The suburban citizen., 1902-09-13

" Ohm T. HOUGH owned the
chair factory. and devoted his
q life to the promotion of its pros
perity. He was fifty-hye years
old, square headed and firm of lip, and
esteemed as one of the most successful
citizens Of DOrhampton. He had be-
gun life on farm, saved money until
he had sufficient to begin small busi-
ness OF chair-mending, and from the
first he had prospered. In addition
to the chair factory he possessed half
interest in the Opera-house, and was
one of the chief shareholders in the
DOrhNmpton street railroad. The name
of John p. Hough was synonymous
with success. He was a man who had
made himself what he was legitimate
ly before the eyes Of his fellOw-towns-
men; his attainment was in a measure
the towns attainment. He was re-
spectod, admired
He lived in a large white house with
a cupola, and every weekday morning
he walked to the chair-factory, situated
on the edge OF Dorhampton, and
walked home at noon to his dinner.
He had q wife and one child, a son,
twenty-five years old, named Herbert,
whom he had sent to the best college
that his son knew Of Mrs. Hough
was large woman with plain, forid
face. She would have been singled
out by n stranger from among the
women of Dorhampton as the wife Of
John Z. Hough,
church with his wife, and after n
hearty dinner, if the weather was fine,
he walked out alone into the country,
Oftenest in the direction Of Kramer's
woods, considerable tract OF timber
two IN Hes from town. He looked abOuJ
him as he walked: at the trees. at the
sky, at the wide meadows over which
cloud shadows swept. Once he stopped
to watch a calf frlsking about its
mother. Again he paused to listen to
chirp of bird on the telegraph wire.
He stood with his head on one side,
his large hands hidden in the pockets
of his smooth gray overcoat Reach
ing the woods, he proceeded slowly,
stopping often, and sometimes seating
himself on log. He followed the
flicker of red squirrels tail; stopped
ever a pale forest flower; stroked a
cushion Of delicate moss at the base
OF a decaylng stump.
On one occasion a tree recently
fallen, engrossed his attention for
long time. He observed the whitening
leaves, some of them brown and brit
te others with a green patch Of per-
slsting life at their base. He followed
the far sweep Of the branches. and sur
veyed the screen of roots higher than
his hat. Finally he seated himself Oh
a short stump near by and took from
bis pocket some sheets of notepaper.
He held a pencil tightly near the lead,
and put it frequently TO his lips. Then,
recrossing his legs, he wrote, on the
uncertain support of his knee:
Alas, you have fallen, o king
OF the forest! No longer will ring
The song Of the birds in your branches.
He ceased writing for a time and
compressed his lips. He scratched out
branches" and wrote over 1t "leaves."
Then he prOceeded:
The winters cold storm when il heayes
Through the forest will miss your
strong might
That resisted it all through the night. |
Through many a gale you have stood, |
Proud monarch Of all in the wood,
But ut last the buffet OF Fate
Has brought you to this fallen state.
He read over what he had written,
and resumed his contemplation OF the
uprooted tree. Then he put the paper
and pencil in his pocket and walked
home, his chin sunk on his cravat.
In the evening, after his wife had
gone upstairs to bed, he spread out the
notepaper under the stting-room lamp
and wrote, with occasional erasures:
SO man. who has riches and might,
Believes himself strong for the fight
DE has weatEered the gales Of life
And expects to last all through the
strife.
Eut nlas, the time comes when he, too,
WIN hnd that his triumph is through.
And he OF whom people have thought
Ihere was no one so powerfully
wrought
VIII be swept from his place by a
breath,
The breath that we mortals call Death.
he copied the lines on a sheet of