother's grave and TODAY