The Bridgeport evening farmer. [volume] (Bridgeport, Conn.) 1866-1917, 1910-12-23

lHslL WdS WueH The IOS0ACOIOT duoI
lions of youth had seethed to the sur
face and he had left the farm. But
the braggart assurance of the city
| paralyzed him. He was not stupid, but
he grew to underestimate himself be-
cause others did.
In five years he returned to the farm
for the funeral of his parents. He had
hoped to renew some OF the barefoot
friendships of his childhood. But
neither had the old friends the time to
pierce his shell Of difidence. So he
returned again to the bookkeeper's
desk in the city, friendless man.
December 25th'' Barton crushed
the sheet in his hand, and threw it
into the waste basket. Then he put
on his overcoat and closed up the Of
fice.>. He slipped an envelope con-
tanning bill into the expectant hand
of the elevator boy.
Thank you, Mr. Barton. wish you
a Merry. Christmas. SIR" the boy
said formally, with no trace OF the
easy -camaradie with, which he had
thanked O'Connor.
Out ION the street In the good-na-
i tured, hurrying throngs Barton was
like withered bit OF weed borne along
on a rfotous wave Of joyousness. At
the corner. where the crowd was
dense, the spire of a small Christmas
tree clutched In the arms Of a big
Irishmanc grazed his face and cooked
his hat at an absurd angle. For a
brief moment he had been drawn into
the eddying spirit of the street. He
Strengthened his hat and from habit
drew back bis head between his
stopped shoulders.
Loosen up, ye ould crouch! It's
Christmas Ave! Amt We wise to ut 2"
remarked the Irishman, and strobe on.
He paused at brilliant shop win
dow. A woman with shawl over her
head and child stood near him.
"Oh, ma, don't wisht at or
W'iskers 'ud bring me doll like that
there one!" cried the child.
Barton reached into his pocket, and
turned to the woman shyly. tiff" he
began.
Come, Maggie, we must be gettin'
home" said the woman taking the
child's hand. And they passed on.
Barton took his usual ssut at
Henry's cafe at a table partially
screened from view by a couple Of
dusty, artificial palms
Merry hristmas-sir-soups" inquir.
ed the waiter.
"Yes-and INDEPENDENTLY, John,
fix 1t up little, will you-some holly
or-or-"
Eyes, sir, I'll fix it up right for you,"
replied John, without enthusiasm.
Barton began almost to wish he had
accepted O'Connor's invitation. But
he knew that he would have been but
miserable spectator at happy home
festival. Too, O'Connor's boisterous
efforts to put him at his ease troubled
him.
Henry's was we'll filled. He hadn't
thought it possible that so many
should have no homes to dine in on
Christmas Eve. He scanned the faces
Of the men and women at the tables
about him. The men were for the
most part flushed Of face and loud of
speech. Before them on the tables
stood not only the bottles of cheap
wine served with the table d'hote, but
siphons and bottles of whiskey to cele.
| brate the occasion. Barton searched
| the place foy the face of woman
whom he could imagine sitting up far
into the night to dress a doh or fill a
little stocking. There was not one
among them
| Barton smiled grirnly when the
waiter brought in his turkey. Al
either end of the thick, white platter
upon which rested thick, dark slices
of meat, he had placed sparse little
sprigs of holly, quite berry-less and
with broken leaves.
Thank you, john" said Barton
quietly.
4 As he was eating his desert he cav
the nosegay woman come in with hel