Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 December 1887 — FILSEY. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

FILSEY.

A Christmas Sketch from Life in Hoosierdom.

BY ED R. PRITCHARD.

BECKON this is goin’ ter be a bus|Vk ter,” said old Un‘ft' cle Billy Bot s - 191 worth, as be came into tbe family SfHuj sitting-room of R | the old farm house SMI with a great load of wood on his VpjHl shoulders. With a Brjfe crash he deposited his burden on the v * spacious hearth,

where a huge fire Was already blazing, and began to pile on the long dry sticks of beech and hickory, until, in a few moments, a perfect sheet of flame was roaring up the wide-throated chimney. Grandma Botsworth, who sat in her accustomed comer by the “jamb,” busy with her knitting, made no reply; while Uncle Billy prooeeded to remove his coat, hat and boots, and, having filled and lighted his pipe, sat down to enjoy him■self. Outside, a furious snow-storm was raging, and already the earth was heavily carpeted with,white. Presently his two sons, Jacob and Milton, came in from doing up the chores, and, like their father, were soon divested of caps, coats and boots, and seated before the rousing fire talking over the events of the day. A little later Mrs. Botsworth joined them, and then the family circle was complete. No, not complete, either; a daughter was missing. Three years ago this Christmas eve she had gone out from the parental roof to marry the man she loved, but whom her father had forbidden some time before to enter his doors. But Mary had gone; and she and her husband, a poor mechanic, went out West to build up for themselves a home and fortune. After they were married, a day or two before they were to start for Dakota, Mary and her husband drove to the old home, where she got out of the buggy and started to go into the house to say good-by. She did not ask nor expect forgiveness frprn her father for what she had •done; but she knew her mother and her brothers still loved her, and would gladly have her come to see them. So she just had her hand on the gate-latch, and, with tear-tilled eyes, was taking in the dear and familiar surroundings, when her father, coming round the corner of the house, saw her. “Don’t yer come in here,” he yelled, hoarsely. “Don’t step your foot inside o’ that gate, Mary Ellen Botsworth. You’re no darter o’ mine. Take yer hatchet-faced paint-slinger, an’ git.” For a moment she stood as if stunned at his words; then, without a word, turned and went to the buggy. Her husband helped her in, and then standing up ana shaking*his whip at Uncle Billy, said: “Bill Botsworth, if you wasn’t my wife’s fathef I’d thrash you 'till you couldn’t walk for a week. You object to me for a son-in-law only because I am poor; but I’ll see the day I can Luy an’ sell you’s if you was black, dam you." Here Mary laid her hand on his arm and said, “Stop, Will; it won’t help things any to quarrel; let’s go.” It was well that Will heeded her advice, for old Uncle Billy had started for the buggy with murder in his eye; and there is no telling what might have happened had not Milton and Jacob, at this juncture, made their appearance and urged him to be •quiet. So Mary went from home an outcast; •and, as the buggy disappeared around the bend in the road, Milton turned to his father, and, with tears in his eyes, said, reproachfully: “Pap, you oughtener have done it. ” And Mrs. Botsworth, who had come to the door just in time to take in the affair, echoed her son’s words: “No, pap, you was too hasty,’’she added. “Mary Ellen was alius a mighty good girl; an’, though I’d rather she’d not a married Will Kenney, vet I hope the Lord will prosper ’em both.*' “You are right, mother,” said Jacob, the older of her sons, “you pre right, mother. ■“Filsey’ (the nickname the boys had bestowed upon Mary when she was a toddler) was the best girl in Indiany; kind an’ lovin’, an’ a sister worth the havin’.” As for Uncle Billy, seeing his whole family up in arms against him, he vouchsafed no reply, but turning, strode rapidly away in the direction of the bam. From that time on he had never spoken his daughter’s name. And although he knew that mother and the boys got occasional letters from her, yet he never by sign or inquiry, showed that he ever

thonght of her, or had the slightest interest in knowing whether she was dead or alive.

Bnt on the Christmas eve that 1 have introduced him to your notice, he sat by toe fire thinking; and his thoughts were of her. He had long ago admitted to himself that he was too hasty when he drove his only daughter away from his home; bnt he still remained silent. At each family reunion, always held on Chiistmas day, he had missed her. And os the coming oue was to be held at his house, and his brothers and sisters with their families would be there, he, with some bitterness of feeling, was brooding over the fact, that through no faolt of his, he reasoned, the pleasures of the day would oe marred. Everybody missed Mary; the children of his nephews and nieces would ask for her and talk about her, despite the admonitions they had received to the contrary.

As he was bnsy with his thoughts, gazing the while moodily into the fire, and now and then punching up the fore-stioks in a spiteful sort of way, Grandma Botsworth suddenly spoke np and said: “To-morrer’ll be another white Christmas. This makes two on ’em right hand runnin’. Three years ago was a mighty mikl winter, and we had a green Christmas that year.” Here the old lady paused and heaved a sigh. No one said anything, and she continued: “I recolleck now there was more buryin’s that year in the Bald Hill buryin’ groun’ than there has been since, all pat together.” % “Yes,” assented Mrs. Botsworth, reflectively, “a green Christmas alters makes a fat graveyard, they say, an’ I never knowed it to fail.” “I reckon it’ll be good sleighin’ to-mor-rer,” observed Uncle Billy, “an’ all the folks’ll come over in the bobs Eh! what’s that?” The exclamation with which he concluded his remark was caused by the furious harking of old “Haje,” the watch-dog, the sound of voices in the front yard, and what seemed to be the cry of a child in fear. The two boys started for the front door, while the remainder of the family sat intently listening, and wondering who could be their visitors. They had not long to wait; for a minute later the sitting-room door was slang open and Jacob strode in, bearing in his arms a bright and lusty two-year-old boy. Almost snatching the wraps from about it, and holding the little fellow up, he shouted: “Pap, look at your grandson; Filsev’s come, an’ this is hor boy.” “The devil it is,” roared Uncle Billy, springing to his feet, with a face as black as a thunder cloud. “Take him away; I don’t want ter see him.” . “Hold on a minute.” shouted a clear, strong voice in the doorway. It was the son-in-law who had spoken, and who now stepped into the room, his figure erect and his eves blazing with anger. “Hold on a minute, I say,” he continued; “I want a word. Bill Botsworth, I can buy an’ sell you. lam a rich man, but yon don’t have to own me for a son-in-law on that account As for me, I can get along without you. But Mary here wanted to come back and see her mother and all of you once more, and I said she should; and, more than that, I said you should treat her and baby right, or I’d make you: and, by thunder, I’ll do it! Understand me, I ask no favors for myself, but for this poor girl here, that you’ve treated so mean, and who still loves yon, but who wants to come home, only for a little while, I will speak for, and fight for, too, if necesary.” Even while he was talking mother and daughter were weeping in each other’s embrace, and Grandma Botsworth, rising with difficulty from her seat, laid her hand on her son’s shoulder. “William,” she said, “now’s as good a time to give in as ye ll ever have. If Mary an’ Will can afford to fergive you, I don’t see how you can help fergivin’ them. Come now, son, do right.” For an instant he stood struggling with his passion, then love conquered. Extending his hand to his son-in-law, he said: “Billy, I knock under; I’ye made a mistake an’ am sorry for it. Daughter, come here.” With a glad cry Mary put her arms about his neck and kissed him again and again.

“There, there, child,” the old fellow murmured, in a voice hHsk.v with emotion; “it’s all forgot now, an’ ” But he did not finish the sentence And, while Mary was kissing grandma and all were silently crying for joy, he began to hustle around and get on his boots to go out and “see about the horses.” But, as Will and Mary had come to the station, only two miles distant, by rail, and had there hired a man and team to bring them over, his services in this direction were not needed. He did, however, build up such a fire in the old fire-place as it had not seen for many a day; and, as they all sat around it and talked until long after the Blroke of 12, it was indeed to them a happy Christmas.

“I can’t see why that pretty Maud Boodle always smiles when that stick Dawdle is with her.” “Why, my dear fellow, a smile is all the better when a stick is in Citizen.

"Don’t you come in here!"

“Hold on a minute!"