The farmer and mechanic. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 18??-19??, 1903-12-29

butcher is selling bananas and gum
drops to people who ought to be eating
quail on toast and drinking hot coffee;
ana the smoke is getting thicker and
thicker in the smoker and profanity al
most a. thick. and the merry Christmas
ness Of things has gone down with the sun
and the women are coming to have TIE
headache, end we are ali beg ming to turn
down the corners Of our mouths "hile We
-four hundred Of us-wait for an OF
ciaI'' whose private car is tagging along
at the tail end OF a freight train some
where in the back Of the beyond.
And who the - is that ed Official
anyway" asks a big-bodied man with a
red face that gets redder with tie quez-
ton.
And then we are enlightened by one who
gets up and makes announcement TO
US all that We are
waiting for EIr. z. Borden, OF the A.
c. l., who is coming TO let Us pull his
private car-when he gets here"
And a whole precious hour has gone by
and it is night and it is cold-and we are
at East Durham.
"And who, please, is this Mr.. E. Bor-
den?' asks the sweet, if slightly sarcas-
tic voice of a pretty woman.
And with one accord, we ask collective
Iy-"WHO?"
Andrews, may be, knows, but he IS
crushed and silent and so, again, the echo
answer "WHO?'
And so it has come to pass that the
crowd that was IN hour and a half ago
so happy and 50 brave has become peevish
and discOnsolate and weary, giving itself
up to anathema and forced attempts at
pessimistic hunor on a Christmas Journey.
Some one comes in and tells Mr.. Josephus
Daniels that the left over students at
Trinity have learned that he is in town
and are coming to lynch him in fact as
we'll as in effgy. MIR. Daniels confesses to
over an Aour Of mental anguish on that
score and Col. Argo offers to take his
case on a contingency, stating grimly that
he'll ''high-ball' EN- in the courts if he
gets the chance.
One freight has already gone by, Great
ing d feeling OF hope that left a CORE
spending despair when We find hat the
hated but desired Borden is not aboard,
but now after one hour and q half the
watchers report q headlight in the dis
lance and finally at a snail's pace an in
terminable freight pulls by, and at is tail
end is q glttering private car!
There is the mingled laughter OF relief
and curses OF veXation as we rush to win
dow, doors. and platforms, to see this
mighty Nabob who travels at ease on the
tail end of frelghts and holds up hundreds
Of WOuld-be merry-makers by the ninety
minutes at a time! We feel a personal
interest in hlm-a deep, healthy interest,
a warming intersection we have given of
our time and our heart-ache and we have
contributed Of our holiday that he might
ride with us. We have been painting you
in imagination, MT. Borden, for ninety
minutes you must look your prettiest,
your veriest Nabob self!
The car rolls slowly by and those of us
who have points OF vantage see a pretty
sight. We see q table, a pretty table for
'roughing it." with white cloth and gilt
tering glass, and a white-aproned negro
bending over it solicitously. And then we
catch a glimpse-a feeting glimpse-of a
little gem of Il boudoir-like office and a
very disappointing looking Nabob with
dainty gray moustasche, half-reclining at
ease in a rocker, with sedate hands folded
mildly over a comfortable paunch.
Had you been working furiously, Mr..
Borden, we might have forgiven you-but
We q III eau iC3L y IlAsIS you LftdC III
time to your destination by honoring Us
with your c~orlpany-and the rest and ease
of those hands were too much. Perhaps
none of those four hundred home-goers
will ever see you again, out your name
will be a household word with them for
ever, albeit it Will not be so tender in
character as is this inadequate expression
Of our feelings.
And when you and your car were "hook-
ed on" at last, DO you hin it was kind,
Mr.. Borden, that you should have caused
our White-aproned cook to pull the shades
to the front windows OF your car and de-
prived your waiting servants of their
curious, if morbid, desire to see you eat
But this it is to be a Nabob!
And Rippy ''high-balled' it for you at
sixty miles an hour, too-when he got the
word at last. No, not for you, Mr. Bor-
den, though in this, too, you were fortu-
nate,
No! Rippy-Merry Christina; to him
pulled his throttle wide open for the com
mon US,
And the worst of this very bad story is
that it is the good Lords truth,