Evening Star Newspaper, January 5, 1895, Page 18

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, 1895-TWENTY PAGES. NEW YE If you little village, on a cold day, watch the old cod nd they congregate. t hat the s y cats do, or per- haps the codgers watch the cats. How- ever that m be, it is safegto follow either, for both may be depended upon to find the open door where comfort is. They would probably lead you to the rear-end of the village store, the tobacco-st ed drawing room where an old stove dis- Penses hospitality in an atmosphere like unto which, fer genial disposition, there is one on earth so unfailing. From ember to May the old stove im the back of Chris. Rowston’s store was, to its devotees at h the most popular hostess And, be it un- dersto composed of pe- ple in good repute. Even the cats sleeping at her feet, if well connected, b personally tramps, were ng lineal descendants of known cats belonging to families in good were standing. Many, indeed, natives of the shop, and had come i of comfort in a certain fel je. December. The 1 of a fitful $ and throw- t day of raw and cold, mind, blowing in contrary g' Ing into t aces of people going in a'l directions various samples from the winter Bicre house of the sky, now a threat, a romise or a dare, as to how the New ar shoulé come i Biest if Dos. ain't got snow on his coat. Rainin’ when I come in,” said one of two old men, who drew their seats back @ little while the speaker pushed a chair forward with his boot. ‘kon I got beth froze and wet drops twix this n’ Meredith's,” drawied the newcomer, depositing his saddle bags beside his chair, wiping the drops from his sleeves over the stove and spreading his thin palms for its grateful return of am. ‘Sleetin’ out 5 nbor, between pipe puffs. adde« “How's Meredith's wife coming on, doc- tor? Reckon she's purty bad off,’ ain't remarked his And then he ‘The doctor he did not filling his pipe now, and wer immediately. But pres- ently he as he deliberately reached forward and ‘seized the tongs and lifted a@ li 1 to his pipe: Meredit wife don't rightfully belong fn a doctor's care. e ain't to say sick. She rtbroke, that’s what she is, but of ex that ain't a thing I can tell her— or kim, either.” nis has been a mighty slow and tire- me year in SimpKinsville,” he- added, in a mom n’ I'm glad to see it drawin’ to a clo: It come in with snow an’ sleet, an’ troubles, an’ seems like it’s goin’ out the same —jest like the years have done th years past.” “Jest look at that cat, what a dusty color she’s got between spots. Th’ain’t a eat in Simpkinsville, hardly, thet don’t show a trace o’ Jim Meredith's maltce an’ I jest nachelly despise it, ‘cause that’s one of the presents he brought out there— that maltee is. faltee ts a good enough color for a cat ef it's kep’ true,” remarked old Pete Ta lor. “Plenty good enough ef it’s kep’ true, but it's like gray paint; it'll mark up :nost anything it's mixed with, and cloud it.” I reckon Jim Meredith's maltee the only thing o’ his thet’s cast a shade ever Simpkinsville,” said old Mr. Me- Morigle, who sat oppesite. “That's so!” grunted the circle. “That's so—shore ez you're bo:n,” echoed Pete. “Simpkinsville has turned out some SHYT ain't | RUTH MEENE “Hello, Brother Sauires!” he called out row, to a tall, clerical old man who ap- preached the group. “Hello! What you doin’ in a sto’e like this, I like to know? Th’ain't no Bibles, trac’s for sale here, an’ your folks ‘$s and bacon same ez us nor don’t eat mola: inners, do you ell, my friends,” replied the parson, smiling broadly as he advanced, “since you good people don’t supply us with locusts and wild honey, we are reduced to the y of eatin’ plain bread an’ meat— you see I live up to the Baptist stand- . as far as I can. I wear the leathern | girdle about my loins. He pointed to the long, soft leather whip which, for safe keeping, he haa tied loosely about his waist. “Room for one more?” he added, as de- clining the only vacant chair he seated | himself upon a soap box, extended his long legs and raised his boots upon the ledge of the stov “I declare, Brother Squires, the patches on them boots are better’n a contribution box,” said MeMonigle, laughing, as he thrust his hand down into his pocket. | “Reeckon it'll take a half dollar to cover | this one.” he added, as he playfully bal- | d a bright coin over the topmost patch | on the pastor's toe. “Stop your laughin’ now, parson. Don't shake it off! Come up, boys! Who'll cover | the next patch? Ef my ‘rithmetic is right there's jest about a patch apiece for us to cover—not includin’ the half soles. I know Sat on the Flo’ by Her Bed. parson wouldn’t have money set above hie seul.”* ‘0, certainly net, an’ if anybody’d place t there, of co’se I'd remove it immediate ly,” the parson answered with ready wit. And then he added more seriously “I have passed my hat around to collect my salary once in a while, but I never expected to hand around my old shoes— und really, friends, I don’t know as I can allow it Still, he did rot draw them in, and the hree old men grew so hilarious over the ‘un of covering the parson’s patches with he ever-slipping coins that a crowd was soon collected, the resuit being the pocket- ing of the entire handful of small coins by Rewton, with the generous assurance should be good for the best pair s store, to be fitted at the ‘pastor's convenience. It was after this mirth had all subsided and the codgers iad settled down into their that the parson remark- how of hesitation: “My brothers, when I was coming to- ‘ard you awhile ago I heard two names. ‘They ére names (hat I hear now and then ; among my Pp ie—names of two persons I have never met—persons who passed out of your community some time before I was stationed among One of them, I know, has a tory. The details of the story I have never heard, but it is in the air. Scarcely a village in’all our dear world but has, no matter how blue its 5 a little ‘cloud upon them—a cloud which to its people seems always to re- “BUT I DO KNOW HER FATE,” SAID THE PARSON. teler’ble fair days sense little May Mere- dith dropped out of it, but the sun ain't never sh en it quite the same—to my notion bea “My opinion mother ows it. : ef the devil that enticed her away has killed her. Onc’t a feller like that gits a girl into a crowded city and gi red of her there's a dozen ways of gittin’ shet of er. “Yes, a hundred of "em. It's done every I don't doubt.” that stove how she spits smoke. u'll make her spit any day—seems * said MeMonigle, chuckling softly and began poking the t wind, but she likes E e her grow red ile I chuck her under the me in the face w chin.” out a coal of said old 1k out you don’t chu kitty with your feolin’, he added: blush in the fz wink urder her isin she's flirted with. tove is a well-behaved old lady, ts religion, an’ shouts whenever from the right quarter—an’ wen't have her spoke of with disrespec gaid the doctor. she could tell all she’s heard, sittin’ don’t she? spec- wind’s summer an’ winter, I reckon it'd hock—an’ a interestin’ one, too. The: cats and mice born in her summer an’ birds hatched; an’ Row tells me he’s got a deminicker hen the «larly watched for the fires to go out t two seasons so she can lay An’ n’t_you never hear about Phil Toland hidin’ a whisky bottle in her one day last summe smashin’ a whole sittin’ yuawked out at him, it im to death. tte he had a ‘tackt o’ the tremens, an’ of a adult v oe “Pity It hadn't a si to temper- ance,” retaarked the man opposite. seber him up for purty nigh two on he saw it all, he wink, what was an’ he give n’ when Pete hollered matter, an’ of » hen that was ler him ast kitin’ that minute squawkin all bed over with ‘What sort 0’ dash bla v you got round her in stoves?” And Rowton he le and win t the bo: ‘Hen,’ sez he, ‘what hen? Any o’ you fellers seen a hen arywhere round here? if co’se every feller swo'e he hadn't saw , Rowton he went up to PX and "Pe ays he, ‘you better lown. You ain't well sn't n on the streets e weeks after that. has seen sights and I don’t doubt. r same as nts, when he'd pwton ast him ¢ $a per Hi to his what made him do it, and he lowed t could cot with anything that had the th of life in it r -euntin’ what notions a nig . 9 tellin’ how much or neither. Old Froph,’ alf blind limpin” round In the woods, gath and talkin’ to Fisself, didn’t seem ligence, tly speakin’, alled out vefo" goin’ bac a sinner. that'll chaw tobacco, Prophet, used to | flect the pitiful face of one of its+fair daughters. I don’t know the story of M redith—or is it May Day Meredith?” “She was born May day and christened that-a-way,” answered McMonigle. “But she was jest ez often called Daisy or May— any rame thet'd fit a spring day or a flower would fit her.” “Well, I don’t know her story," the par- son resumed, “but I do know her fate. And perhaps that is enough to know. “The other name you called was ‘Old Proph,’ or ‘Prophet.’ Tell me about him. Who was he? How was he connected with Meredith? d and looked from one face to enother fer an answer, which was slow in coming. “Go on an’ tell it, Dan’l,” said the doctor, ly, with an inclination of the head toward MeMonigle. MeMonigle shook the tobacco re pips, and relilled it slowly, with- eut a word. Then he as deliberately lit it, puffed its fires to the glowing point, an@ took it f1 kis lips as he began. “Well, par MecMonigle began at last, I had o” seen you standin’ in the front o’ the sto’e clean to the minute you come back here, I'd think you'd heerd more’n names. “Of co’se we couldn't put {t quite ez elo- quent az you did, but we had jest every @ne of us ‘lowed that sense the day May He Meredith dropped out o’ Simpkinsville the sky ain't never shone the same. t for a story? Well, I don’t see thet ther’# much story to it, and to them thet Saw May Going to Church. | didn’t know her I reckon it's a common enovgh stery. ut ez to the ol¢ r, Proph’, being mixed up in it, I ac’ly say that’s 9, though I don’t never think about the withcut seemin’ to see little May ag yaller curls, an's ef I thinix her, I seem to see the old man, paused, took a few puffs from his and looked from one to another for rmation of his story. 8, said the doctor, “Jest exactly Dan'l. Go on, ole man. lin {t straight.” Well, that's what I'm aimin’ to do.” He pipe down on the stove's fender as ned his recital. Yroph’'—which his name wasn’t net, of co’se, which ain't to say a name nohow, but his name was Jeremy, an’ he used to go by name o’ Jerry; then some- ch body called him ‘Jeremy, the prophet,’ an’ from that it got down to ‘Prophet’ and then ‘Proph’—and so it stayed. “Well, as I started to say, Proph’ he was jest one o” Meredith's ol’ slave niggers—a sort o’ quare, half luney, no ‘count darky —never done nothin’ sense feedom but what he had a mind to, jest livin’ on Mere- dith right along. “Re wasn’t to say crazy, but—well, he'd stand and talk to anything, a dog, a cat, a tree, a toad-frog—anything. Heap 0” times I’ve seen him limpin’ up the road an’ he'd turn round sudden an’ seemed to be talkin’ to somethin’ that was followin’ him, an’ when he'd git tired he'd start on an’ maybe every minute look back over his shoulder and laugh. They was only one thing Proph was, to say, good for. Proph was a capital Al hunter—shorest shot in the state, in my opinion, and when he'd take a notion he could go out where no- body wouldn't sight a bird or a squir’l all day long, an’ he'd fill his game bag. “Well, sir, the children round town, they was all afreed of ‘im, and the niggers— th’ain't a nigger in the county thet don’t Dlieve to this day that Proph would cunjer "em ef he'd git mad. “An’ time he takin’ to fortune-tellin’, the school child’en thet’d be feerd to go up to him by theirselves, they’d go in a crowd, an’ he'd call out fortunes to ‘em, an’ they’d give him biscuits out o’ their lunch cans. “From that he come to tellin’ anybody’s fortune, an’ so the young men, they got him to come to the old year party one year, jest for the fun of it, an’ time the clock was most on the twelve strike, Proph he stood up an’ called out e-vents of the comin’ year. An’, sir, for a crack-brained, fool nigger, he'd call out the smartest things you ever hear. Every year for five year Proph called out comin’ e-vents at the old year party; an’ matches that no- body suspicioned, why he'd call ’em out, an’, shore enough, "fore the year was out, the weddin’s would come off. An’ babies! He'd predic’ babies a year ahead—not al- ways callin’ out full names, but jest in- sinuatin’ so that anybody that wasn’t deof in both ears would understand. “But to come back to the story of May Meredith—he ain't in it, no ways in par- ticilar. It's only thet sense she could walk an’ hold the ci’ man’s hand he doted on her, an’ she was jest ez wropped up in him. Many a time when she was a toddler he’s rode into town, muleback, with her settin’ up in front of him. An’ then when she got bigger it was jest as ef she was the queen to him—that’s all. He saved her from drowndin’ onc’t, jumped in the creck after her an couldn’t swim a stroke, an’ mos’ drownded Fisself—an’ time she had the diptheria, he never shet his eyes ez long ez she was sick enough to be se: up with—set on the flo’ by her bed all night. “That's all the way Proph is mixed up in her story. An’ now, sense they’re both gone, ef you 'magine you see one, you seem to see the other. “An’ May Day's story? Well, I hardly like to disturb it. Don’t rightly know how to tell it, nohow. “I dor.’t doubt folks has told you she went wrong, but that’s a mighty hard way to tell the story of May Meredith. “We can’t none of us deny, I reckon, thet she went wrong. A red-cheeked peach thet don’t know nothin’ but the dew and the sun, and to'grow sweet and purty—it goes wrong when it's wrenched off the stem and et by a hog. That's one way o’ goin’ wrong. “Little Daisy Meredith didn’t have no mo’ idee o’ harm than that mocekin’ bird o’ Rowton’s in its cage there, thet sings weekday songs all Sunday nights. “She wasn’t but jest barely turned seven- teen years—ez sweet a little girl ez ever taught a Baptist Sunday school class— when he come down from St. Louis— though some says he come from Chicago, an’ some says Canada—lookin’ after some St. Louis land mortgages. An’, givin’ the devil his due, he was the handsomest man thet ever trod Simpkinsville streets—that is, of co’se, for a outsider. Seen May Day first time on her way to church, an’ looked after her—then squared back di-rect, an’ followed her. Walked into church ¢ lib’rate, an’ behaved like a gentleman, 1c- ligiously inclined, ef ever a well-dressed city person behaved that way. “Well, sir, from that day on he froze to her, and, strange to say, every mother of a marriageable daughter in town was jeal- ous exceptin’ one, an’ that one was May own mother. an’ she not only wasn't jeal- ous—which she couldn't ‘a’ b2en, of co'se-- but she wasn’t pleased. “She seemed to feel a dread of him from the start, and she treated him mighty shabby, but of co’se the little girl, she made it up to him in politeness, good as she could, an’ he didn’t take no notice of it. Kep’ on showin’ the old lady every ‘tention, an’ when he'd be in town, mest any evenin’ you'd go past the Meredith gate you could see his horse tied there— everything oper and above board, so it seemed. “Well, sir, he happened to »e here the time of the old year party, three year o. You've been here a year and over, "t you, parson Yes; I was stationed here at fall con- ference a year ago this November, you recollect.” “Yas, so you was. Well, all this is about two year befo’ you come. “Well, sir, when it was known that May Day’s city beau was goin’ to be here for “, everybody looked to see some ‘cause they know’d how free ol’ Proph’ de with names, an’ they wondered e! he'd have gall enough to call out M Day's name with the city feller’s. Well, ez luck would have it, the party was at my house that year, an’ I tell you, sir, folks thet hadn't set up to see the old year out for ten years come that night jest for fear they’c miss somethin’, But of co'se we saw through it. We knowed what fetohed ’em. “Well, sir, that was the purtiest party I ever see in my life. Our Simpkinsville pat- tern for young girls is a toler’ble neat one, ef I do say it, ez shouldn't, bein’ kin to forty-leven of ‘em. We ain’t got no, to say, ugly girls in town—never had many, though some has plained down consider'ble when they got settled in years, but the girls there that night was ez perfec’ a bunch of girls ez you ever see—jest ez pur- ty a show o' beauty ez any rose arbor could turn out on a spring day. fave you ever went to gether roses, parson, each one seemin’ to be the pur- tiest tell you'd got a handful, an’ you'd be startin’ to come away, when away up cn top o’ the vine you'd see one that was encugh pinker an’ sweeter’n the rest to make you climb for it, an’ when you'd git it, you'd stick it in the top of yore bouquet a little higher'n the others? “I see you know what I mean. Weil, that he way May Day looked that night. that top bud. d three nieces and wife and she had sev'al cousins, there—all purty enough to draw hummin’ birds—but I say little Daisy Meredith, she jest topped ’em all for beau- ty and sweetness an’ modesty that night. “An’ the stranger—well, I donno jest what to liken him to, less'n it is to one of tkem princes thet stalk around the stage an’ give orders when they have play actin’ in a show tent. “They wasn’t no flies on his shane, nor his rig, nor his manners, neither. Talked to the old ladies—ricollect my wife she had a finger wropped up, an’ he ast her about it and advised her to look after it an’ give her a recipe for bone-felon. She thought they wasn't nobody like him. An’ he jest simply danced the wall flowers dizzy, give the fiddlers money, an’—well, he done ev- erything thet a person o’ the royal family of city gentry might be expected to do. An’ everybody wondered what mo’ Mrs. Meredith wanted for her daughter. Tell the truth, seme mistrusted, an’ "lowed thet she jest took on that way to hide how tickled she was. “Well, ez I say, the party passed off lovely, an’ after a while it came near 12 o’cleck, an’ the folks commenced to look round for ol’ Proph to come in an’ call out e-vents same as he always done. “So d'rectly the boys they went out an’ fetcked him in—drawin’ him ‘long by the sleeve, an’ he holdin’ back like ez ef he dreaded to come in. “I tell you, parson, I'll never forgit the way that old nigger looked, longest day I live. Seemed like he couldn't sca’cely walk, an’ he stumbled, an’ when he took nis station front o’ the mantel shelf, seem ed like he never would open his mouth to begin. “An’ when at last he started to talk, stid o’ runnin’ on an’ laughin’ an’ pleggin’ everytcdy like We always doze, he lifted up his face an’ raised up his hands, sane ez you'd do ef you was startin’ to read in public prayer. An’ then he commenced: ez he—an’ when he started he spoke so low down in his th’oat you couldn't sca’ce- ly hear him—sez he: “Every year, my friends, I stand befo’ you #n’ look throo de open gate into the new year. An’,’ sez he, ‘seem like I see a long percessicn o’ people pass befo’ me— some two by two, some one by one, some horseback, some muleback, some afoot— some cryin’, some laughin’, some stumblin’ ez they'd walk, an’ gittin” up ag’in, some fallin’ to rise no mo’, some faces I’ know, some strangers." “An’ right here, parson, he left off for a minute, an’ then when he commenced again he dropped his voice clair down into his th’oat, an’ he squinted his eyes an’ seemed to be tryin’ to see somethin’ way off like, an’ he sez, sez he: “But tonight,’ sez he, ‘I don’t know whar the trouble Is,’ sez he, ‘but, look hard ez I can, I don’t seem togee clair, 'cause the sky is darkened,’ sez fhe, ‘an’ while I see people comin’ an’ goin’ an’ I see de doctor’s buggy on the road, an’ hear the church bell an’ the organ, I can’t make out nuthin’ plain, ‘cause the sky is overshad- dered by a big dark ¢loug. An’ now,’ sez he, ‘seem like the cloud is takin’ the shape of a great big bird. BOLE "ae see him spread his wings an’ fly int mpkinsville, an’ while he hangs over it in the sky, seem to me I can see everybody stop an’ gaze up an’ hold their breath to see where he'll light—everybody hopin’ td'see him light in their tree. An’ now—ohf(now I see him comin’ down, down, down—an’ now he's done lit,’ says he. I recollect that expres- sion o’ his, ‘he’s done lit,’ sez he, ‘in the limb of a tall maginolia tree a little piece out _o’ town.’ “Well, sir, when he come to the bird lightin’ in a maginolif tree, a little piece out o’ town, I tell you, parson, you could a’heerd a pin drop. You see, maginolias is purty sca’ce in Simpkinsville. Plenty o° them growin’ round the edge o’ the woods, but ’ceptin’ them thet Sonny Simpkins set out in his yard years ago, I don’t know of any nearer than Meredith’s place. An’ right at his gate, ef you ever takin’ no- tice, there’s a maginolia tree purty nigh ez tall ez a post oak. “An’ so when the ol’ nigger got to where the fine bird lit in the maginolia tree, all them thet had the best manners, they set still, but sech ez didn’t keef—an’ I was one of thet last sort—why we jest glanced at the city feller di-rec’ to see how he was takin’ it. “But, sir, it didn’t ruffle one of his feath- ers, not a one. “An’ then the nigger he went on: Sez he, squintin’ his eyes agin, an’ seemin’ to strain his sight, sez he: “ ‘Now he's lit,’ sez he—I wish I could give it te you in his language, but I never could talk nigger talk—‘now he’s lit,’ sez he, ‘an. I got a good chance to study him,’ sez he. ‘I see he ain’t the same bird he Icoked to be, ‘fo’ he lit. ‘His wing feathers is mighty fine, an’ they rise in gorgeous plumes, but they can’t hide his claws,’ sez he, ‘an’ when I look closer,’ sez he, ‘I see he got owl eyes an’ a sharp beak, but seem like no- body can't see ’em. They all so dazzled with his wing feathers they can’t see his claws. “=” nigger in at the end, too, ef he didn’t think hisself above it. A ol’ harmless, half- crazy nigger, thet’s been movin’ ‘round amongst us all for years, ig,ez much missed ez anybody else when he drops out, nobody knows how. I miss Proph’ jest the same ez I miss thet ol’ struck-by-lightnin’ syca- mo’ tree thet Jedge Towns has had cut out of the co’t house yard. My mother had my gran’pa’s picture framed out 0’ sycamo’ balls, gethered out o’ that tree forty year ago. “But you see I’m makin’ every excuse to Keep from goin’ on with the story, an’ ef it’s got to be told, well— “Whether somebody told the Merediths about the nigger’s prophecy, an’ they got excited over it, an’ forbid the city feller the house, I don’t know, but he never was seen goin’ there after that night, though he stayed in town right along for two weeks, at the end of which time he dis- appeared from the face o’ the earth, an’ she along with him. “An’ that’s all the story, parson. That's three year ago lackin’ two weeks, an’ nobody ain’t seen or heard o’ May Day Meredith from that day to this. “Of co’se girls have run away with men, an’ it turned out all right—but they wasn’t married men. Nobody s’picioned he was married tell {t was all over, an’ Harry Conway he found it out in St. Louis, an’ it’s been found to be’true. An’ there's a man living in Texarkana thet testified thet he was called in to witness what he b’liev- ed to be a genuine weddin’, where the preacher claimed to come from Little Rock, an’ he married May Day to that man, standin’ in the blue cashmere dress she run away in. She was married by the *Piscopal prayer book, too, which is the only thing I felt real hard against May Day for consentin’ to—she being well rais- ed, a hard-shell Baptist. “But o’ co’se the man thet could git a girl to run away with him could easy get her to change her religion.” “Hold up there, Dan’l!”’ interrupted old man Tayler. “Hold on there! Not always! It’s a good many years sense my ol’ wo- man run away to marry me, out she was a Methodist, an’ Methodist she’s turned me, though I’ve been dipped, thank Go: “Well, of co’se, there’s exception. An’ I didn’t compare you tu the man I'm a-talk- in’ about, nohow. Besides Methodist an’ *Piscopal are two different thing: ed McMonigle. “WELL, SIR, I LOANED IT TO THE OLD NIGGER.” “‘An’ now whiles I’m lookin’ I see him rise up,’ sez he, ‘an’ fly three times round the tree an’ now I sée him swoop down right befo’ the pecple’s eyes, an’ befo’ they know it, he’s riz up in the air ag-in, an’ spread his wirgs, an’ the sky seems $0 darkened that I can’t sée nothin’ clair— only a long stream o’ yaller hair floatin’ behind him. 5 ““Now I see everybody’s heads drop, an’ I hear ‘em cryin’—but,’ sez he, ‘they ain’t cryin’ about the thief bird, but they eryin’ about the yaller hair—the yal- ler hair—the yaller hair.’ “Ain't that about yere riccollection 0° how he expressed it?” said McMonigle, pausing now in his recital. “Yas,” said old man Taylor, “he said it three times, I riccolect that ez long ez I live—an’ the third time he said ‘the yal- ler hair’ he let his arms fall down at his side, an’ he sort o’ staggered back’ard: an’ turned round to Johunie Burk an’ sez he: ‘Help me cut, please, sir, I feels dizzy.’ Do you riccolect how he said that, Dan'l? “But you're tellin’ the story. Don’t lem- me interrupt you.” “No interruption, Pete. You go on an’ tell it the way you riccolect it. I see my pipe has gone out while I've been talkin’. ‘Tell the truth, I'm most sorry that you all started me on this story tonight. It gives me a spell o’ the blues--talkin’ it over. “Pass me them tongs back here, doc- tor, an’ lemme git another coal for my pipe. An’ while I've got ’em I'll shake up this fire a little. This stove’s ez dull- eyed and pouty ez any other woman ef she’s neglected. “Hungry, too, ain’t you, old lady? Don’t like wet wocd, neither. Sets her teeth on edge. Jest listen at -his quar’l while I lay it in her mouth. “Go on, now, Pete, an’ tell the parson the rest o’ the story. ‘Tain’t no more’n right thet a shepherd should know all the ins and outs e. ze yee ef he’s goin’ to ke care o’ their needs. te You better finish it, Dan’l,” said Taylor. “You've brought it all back a heap better’n I could a-done it.” “Tell the truth, boys, I've got it down te where I hate to go on,’ replied McMonigle, with feeling. ‘I’ve talked about the child now till I can seem to see her little, slim figure comin’ down the plank walk the way I’'v3 seen her a hundred times, when all the fellers settin’ out in front 0” the sto’es would slip in an’ git their coats on, an’ come back—I've done it myself, an’ me a grandfather.” 10 on, Pete, an’ finish it up. I've got the taste 0’ tobacco smoke now, an’ my pipe is like the stove. Ef I neglect her she pouts. ® “TI lefi off where ol’ Proph’ finished proph- esyin’ at the old year party at my house three year ago. I forgot to tell you, par- son, thet Mrs. Meredith, she never come to the party—an’ Meredith hisself, he only come and stayed a few minutes, an’ went home count o’ the ol’ lady bein’ by herself —so they wasn't neither onc there when the ol’ nigger spoke. An’ ef they'd ever teen told what he said T don’t know— though we have got a half dozen sinaries in town, thet would 'a’ busted long ago ef they hadn't ’a’ told it I don’t doubt. “Go on, now, Pete, an’ finish. After Proph’ had got done talkin’ of co’se hand shakin’ commenced, an’ everybody was sup- posed to shake hands with everybody else. I reckcn, parson, there knows about that— but you might tell it, anyhow. “Of co’se, parson, he knows about the nandshakin’,” said Taylor, taking up the story, “because you was here last year, parson. You know that it’s the custom in Simpkinsville, at the old year party, for everybody to shake haids at 12 o'clock at the comin’ in of the new year. It’s been our custom time out o’ mind. Folks thet'll have some fallin’ out an’ maybe not be speakin’ ’ll come forward an’ shake hands an’ make up—start the new year with a clean slate. “Why, ef 'twasn’t for that, I donno what we'd do. Some of our folks is so techy an’ high strung—an’ so many 0’ ’em kin, which makes it that much worse—thet ef ’twasn’t for the New Year handshakin’ why, in a few years we'd be ez bad ez a deaf and dumb asylum. “But to tell the story. I declare, Dan’l, I ain’t no hand to teH a thing so ez to bring it befo’ yo’ eyes like you can. I’m feerd you'll have to carry it on.” ‘And so old man McMonigle, after affec- tionately drawing a few puffs from his pipe, laid it on the fender before him, and took up the tale. “Well,” he began as usual, “I reckon thot rightly speakin’ this is about the end of the first chapter. “The handshakin’ passed off friendly enough, everbody jinin’ in, though there was women thet ‘lowed thet they had the cold shivers when they shuck the city fel- Jer’s hand, half expectin’ to tackle a bird- claw. An’ I know thet wife an’ me— although understand, parson, we none 0’ us suspicioned no harm—we was glad when the party broke up, an’ everybody was gone—the nigger’s words seemed to ring in our ears so. “Well, sir, the second chapter o’ the story I reckon it could be told in half a dozen words, though I s’pose it holds misery enough to make a book. “JT never would read a book thet didn’t end right; in fact, I don’t think the law ought to allow sech to be printed. We get erough wrong endin’s in life, an’ the only good book makin’ is, in my opinion, is to ketch up all sech stories an’ work "em over. “Ef { could set down an’ tell May Day Meredith's story to some book writer thet'd take it up where I leave off, an’ bring her pack to us, she could even be raised from the dead in a book ef need be, my Lord, how I love to read it, an’ try to b'lieve it was true! I'd like him to work the ol’ “But tellin’ my story—or at least sense I've done told the story, I'll tell parson all I know about the old nigger, Proph’, which is mighty little. “It was just three days after May Mere- dith run away thet I was ridin’ through the woods twixt here an’ Clay Bank, an’ who did I run against but old Proph’— walkin’ along in the brush talkin’ to his- self ez usual. “Well, sir, I stopped my horse, an’ called him up/an’ talked to him, an’ tried to draw him out—ast him how come he to prophesy the way he done, an’ how he knowed what was comin’, but, sir, I couldn't get no satisfaction’ out o’ him—not a bit. He ‘lowed thet ke only spoke ez it was given him to speak, an’ the only thing he seemed interested in was the stranger’s name, an’ he ast me to say it for him over an’ over— he repeatin’ {t after me. An’ then he ast me to write it for him, an’ he put the paper I wrote it on in his hat. He didn’t know B from a bull's foot, but I s'pose he thought maybe if he put it in his hat it might strike in.” “Like ez not he ‘lowed he could git some- body to read it out to him,” suggested the doctor. “Like ez not. Well, sir, after I had give him the paper he commenced to talk about huntin’—had a bunch o° birds in his hands then, an’ give ’em to me, ‘lowin’ all the time he hadn’t had much luck late- ly, ‘count o’ his pistol bein’ sort o’ out o” order, ."Lowed thet he took sech a notion to hunt with his pistol thet twasn’t no fun shootin’ at long range, but somenow he couldn't depend on his ‘pistol shootin’ straight. “Took it out 0” his pocket while he was standin’ there, an’ commenced showin’ it to me. An’, sir, would you believe it? Into Which Limped a Tall, Muffled Figure. While we was standin’ there talkin’ he give a quick turn, fired all on a sudden up into a tree, an’ befo’ I could git my breath, dawn dropped a squir'l right at his feet. Never see sech shootin’ in my life. An’ he wasn’t no mo’ excited over it than nothin’. Jest picked up the squir’l ez unconcerned ez you please, an’, sez he: ‘Yas, she done it that time—but she don’t always do it. Con’t depend on her.’ “Then, somehow, he brought it round to ask me ef I wouldn't loand him my revolver. Jest to try it an’ see if he wouldn't have better luck. ’Lowed that he'd fetch it back quick ez he got done with it. “Well, sir, 0’ co'se I Inaned it to the ol’ nigger—an’ took his—then an’ the I give it to him loaded, all six barrels, ’n’, sir, would you believe it? No livin’ ‘soul has ever laid eyes on ol’ Prophet from that day to this. “lm mighty feered he's wandergd way off som’ers an’ shot hisself accidentally— an’ never was found. Them revolvers is mighty resky weepons ef a person ain’t got experience with ‘em. “So that’s all the story, parson. Three days after May Day went he disappeared, an’ of co’se he’s livin’ along at Mereditn’ all these years, an’ being so ‘tached to May Day, and prophesying about her like he done, you can see how one name brings up another. So when 1 think about one I seem to see the other.” “Didn't. Harry Conway say he see the ol’ man in St. Louis one’t an’ thet he let en he didn’t know him—wouldn’t answer when he called him Proph?” said old man Conway. “One o’ Harry’s cock an’ bull stories, answered McMonigle. ‘He might o’ saw some ol’ nigger 0’ Proph's build, but how would that old nigger git there?—anybody s common sense would tell him better'n that, No, he’s dead—no doubt about that.” “I suppose no one has ever iooked for the old man?” the parson asked. “Oh, yas, he’s been searched for. We've got up two parties an’ rode out clair into the swamp lands twic’t—but there wasn’t no sign of him. “But May Day—nohody has ever went after her, of co'se. She left purty well es- corted, an’ ef her own folks never follered her, "twasn’t nobody else's business. Her mother ain't never mentioned her name sense she left—to nobody.” “Yas,” interrupted the doctor, ‘an’ some has accused her o’ hardheartedness, but when I see a woman's head turn from black to white in three months’ time, like hers done, I don’t say her heart's hard; I say it’s broke. “They keep a-sendin’ for me to see her, but I can’t do her no good. She's failed tur’ble last six months. “Ef somethin’ could jest come upon her sudden to rouse her up—ef the house would burn down an’ she have to go out ’mongst other folks—or ef they was some way to git folks there, whether she wanted them or not— “Tell the truth, I been a-thinkin’ about scmethin’. It’s been on my mind all day. I don’t know ez it would do, but I been a-thinkin’ ef I could get Meredith's con- sent for the Simpkinsvilje folks to come out in a bod: “Ef he'd allow it, an’ the folks would be willin’ to go out there tonight for the old year party—take their fiddles an’ cakes an’ things along, an’ surprise her—she’d be “I Ain’t Never Fired Her but Onc‘t.” obliged to be polite to em; she couldn’t re- fuse to meet all her friends for the mid- night handshakin’, an’ it might be the say- in’ o’ her. Three years has passed. There's no reason why one trouble should bring another. We've all had our share o’ trials this year, an’ I reckon every one o’ us here has paid for a tombstone in three years, an’ I believe ef we'd all meet together an’ go in a body out there— “Ef you say so, I'll ride out an’ talk it over with Meredith, What's your opinion, parson?” folks will join you heartily, I'm replied the parson, warmly. “‘They did expect to have the crowd over at Brad- field's tonight, but I know they'll be ready to give in to the Merediths.” And this is how it came about that the Merediths’ house, closed for three years, opened its doors again. If innocent curiosity and love of fun had carried many to the New Year handshak- ing three years before, a more serious in- terest, not unmixed with curiosity still, swelled the party tonight. It was a mile out of town. The night was stormy, the roads were heavy and most of the wagons without cover, but the festive spirit is impervious to»weather the world over, and there were umbrellas in Simpkinsville, and overcoats and “tar- paulins.”” Everybody went. Even certain persons who had not previously been able to mas- ter their personal animosities sufficiently to resolve to present themselves for the midnight handshaking, and had decided to nurse their grievances for another year, promp.ly decided to bury their little hatch- ets, and join the party. To storm the citadel of sorrow, whether the issue should prove a victory for be- siegers or besieged, was no slight lure to a people whose excitements were few, and whose interests were limited to the personal happenings of their small eommunity. . It is a crime in the provincial code social to excuse oneself from a guest. To deny a full and cordial reception to all the town would be to ostracise oneself forever, not only from its society, but from all its sym- pathies, The weak-hearted hostess rallied all her failing energies for the emergency. And there was no lack of friendliness in her pale old face as she greeted her most unwel- come guests with extended hands. If her thin cheeks flushed faintly as her neighbors’ happy daughters passed before her in game or dance, her solicitous ob- servers, not suspecting the pain at her heart, whispered: ‘Mis’ Meredith is chirpin’ up a’ready. She looks a heap better ’n when we come in.” So little did they un- derstand. If mirth and numbers be a test, the old year party at the Merediths’ was assuredly a@ success. Human emotions swing as pendulums from tears to laughter. Those of the guests tonight who had declared that they knew they would burst out crying as soon as they entered that house were the ones who laughed the loudest. “Spinning the plate,” ‘“dumb-crambo,” “pillow,” “how, when and where,” such were the innocent games that composed the simple diversions of the evening, varied by music by the village string band and oc- casional songs from the girls, all to end with a “Virginia break-down” just before 12 o'clock, when the handshaking fun should commence. It seemed a very merry party, and yet, in speaking of it afterward, there were many who declared that it was the saddest evening they had ever spent in their lives. Some even affirming that they had been “obliged to set up an’ giggle the livelong time to keep from cryin’ every time they looked at Mis’ Meredith.” Whether this were true, or only seemed to be true in the light of subsequent events, it would be hard to say. Certain it was, however, that the note that rose above the storm and floated out the lighted windows was a note of joyous merrymaking. Such was the note that greeted a certain slowly moving wagon, whose heavily clogged wheels turned into the Merediths’ gate near midnight. The belated guest was evidently one entirely familiar with the premises, for, notwithstanding the darkness of the night, the ponderous wheels turned accurately in- to the curve beyond the magnolia tr moved slow but surely along the di up to the door, and stopped with hesitation exactly opposite the “landing,” well-nigh invisible tonight. After the ending of the final dance, dur- ing the very last moments of the closing year, there was always at the old year party an interval of silence. The old men held their watches in their hands, and the young people spoke in whispers. It was this last waiting interval that in years past the old man Prophet had {ill- ed with portent, even though, until his last prophecy, his’ words had been lightly spoken. ‘As the crowds sat waiting tonight,watch- ing the hands of the old clock that seemed almost to have stopped, so slow was their movement, listening to the never hurrying tick-tack of the long pendulum against the wall, it is probable that memory, quicken- ed by circumstances and environment, sup- plicd to every mind present a picture of the old man, as he had often stood before them. A careful turn of the front door latch, so slight a click as to be scarcely discern- ible, came at this moment, as the clank of a sledge-hammer, turning all heads with a common impulse’ toward the slowly open- ing door, into which limped a tall, muifled figure, that seemed to the startled eyes of the company to reach quite to the ceiling. Those sitting near the door started back in terror at the apparition, and all were on their feet in a moment. But having entered, the figure stood still just within the door, And before there was time for action or question, even, a bundle of old wraps had fallen and the old mart Prophet, bearing in his arms a golden- haired cherub of about two years, stood in the presence of the company. The revulsion of feeling, indescribable by words, was quickly told by fast-flowing tears. Looking upon the old man and the child, every one present read a new chap- ter in the home tragedy, and wept in its presence. Coming from the dark night into the light, the old man could not for a moment discern the faces he knew, and when the little one, shrinking from the glare, hid her face in his hair, it was as if time had turned back, so perfect a restoration was the picture of a familiar one of the old days. No word had yet been spoken, and the ticking of the great clock and the crackling fire mingled with sobs were the only sounds that broke the stillness, when the old man, having gotten his bearings, walked directly up to old Mrs. Meredith and laid the child in her arms. Then, los- ing no e, but, pointing to the clock that was slowly nearing the hour, he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion: Je time is most here. Is you all ready to shek hands? Ef you is—everybody—turn round and come with me.” As he spoke, he turned back to the still open door, and before those who had fol- lowed had taken in his full meaning, he had drawn into the room a slim, shrinking figure, and little May Day Meredith, pale, frightened and weather-beaten, stood be- fore them. Tf it was her own father who was first to grasp her hand, and if he carried her in his arms to her mother, it was that the rest deferred to his first claim, and that their hearty and affectionate greetings came later in their proper order. The strik- ing of the great clock now, mingled with the sound of joy and of weeping—the con- gratulations, handshaking and words of praise fervently uttered—made a scene ever to be held dear in the annals of Simpkins- ville. A scene beyond words of description —a family meeting which even ifetime DR. SHADE'S DISCOVERY For Consumption Investigation Produces Perm-nent Cur:s. “The Times” Has Undertaken a Ree sponsibility Which Proves to Be a Blessing to Mankind, From the Washington Times, The Times undertook, in September Iast vestigate the ability of Dr. Shade, 1232 Fv street, a specialist in lung and throat diseases, who bad announced he bad made a discovery, for consumption called the ‘wincral treatfent. We have faterviewed eighteen persons already, who declare they have been cured by him. Several of the number are physicians, who have practiced medicine for years; others are businces men, pro- fessional and Congressmen, But of all the cases interviewed none, possitily, go farther to prove Dr. Shade’s ability to cure consumption than the case of W. Sandford Brown, 1408 Corcoran street. Mr. Brown was treated for more than a y~ ene of the most celebrated lung specialists in this country, who told Mr. Brown's family and numerous other friends that he was in the last stages of consamp- tion and coud not possibly recover. His plysiciam sent him away, noping a change of cliunite might possibly prolong bis life. Ue came home to dic, the last ray of hope having well-nigh fed, when some friend sent him the Medical World, a journal which contained an article written by Dr. N. B. Shade, on his discovery. ‘This inspired fresh hope, and Mr, Brown placed himself under the skii! of Dz. Shade, and, as all his friends say, escaped a pres mature grave. The following will explain the re~ sult of taking the mineral treatment for consump- tion. * The Times man found Mr. Brown busily engaged at the store of George E. Kennedy, 1116 Connccti- cut avenue. As soon as he was at leisure he very, courteously gave the following information: “I first learned of Dr. Shade through an article that appeared in a medical journal which bad in some manner found its way-to my room in @ country house in Virginia, where I had been sent by Dr. Dan Hagner, under whose treatment I bad been for nearly a year, and who had sent me out into the country to rest and seemingly to die. Dr. Hagner was an old practitioner, skilled in Iung and throat troubles. He had worked very hard-on my case, without beneficial result, and had finally tolg my wife that * "twas no use,’ I would have to die; that nothing on earth could save me. I personally, did not have much hope. My mother and sister had both died of consumptjon, and I had fallen in weight from 173 pounds to less than 100. My legs and arms were swollen apl I was scarcely able to ig one leg after the other. Notwithstanding all this, while there's life there’s hope, and I dew termined to call upon Dr. Shade, as I was much impressed by the article which I had read. I at that time was fn the last stages of consumption, and it was not without some misgivings that I undertook the journey. I, however, finally reached Washington and immediately called upon Dr. Shade, who did not offer great encouragement, bet told me that if I would follow bis instructions and bear patiently with him all might be well. This was fa April, 1892, For the first three months I did not show much improvement, but after that my cough- ing grew less and I grew stronger and better from day to day until Felruary, 1898, when I was dis- charged from the doctor's care as perfectly cured; weight, 165 pounds. You see, Iam in evidence to- day, and can do as good if not a better day's work than ever before. In fact, I've got to, for it stands me in hand to meke up for lost time. I want to say finally that I consider Dr. Shade’s cure a marvel, and it would be a shame if bis methods were not given all the publicity possible. The Times is certaialy doing suffering humanity a good turn in drawing public attention to him and his wonderful cure for consumption.” J. W. B. it to ine friends recognized as too sacred for their eyes and hurried, weeping, awa} It was when the memorable, sad, joyous party was over, and all the guests were departing, that Prophet, following oid man McMonigle out, called him aside fer a mo- ment. Then putting into his hands a small object, he said in a tremulous voice: ‘Much obliged for de lean o’ de pistol, Marse Dan’l. Hold her keerful, caze she’s loaded des de way you loaded her—all ‘cept arrel. I ain't never fired her but —>_—_. FASHIONS IN CIGARETTES, New York Swells Have Them Made to Order and Gilded. “Have you smoked any of Bings’ new cigarettes? You look surprised at the ques- tion, and, indeed, it is not much like Bings usually to offer to treat to even so inex- pensive a luxury as that. Ordinarily he would be much more likely to ask if you had a spare cigar in your pocket, but since he came back from New York he has been so proud of his cigarettes that he is offer- ing them to everybody he meet: “What is so remarkable about them?” asked one of the men who were in the game, as he chalked his cue and prepared to knock the balls in a manner to excite the wrath and envy of his opponents. “Is the tobacco some special importation or is it some unusually artistic mixture?” “As for the mixture, it is that favored by scme English nobleman, I understand, but to ordinary plebian nostrils it has a very bad smell indeed. It is the wrappers that are so very stunning. There is quite a fad at present among the Ne York swells to have their cigarettes made to order. They are provided with mouth- pieces of heavy gilded paper and below that appear the initials and crest of the owner, also in gold. Thus the effect of a box of them is really quite gorgeou: ch man, teo, has his own mixture which he affe>ts, and the manufacturers charge them rather fancy prices for them. The fashion was set by some of the foreign noblemen who are familiar figures at the uptown hotels this winter. I advise you to ask Binges for ae of his treasures the next time you see m. ——— First Letter Carriers. From the Postal Record. It is not clear that the letter carriers were regularly emptoyed before 1733, when tradition tells us that Benjamin Franklin, the new Postmaster General, employed them in Philadelphia, and possibly in New York. The earliest evidence I have is of 1762, when the Philadelphia postmaster ad- vertised that his “boy” had run away, and that patrons must call for their let- ters at the post office. The Postal Journal of Hugh Finlay, a storehouse of sound in- formation, tells us that Boston had no let- ter carrier in 1773. Of New York he says that “soon after the arrival of a mail th letters are quickly delivered by a runner,"® which means m nger or letter carrier. Se A Holiday Dream. From Life. Em'ly—“Yer see, I wuz carried away on a yaller cloud into a big, open, blue placa, where there wuz nothin’ but dolls—blondes, bluenettes, niggers, an Chinese; and Santa Claus took me by the hand an” led me up to one © the most beautifullest dolls I ever seen, all gold lace an’ spangies, an’ it could talk an’ sing, too. (In rapture) Oh, it wuz too loverly for anythink! An’ Santa Claus wuz just puttin’ it into my hands when | woked up!” Chorus—Oh, what a shame! Didn’t yer want ter die? .