The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1902-12-19

Has she got to send them to the We'll
lington orphan asylum this year, same
as always, on account of your not
thinking enough of her to come?
''HOMER FOX."
"If that don't bring Tom Dorkins
nothing WILL" he said, conviction in his
voice.
His epistle was spread over the
cakes, the lid tied on securely,
stamped and addressed, while Peter
Crump winked at SO fragrant viola
ton of postal laws under his very
nose.
On the morning of the day before
Christmas, as the general manager of
the Pocomoke & Westhaven railroad
was leaving his private office, his eye
was caught by small package lying
unopened upon his desk.
NEARLY forgot that thing again. y
he said. sit came last night, and
went home without it. Here, Phil
he called to his secretary, "open this
package, and if it requires an an
swer fix up the polite thing"
When he returned some hours later
the package was still upon his desk,
apparently unopened.
81 thought l told you to open this
and see if it needed an answer!" he
said, sharply.
81 did open it, Mr.. Dorkins, but you
n
the stenographer replied, in a curious
tone.
Mr.. Dorkins cut the string around
the pasteboard box, tinge of impa-
thence in his manner. Lifting the lid,
Homer's painstaking scrawl was ex-
posed to view. He read it, a frown
gathering on his brow. Over at his
desk by the window the stenographer
rustled his papers noisily, not daring
to steal look at his employer.
The general manager tossed the note
aside with a muttered imprecation and
took up one of the big cakes. 1t more
than covered the palm of his hand,
and there was borne to his nostrils a
spicy smell that brought with it mem
cries of his youth. Little things he
had not thought of in years suddenly
crowded upon him. His life had been
such a busy one, such a shoulder-to-
shoulder, neck-and-neck race for place
and power, he had had no time for any
thing else.
He sat very sill, holding the big cake
on his outstretched palm, and all the
struggle and care and turmoil, all the
pleasure of success and a knowledge
of power fell away from him. Again
he heard the hickory logs cracking
on the hearth, the brass andirons
cleaning like gold in the freight 1t
was Christmas eve, and his stocking
hung on nail by the high, black man.
tel. He was a great boy of ten, large
and strong for his age. Mothers man. -
she called him. She-his mother-sat
in the circle of light from the cheer
full fire, stringing raisins and popcorn
on long threads to trim his baby sis
ter's Christmas tree.
He knew what he would find in that
stocking in the morning. A red
checked apple in the toe, and paper
of fat walnut-meats and one of pop
corn made into taffy by some process
known only to his mother. There
would be half a dozen sticks of pink
and-white striped mint-candy, a ball
of yarn covered with good stout sheep
skin by his mothers own hands, and
IF
smelling queer-looking horse ginger
cake as he gazed down on now.
The noises from the street, the rat
tie and roar of traffic below them,
were the only sounds heard in the
general managers private office. The
stenographer had ceased to rustic his
papers; instead, he almost held his
breath for fear Of disturbing the man
sitting there so quietly.
Presently Tom Dorkins stirred
''Phil," he said, in such a gentle voice
that the young man started. 1t was so
different from the curt, brisk tones
to which he was accustomed. "Is your
mother living?"
''Yes, Mr.. Dorkins.''
"Are you going to spend Christ mas
with her?"
'Yes, SIR" he answered, slowly. He
did not quite understand the drift of
his chiefs questioning.
''That's right said Mr. Dorkins,
heartily. "And I'm going to spend
Christmas with mine, too; thing |
haven't done for nine years, boy. But
I'll make it up to her tomorrow. Nine
years to make up! Do you think l
can do it?" He glanced hurriedly at
his watch. 81 can barely make con-
nections if I'm to get there tonight.