The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1900-08-19
ABNGR The HUNBUG.

Short sighted landlady; far sighted hum
| bug.
| Wnen Abner crossed the half-century
| line something whispered you're get
| ting over being young, old boy," And
this message troubled Abner-trouhlad
Apner because his eyes told him that he
| was the only one Of the family yer to
| suffer from the touch of Time The little
| wife had still the rosy cheeks, the laugh
! ing eyes, the merry maiden voice that had
| won his heart thirty years ago. Not one
| wrinkle had the passing years written
on her glrlish face, not one thread of sill
yer was in her thick black hair The boy
and girl were still children; the babe had
not taken the first step out Of babyIand
Abner the humbug alone had failed to
| humbug Father Time.
And with increasing years Abner was
conscious Of decreasing strength. AT times
| he could scarcely distinguish Emily from
| the baby. Moreover, he seemed to suffer
more poignant grief, as he grew older
every time he babe the dear ones good
night. He loved to have his family with
MIN. Yes But in way their presence
had grown to be burden Something
told him he required rest. This menace
of the years was in Abner's mind when
he CHANGED to oYerhear brother clerk
say; I've sent my wife and children to
the fathers house-out into Gods green
country. It's cruel and selfish to keep
them penned up in this fog bound city.
I'll see them once a week, and that will
have to satisfy me-
Abner pondered this remark all the way
home-he always walked the two miles
between office and lodgings. And that
night, after supper and a meditative pipe,
he said to his quiet girl wife, sitting with
baby in her arms In the empty, chair by
the fire:
Emily, it's selfish and cruel of me to
keep you and the children penned up in
fog-bound London. I'm going to send you
all into the country, to the fathers house
No; cannot come with you now. Later
when my work is done, then I'll join you
What's that? I'll forget you? Never fear,
sweet little wife; that would be impossi-
bic. You'll grieVe for me? It would break
your heart? Well well, then, we'll com
promise. You may bring the children to
see me every Sunday night. What about
Christmas eve? 1t wouldn't be Christmas
eve to poor old Abner without his dear
ones-you know that, sweetheart, don't
you? oh, yes, I'll miss you, miss you
hut-but-. Every man of family has to
stretch his heart strings some time dear
every man. Don't worry, dear; you'll
be happy out yonder in Gods green land;
and I'll be happy--yes yes, very happy.
here in London, remembering how happy
indeed 1 will, little wife! Good night. Yes,
you'd better start before I'm up in the
morning. You know I'm weaker in the
morning-always weaker and older than
I am at night I'd rather say good bye
now. Yes, dear, Sunday I'll be watching
for you-looking out of this window. Good
night, Emily, Tom. Jenny, baby, ami
good"
But here the old humbug's voice falter-
ed. broke, fell to sob, and, turning out
the light Abner Jones turned into bed.
Abner Jones dreaded the ordeal of his
first night without the family" and he
made very leisurely journey home from
the city. His supper proved dreary af-
fair. But when his pipe got we'll alight,
and his toddy found it's way home, he had
the good fortune to take up a COPY of
The Newcomes." In five minutes he was
absorbed in the great book. He was not,
however, SO absorbed as to be quite I'M
conscious of a strange feeling Of compan-
ionship. After a time Abner ventured to
look up. He was not alone. In the old
armchair, on the far side Of the table, sat
dear old Col. Newcome
My! low Abner's heart welled with JOY
as, leaning forward, he grasped the colo
nePs outstretched hand, and bade Inn
welcome; thanked him from the bottom
of his heart for the honor of his visit And
Abner's eyes went misty as his visitor
exclaimed:
why. Abner, I've always wanted TO
have a chat with you. And tonight, hear
ing that you had sent your family into