Democratic Press, Volume 1, Number 9, Decatur, Adams County, 13 December 1894 — Page 12

THE BANKRUPT’S CONSOLATION <Joue. gone is ail the splendor of my former rich estate. * My yacht was taken from me at a very early date My man-don in the city, with its furnishings ac rare. ZMy creditors have levied on. twas only right and fair stable that delighted in those happy palmy days Has also gone with all the rest, my team ol spanking bays. That used to trot along the mad tn. say. 2 43, "Were sold beneath the hammer, and are but a memory The cottage down at Newport, where 1 entertained so much. lias also taken flight beneath the creditor s fell touch. The lovely restful vistas through the overarching trees Are things my eya no longer In its poverty now My books and arms and curios, my prints and bric-a-brac. Have also gone to creditors, who othejwise would lack lieturns upon investments that their confidence in me Persuaded them to make when I was living up In GA^e —everything is gone at last—but hist: I’d whisper low. One relic of that splendid time they’ve overlooked—you know— Tve got concealed within my boot —they’ll never get it out, A most excruciating case of undiluted gout! Bo what care I. though all be lost? My gout remains to me Reminder of those glorious days when I'd a fortune free. And every time my grand old foot Is filled with sharpest pain. It wakens mem'rlos of the past, which I live o’er again. It wakens thoughts of sauces of the richest, rarest kind. It brings back olive farces to my retrospective mind. It brings me dreams of feastlngs that Lucullus never had. And all my thoughts are happy ones, and none of them are sad. Yes. take my fortune and my ease, my bric-a-brac and yacht; Do as you will with all my goods, and I’ll lament them not. As long as there is left me, in my days of poverty. My faithful gout to bring to mind the days that used to be. —Harper’s Bazar. LOST OPPORTUNITIES. What a Railroad Accident Did tor Susan Pettit’s Neighbors. Miss Abigail Masker walked up the graveled path to the porch with the western exposure on which was seated her friend Mrs. Brewster. •‘How d’ y« do?” she called out as she drew near. "I don’t wonder you like to be out-doors. I thought there was a real chill in the house, which is no more’n’s to be looked for late in September. But when you get out in this mellcr sunshine—my!” She panted as she seated herself, giving a pleased glance about her. “Well, I've said it time and again, and I say it yet, that If there’s one place that seems to get more o’ the real fall tints than another it's them maples o' your’n. Look at them reds and purples. Solomon in all bis glory, B-ure enough." "Abigail,” said her friend, and the tone brought Miss Abigail's eyes at once to her face to meet a look which caused a sudden cloud to fall on her own. "What's the matter, Jane?" “lias there been anything beard from Susan Pettit?” “Not as I Know of. 1 didn't know anybody expected to hear from her.” "No, that's it.” Mrs. Brewster set her lips and shook her head. “What is a-troublin’ you, Jane?" “Do you know when she was expected home?” "Why, no. I don't know as anybody knew. Did they?” "I s'pose not. That's it." “What on earth’s the matter, Jane? You fairly make me creep, lookin' so woebegone. What la it? Anything wrong about Busan Pettit? I didn't know you knew her well enough to take it hard if there was." i “Yes, there 'tls again. I didn't," said Mrs. Brewster, in a deeply-pained voice, “Abigail, wasn't her initials 8. J.?” “Like enough they was. Let me see —yes —l remember her wonderin’ what the J stood for when she put down her name for a quarter on the subscription paper to send Jerry Day to the hospital. Susan Pettit never give much, but what she did give she always give willin'. But what—” “Have you seen this?” Mrs. Brew- ; ster held up a copy of the weekly edition of a newspaper in the nearest large city. “No.” "An awful railroad accident. One car jumped right into another and crushed people's lives out. A dozen i killed and plenty more wounded. Now listen: ‘Killed, S. J. Pettit.’” The two neighbors gazed into each other's eyes. “Couldn’t it be a mistake?” “It ain’t a common name. 'Twas a train —see —” Mrs Brewster leaned over with the paper and pointed to some lines in the short chapter of the tragedy, “cornin' this way. That was why I wanted to know if you knew when she was a cornin’. But—” Mrs. Brewster's voice broke into a sob, “nobody knew.” “You don't mean it,” said Miss Abigail, taking up the paper with a little air of desperation. “I can’t believe it. Dead! I can’t seem to sense it Such a chipper little creetur she was, in spite of her lameness. Always had a pleasant word and a smile for folks, and all the children loved her. Well,” with a tremble in her voice, "if I had it to do over again I’m free to confess I’d do different by Susan Pettit.” With another huge sob Mrs. Brewster covered her face with her hands and cried. “All the time that woman’s lived here amongst us,” she presently began, “I've had it on my mind that when I got round to it I’d try to make things a little easier and pleasanter for her Ilow long is it since she come?” “Six or seven year, I guess."

“Yes. And there was some of us that felt to lay it up agen her that ’ she was niece to old Jacob Hart that was always suspected of that mortgage fraud. And when she came here to take care of him when he was dy- ? ing and then lived on in that little mite of a house he'd left her, why—it I haven't done a neighbor's part by her. which I haven't—may the Lord forgive me!” "You needn't talk," said Miss Abigail. “Many and many's the time I’ve went by there and see her settin'alone lookin' out in such a kind of a pitiful way—like she was longin’ for some ! one to come in and be a little sociable with her. I thought I hadn't time, and I hadn't—much—but I might 'a' made time and been nona the worse for it. O me! It was an opportunity and now it's gone from me. She was a stranger and 1 didn't take her in." Left to herself an hour later Mrs. Brewster sat face to face with hsr lost opportunity, and with every thought the sting of self-reproach grew ; deeper. "She was so poo>- and I didn't hold out a hand to her. I might have stopped for her as I drove by to church, when I knew she was often kept to home by her lamenesa I meant to send her apples and things—and I didn't. I thought sometimes of sending her my religious paper when I'd done reading it—and I let the time slip." '1 here was a shiver of excitement as Miss Abigail Meeker pressed through the village ou her way home, telling her startling news. Does any life go out among us—poor careless procrastinators that we are —without leaving behind its train of bitter thought of what we might have done and did not do? Os the words which might have been spoken to ears now closed, of acts which might have brought comfort and cheer? Mav we be pitied in our aching for a sound from dumb lips in acknowledgment of blessing which should have been bestowed—tn our craving for time, time, time in which to do the thousand and one things which never now can be done! More than one turned with dimming eyes toward the window from which the patient face had looked out "I meant to carry some o’ them flower seeds to her. She'd ’a’ liked ’em—she set sych store by flowers” "I could ’a’ stopped and plowed up her bit of a garden just as well as not” ,'Why didn’t I invite her to my quiltin’?” “I might—.*' “I could have—." I meant to—.” “I wish I had—." “Why didn’t I—?” Miss Susan Pettit was brought home to the little house for the funeral. Crushed and broken—the plain, scaled coflin borne reverently among those to whom the awful thing came ns the excitement of a lifetime. Hysterical sobs and wailing were heard as flowers were piled over the still form. "I didn't bring one of ’em," said Mrs. Brewster, pointing to them in half-in-dignant agitation. “No, I didn’t. I’ve read a piece a poetry about layin' flowers on folkses' graves—and—” Mrs. Brewster choked—"never layin' deeds of loving-kiudness onto their lives. And —have you read the piece about her in the paper? All about the sweetness and loveliness? Queer, hain’t it?" with a gasping laugh, "that nobody seemed to find it out till— No, you don’t catch me carryin’ flowers to I her grave. They might ’a’ comforted her livin’.” The house was shut and locked after the funeral, its closed blinds bearing I a mournful look to those who passed, i It was said that it had fallen to a distant connection of Miss Susan, but no one knew certainly. Three weeks later an unpretentious, shabby-neat little figure left the afternoon train and wnlked with limping steps up the ■ ceet of the small village, followed by wide-staring, wondering eyes. “Hey?” “That ain't Susan Pettit!” J “Well, if she wa'n’t dead I'd say \ ’twas.” “But she is dead—” “I don’t care—it’s her, anyways.” Miss Susan went quietly up to the door of the little house, still dreary with its closed windows, took the key from her pocket and opened it “It was all a mistake,” she said, her face beaming in appreciation of the | cordiality with which the amazed i neighbors crowded about her. “I I wasn’t hurt a mite, but they got names mixed up. And I didn't try to set things right because, you see, there wasn’t anybody it would make any difference to. except the folks belongin’ to the poor soul that’s dead. And they don’t know yet who it was in that —Ah, me!” Miss Susan shuddered at the dread- • ful memory. “O, Susan, it does—it did make a | difference,” cried Abigail Meeker, wip- ; ing her eyes. “Where have you been all this time —as it seems pretty sure yon ain’t been in Heaven.” “I’ve been with a lady that got hurt, I took care of her that night” Miss Susan closed her eyes with another nervous shudder, “and the next day when she came to nothing would do but I must go with her. She’s gettin’ well now, so I come home. ” —Sydney Duyre, in N. Y. Observer. The Tailor's Apology. A tailor living in Swinemunde-strass, after receiving a “sound cudgeling” has had likewise to apologize in the “agony” column of a Berlin newspaper. The advertisement is as follows: “I herewith declare that the journeyman blacksmith, Herr Karl X., is a very honorable man —most honorable; and I take this opportunity of withdrawing the most defamatory charges I made against him. Herr Karl X. has already given me a good thrashing for the said slanderous words. But Herr Schiedsman (the interceder) informs me that Herr Karl X. will not do so again if I state in a public newspaper that he is an honorable man, and put a thaler in the poor box." —London Daily News.

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