Middletown transcript., 1909-07-03
T'He H0niesickness Of silas Mace
BY r. E c. ROBBINS

Oh, It's Wednesday night, he
remembered. The family have
gone to meeting.
But he knew Of a back window
that had proved accommod ating
in the past, and he was soon Niths
in the kitchen, where he lighted
The kerosene-lamp that he had
felt for on the table. Then he:
passed on into the little sitting
room.
Lamp in hand, he walked about
all the well-remembered objects
that absence had endeared to him.
Everything was just as it had
been on that eventful morning
when be had gone forth to seek
his fortune. Oh, no, here was
one change. On the mantelpiece,
below the familiar sentence,
God Bless Our Home, there stood,
in a smart little frame of gilt that
he had never seen before, his own
picture, taken at the time of his
graduation from the village
school. And examining it close
lily, he found written under it, in
his mothers unsteady hand, the
simple prayer, God bless our boy
in the city.
He was touched by this evi.
dence of love and pride but he
did not feel quite comfortable as
| he looked at it. I guess that
might as well be put out Of sight
now, he reflected.
| On the table lay an old book
which his father was found of
poring over, but which Silas
had hardly ever looked into. It
was originally an account book.
but it had served the elder Silas
Mace as a diary when he was a
soldier in the Union army.
I
The boy picked it up now. It
was written for the most part in
leadpencil, and some Of it was
hardly legiole. 1t told briefly OF
marches and battles and the hap,
penings of camp life, with some.
times long intervals between the
dates.
1t all seemed far away and un.
real to Silas. He was about to
lay the book upon the table when
word or two in one of the entries
caught his eye and he read il
through:
March %. To-day is my birth,
day. Eighteen years old and a
good ways from home. There
is nothing much to write about
except two Of the boys from Com,
pany A deserted last night. I'm
sorry for them whether they
get caught or not. would full
as lieve be shot as be ashamed
all my life.
Silas felt his cheeks burn as
he shut the book. Eighteen years
old! Just a boy! He could not
remember that he had ever i'm.
agined his father before as other
than worn and bent and gray.
Then like a flash his fathers
parting words came to him:
It almost seems, son, as if you
were starting off to war, same as
| did forty years ago. It's pretty
hard for mother and me, bnt we
want you to go. It is for the
best and we are going to bear it
cheerfully and look ahead. ]
know that you wilpbe a good boy
and stick to your work and / ex-
pect that we are going to he
mighty proud of you one of these
days.
i And now he had given up the
battle and had come skulking
home-a deserter! Not much to
be proud of in that. He knew
that he should hear no word of
! blame. But he had already re.
ceived his rebuke from that boy
of long ago, writing in a dreary
tent so far from home and friends.
Yes, ] am ashamed, he ex.
claimed. and I shall be unless
The night express would go
through at about ten o'clock. It
would not stop at Woodville, but
it would at Bloomfield, seven
miles below. Instantly his reso.
luton was taken; and after care.
fully looking around to see that
he was leaving no traces of his
presence, he blew out the light,
and jumping from the back win.
dow, started on his tramp to
Bloomfield.
The road was rough from re-
cent rains and the night was
dark. But although Silas felt
his feet growing heavy beneath
him as he plodded along, his