The daily morning journal and courier. [volume] (New Haven, Conn.) 1894-1907, 1900-12-10

spread out into the hundreds, and the
old college refrain kept ringing in his
ears:
Then give a cheer for sixty,
For sixty, for sixty,
Then give cheer for sixty,
| You wise heads, bold and true.
"Ah what a night we had of it!' he
murmured, and he smiled as he renlenl-
! bered that one of the stalwart porters
| had said, There must be less quietness
here, gentlemen
! 1t was on that occasion that he made
| the acquaintance Of Jack Brakeman
who was just home from India, and
painted the life out there irHa glowing
| colors
'That's the place for young fellow
| to rise he Remarked; mo humdrum-
ming there in a wholesale house at fif-
ty dollars the first year.
Parsons believed him, and then there
made an agreement to join Brakeman
when he went out again. Thought this
compact was made over several bottles
of champagne which the student could
ill-afford to open, it was not broken.
In spite OF the remonstrances of his
father and his mother and his Only sis
ter, Parsons went abroad, like Lord
Bateman, strange countries for to see.
And he proSpered, and never returned
like the prodigal son. for his parents
died shortly after he left. He had no
inducement to come back, for he had
no home and his sister had married
and made one for herself So he stayed
where he was and Joined club, and
after he had got tired of listening to
the old stories Of his W-clubmen-
they did not call them chestnuts then
he took to himself a wife, an English
girl of good family, and settled down to
the enjoyment of such domestic felicity
as the climate allowed. He WaXed rich
and lazy, and his daughters grew up
and married British officers and went
hither and thither as their husbands
followed the flag of their country.
One day when he was just past sixty
he found himself alone again. His wife
had gone on that long journey which
all of us must take some day or other,
without sending any letters back to tell
of our whereabouts. In this state it
was natural that his thoughts should
revert to Boston, the home of his boy
hood: and he had strange longing to
see 1t once more, though in the years
that had flown he had nearly forgotten
all about it's crooked streets and old
fashioned houses. He had kept up only
a desultory correspondence with his sis
ter and, at last, she ceased to write al
70 h ri h
note came from her daughter to say
that she was at rest under the trees 1T
Mount Auburn. He had little to draw
him to his native city, for his niece he
had never seen, though she had written
that she would be glad to welcome him
to her home on the Back Bay, and
hoped he would arrive in time to see
her daughter married. Though he was
grandfather himself he was q little
surprised when he was hidden to the
wedding of a grandniece. He came
home through Europe. and when he
reached London he found a letter
awaiting him, which told him that if he
We're in Boston on the 25th of October
he would be in time for the ceremony
at Trinity church and the reception at
the house He hurried his departure, /
and here he was on the evening Of the
oath at the Parker House. He felt
himself too much of a stranger to break |
in on the preparations for the marriage |
that night and determined to catch the
first glimpses of the bride and her
mother at the church the following day /
So having finished his lonely meal, |
q. 4.
self on fremont street, after passing |
corridor which he had never /
known in the old days when Burnham /
of old bookstore fame lived on the cor
ner of School and fremont streets and |
stopped the extension of the Parker
House in that direction. He looked /
across the street The fremont House
was no longer there, and as he wan
dered on he discovered that nearly all /
the old landmarks had vanished, except t
the old Granary burying- ground, Park
street church and ST. Paul's. Where
was Collonade row and the pleasant
dwelling houses that stood thereon?
They had been replaced by shops of all
kinds, and he felt himself in a strange
city and not In the Boston of his youth
He thought that at Boylston street he
might strike some familiar object, but
here he was again disappointed. The
Iouraine lowered above him in a lordly
and he looked in vain for the
public library. Still on he walked see
ng little but alterations, though now
and then he recognized an old struc-
zure that had been remodeled, until he
found himself at the foot of the Public
Garden, where the water once came
and where daredevil boys sometimes
oathed in defiance of all authority.
Now he knew he was in the Back Bay
'egiorl, which he had never seen since it
lad been transformed into a residen-
ial district. II was all new to him,
md when he emerged on Copley square
lie thought he had never seen lovelier
spot in all his travels. But he felt HIM
self, nevertheless, as in a foreign place
It was not old Boston. He was a
stranger in his own country. He
onged for the little old Trinity church
m Summer street, where he used to sit
II the old family pew. How well he re-
rendered Bishop Eastburn, with his
stiff military walk. Philip