Manchester Democrat. [volume] (Manchester, Iowa) 1875-1930, 1904-01-20
The End Of a Journey.

do you Know what tomorrow is,
oJhn?"
The old man started. He had been
gazing into the tiny fire till he was
half asleep.
Tomorrow" he repeated, sleepily.
Tomorrow, Susan. What day is to-
morrow"
1.-The fifth of April" answered the
woman, softly; don't you remember,
John?"
"The fifth of April! Why-why,
bless me! It's our wedding day, sure
ly. OF course, remember now you
mention the date; but somehow the
days seem all mixed up and forget.
Let me see, 1t must be forty-eight-
forty-nine years ago-eh. old wife?
He touched her hand gently. and
she smiled at him through the gloom
Of the little room.
Fifty years, John fifty years to-
morrow since you and started on the
road of life together. Its been steep
road, and now we're getting to the
end it seems to get sleeper" She
sighed softly, and the smile died from
hsr face. do you remember what a
lovely day 1t was, John, dear that fifth
of April fifty years ago. The sun was
shining as if it were June, and all
the village came to see us married.
All the girls were jealous of me, John,
for carrying off the handsomest man
in the village. remember my
dress
The old man interrupted her. ~
remember what your dress was, Su-
san; you were the prettiest girl in
the neighborhood, and you looked it
that day." He smiled at the remem-
brance. Your dress was white, and
your hat was trimmed with primroses,
and you carried big bunch of them
in your hand. And do you remember
when we came down the church path
the children threw primroses in front
of us? l mind me, the clergyman said
1t was the prettiest wedding he had
ever seen"
"Primroses," repeated the woman,
musiagly; "primroses then when we
were young, and strong, and happy,
sd -nnn-zsssasit beI0e1sid, and destitute
and on the brink of the poorhousen'
this" She looked around the misera-
bly, furnished room and shivered.
"a big bunch of primroses," she
continued, as If speaking to herself.
Its years since I've SO much as seen
a primrose, to say nothing of holding
one in my hand. Before 1 was i'll,
when could get about, could some.
times go to the park and see them
growing, and I've seen them in the
shop windows; but not now. No flow
ers would find their way to McDon-
ough's Alley. I'm sick with longing
for flowers sometimes, John; not al
ways-not quite always"-she spoke
quickly, as though now she had begun
she would gladly finish as soon as pos
sible-"but in the spring, when the
sky is blue and the sun shines even
here, l hurt, ache. and long for the
country. l would give all have, |
would gladly die, sometimes think,
II could get out in the fields again
and gather primroses. l don't want
to hurt you, old husband, my dear old
John. know you'd take me to the
country and give me primroses if you
could, but can't help the feeling. 1t
seizes me, it tears me, it grips my
very heart. and long for what can
never have till am dazed with long
Ing.
DO you remember, John, how we
used to go to the woods on Saturday
afternoons-you and l and Tony
the old man caught his breath, for the
years had not entirely healed the
wound his sons death had given him
and pick primroses? / need only
shut my eyes to see him now, my
strong little sturdy son, with his dear
little laughing face, and his soft brown
hair, and his hands full of primroses
for mother OH"
She stopped suddenly, exhausted by
her outbreak, and the old man could
find no words to answer the outcry
from the unsupported depths of his
wife's heart. He only stroked her
hand with his gnarled, work-worn
fingers, and whispered:
Don't take on so, old woman; it'll
all come right in the end" and she
quickly regained the usual self-control
which, on sudden impulse, she had
let fall from her.
There, there" she said, I'm tired
tonight, and bit upset, l suppose.
Don't think anything of what said,
John, dear. Very likely, as you say,
It'll all come right in the end, only |
get thinking that we've very little
money left, and you can't get work,
and there's nothing but abject poverty
before US, and perhaps, being our we'd
ding day tomorrow, made ME feel a
bit sore, for fear it may be the last
one we'll see in home of our own.
But after all, things may turn out bet
ter than we think; maybe you'll get
a job one of these days soon. Don't
worry, old man, you've done all you
could, and I've no right to be banker
ing after primroses when I've got a
roof. and food, and you--more, far
more than many another woman has.
See, the fire is dead out; come along,
we'll go to bed"
But long after his wife slept, John
Renshaw tossed from side to side
sleepless, thinking of all she had said.
He had never suspected her hidden
longing for the country and it's flow.
ers. He had always known she en-.
joyed the country life she had lived
for 80 many years, but never before
had he suspected how the days she
was forced to spend in the dreary room
she now called home tired and tried
her. On one point only was he now
certain: He must somehow manage