The news & observer. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 1894-current, 1900-07-29
1.-THE HOMLlE-MlAMlERSo''
By CHARLES BATTELL LOOMS.
Copyright, 1900, by C. B. Loomis.)

ana nad leSSeneu by nall the pllS vi
FOUNDER apples that he had purposed
shipping to his married sister in New
York, for old times sake.
Clad in his white cotton night shirt
and with the red carpet slippers on his
feet that always stood at his bedside,
ready for instant use, this Datcheior
leaped down the front stairs and picked
up a weapon the first thing that came
to hand, which happened to be feather
buster that had belonged to his grand
mother and which had been moulting
any time these so years.
He opened the front door, brandishing
this terrible bludgeon, and the oxen
glanced mildly at him, and then ambled
through his sweet pea hedge, carrying
off garlands of flowers on their broad
horns. Then, as he pursued, they punched
holes in his well-kept lawn, marking
their easy progress to the street, where
they stopped and looked over their
shoulders, and seemed to smile at him.
This so enraged him that he determ
ined to chase them down the road as far
as he could. He forgot his scanty cloth
ing, forgot everything but the fact that
these vexatious beasts had ruined his
garden, and had then added insult to in
jury by grinning at him. He might have
driven them into the Goodwin lot, that
ley across the way, but the fence was
newly torn, and il would have been fool
ish to try penning them up for the night.
They were out for lark, and he would
help them to one, only it should not be
at his further expense.
So he hurled the buster at them, and
hit the nigh one amidships. The great
animal made a playful pass with his
hind legs and knocked a potted fuchia
off stump with the ease of premiere
danseuse.
Trueman seized the broken pieces of
the pot and hurled them at the wicked
pair and both were hit on the head. And
then the race began. With tossing horns
they tore southwark down the road. He
recovered his treasured feather buster
and sprinted after them, his drapery
streaming in the wind his red slippers
slapping his heels rhythmically with each
stride and the feather buster gyrating
in the air like a drum majors baton.
Once he fell and married the snowy
Wilderness of his toga, but jump and q
shake and a plunge forward with low
cred head and he had regained the space
he had lost by falling. And once more
the feathered dart hurled through the
air in a manner suggestive of bull-fights,
although it fell short of it's mark.
He had not thought that oxen could
be SO fleet, but their fleetness would but
serve to put lengthy distance between
them and his grounds. He would chase
them to Canton if need be, but they
should not again disturb his nocturnal
musings or cry havoc and let slip the
dogs of war in his garden.
AS they crossed Tibball's bridge he
dropped a slipper. He picked it up to
hurl at the oxen, but true to it's name
it slipped from his fingers and went far
astream. And that slipper had first
belonged to his grandfather!
The oxen were not in the least blown
but he was, in every sense Of the word
And his hair looked like a field of rye
through which a cyclone had passed.
The night winds toyed with his linen gar
ment, and the stones in the road hurt
his slipperess foot. 1t had been Is years
since he had gone barefoot. But to stop
before his work was done was not like
a Newberry. The churchyard was not
far away, and he would not leave them
until they were safe behind the high
stone walls and six barred gate of the
store some of the Undiscovered inscrip-
lions on the tombs with their horns, or
scratch new ones, for all he cared, but
they would not trouble him again that
night On sped the strange trio, the red
oxen and the man in white; past the
Bulkeleys, past the Days, past the Train
tors, past the Goodspeeds, past the Bills.
Then sharp turn to the left, and they
were in the lane that led to the grave
yard. By some lucky chance the cemetery
gate was open, and, with a final hurl-
ing of the inocuous feather duster and
a volley of small stones almost as harm
less, he drove the bovine marplots into
the graveyard, closed the gate securely
and retraced his steps to the highway.
He now for the first time realized that
he was full half mile from home, and,
while it was night and he was clad in
the garments of the night season, still
South Hanaford society would not have
received him in such habiliments.
But fortune favored him, inasmuch as
it was 10 o'clock and all Hanaford was
asleep. All Hanaford? No, there was
one who was not yet asleep. One who was
driving toward him in a covered buggy.
Who could there be profaning the lit
tie end of the Sabbath in this fashion?
1t looked like the Harding team Well,
he wasn't afraid of old Nelson Harding.
And besides there was no place to hide.
He was on a perfectly open, treeless,
level stretch of road.
AS he walked boldly along, using the
feather duster as a cane, something
about the harness broke and the horse.
walking half way out of the shafts, stop
ped as quarter century's hardening to
mishaps had taught him to do.
With a little scream the occupant of
the buggy essayed to jump from the
high box and tripping, fell to the ground
But it was not Nelson Harding. but
merciful heaven! Miss Graysen She lay
where she had fallen, as if stunned, but
when Trueman ran toward her she sat
up, glanced at him, and screamed again.
"Are you hurt?" asked he, and she.
after her second scream, acted as { it
were quite the ordinary thing for Hama
ford men to take nocturnal rambles in
cotton robes. She rose to her feet and
answered him calmly, mo, | am not a
bit hurt but / don't in the least know
what to do"
Trueman stepped over to the wagon
and saw that the Whiffle tree had broken