The Washington herald., 1920-06-27

editor.
The safrron rays of the declin-
ing sunlight filtered through the
cornstalks in MlcaJah widdup's
g,rden-patch. and cast an amber
glory upon my paste-pot I sat
at the editorial desk In my non
rotary revolving chair. and pre-
pared my editorial against the
oligarchies. The-room, with its
one window. was already prey
to the twilight. One by one,
with my trenchant sentences. /
Topped Oft the heads of the po-
Iitiral hydra, while listened, full
of kindly peace, to the home-com-
ing cowbells and wondered what
Mrs. Flanagan was going to have
for supper.
Then in from the dusky. quiet
street there drifred and perched
himself upon a corner of my desk
cid Father Times younger broth
er. His face was beardless and as
-gnarled as an English walnut
never saw clothes such as he
wore. They would have reduced
Joseph's coat to n monochrome.
But the cclors were not the dy-
er's. Stains aud patches and the
work OF sun and rust were re-
sponsibIe for the diversity. On
his coarse shoes was the dust,
ccnceivably. of 1000 leagues.
can describe him no further. ex-
cept to say that he was little
to estimate in centuries when 1
saw him. Yes, and remember
that there was an odor. a faint
odor like aloes, or possibly like
myrrh or leather; and 1 thought
of museums.
And ther I reached for a pad
and pencil. for business is busi-
ness. and visits of the oldest in
habitants are sacred and honor
able. requiring to be chronicled.
II am glad to see you. sir" 1
said. "T would offer you a chair.
have lived in Montopolis only
three weeks, and l have not met
many CT our citizens" l turned
a doubtful eye upon his dust
stained shoes, and concluded with
a newspaper phrase, Il suppose
thas YOU reside in our midst?"
My visitor fUmblei in his raj
ment. drew forth 4 soilcd card,
and handed il to me. Upon it
was written. IL plain but INSTEAD
lily formed characters. the name
"Michob Ader."
81 am glad you called, Mr.. Ader,"
/ said. "As one of our older citi-
zens, you must view with pride
the recent growth and enterprise
of Montopolis. Among other i'm
i lIluh NdH
that the town will now be prOvid-
ed with live. enterprising news
pa
DO We know the name on that
card" asked my caller, interrupt
ing me:
"It is not familiar one to me-"
l said.
Again he visited the depths of
nfr This
he brought out a torn leaf of some
book or journal, brown and fiimsy
with age. The heading of the
page was the Turkish Spy in old
style type; the printing upon it
was this:
There is a man come to Paris
in this year 1643 who pretends to
have lived these 1,60O years. He
says of himself that be was a
shoemaker in Jerusalem at the
time of the CrucifXion; that his
name is Michob Alder; and that
when Jesus. the Christian Messiah,
was condemned by Pontius PLATE,
the Roman president. he paused to
rest while bearing his cross to the
place of crucifxion before the door
of Michob Alder. The shoemaker
struck Jesus with his fist, saying:
Go: why tarriest thou% The Mes
siah answered him: L indeed am
going: but thou shalt tarry until
/ come: thereby condemning him 4
to live until the day of judgment.
He lives forever, but at the end Il
of every 100 years he falls into a
fit or trance, on recovering from II
which he finds himself in the
same state of youth in which he
was when Jesus suffered, being ii
then about thirty years of age.
Such is the story of the Wan
dering Jew, as told by Michob
Ader. who relates" Here the
printing ended.
must have muttered aloud III
something to myself about the
Wandering Jew. for the old man
spoke up. bitterly and loudly:
"'Tis n lie," said he. like nine
tenths of what ye call history. III
'Tis a GENTLE 1 am, and no Jew.
I am after footing ii out of Jeru- n
salem, my son: but IL that makes
me a Jew, then everything that u
comes out of a bottle Is babies
milk. Ye have my name on the |
card ye hold, and ye have read the
bit OF paper they call the Turkish
Spy that printed the news when ]
stepped into their Office on the
18th day of June. in the year 1643,
Just as / have called upon ye to- tc
day" l.
/ laid down my pencil and pad.
Clearly II would not do. Here was
an item for the local column of
the Bugle that-but it would not
do. Still. fragments of the i'm
possible personal" began to fit
/ h ou gh my conventionaliZed
brain. Uncle Michob is as spry
on his legs as a young chap of
only a thousand or so.' "Our
venerable caller relates with pride .