Democratic Sentinel, Volume 15, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 December 1891 — FILSEY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

FILSEY

RECKON this is IUI goln ’ ter be er bustI er, ” said old Uncle r Billy Botsworth as m \ ho came into the a | family sitting-room ofthe old farm j house with a load of | wood on his shoulders. With a crash

he deposited his burden on the spacious hearth, where a huge fire was already blazing, and began to pile on tho long, dry sticks of beech and hickory until in a few moments a perfect sheet of flame was reoring up the wide-throated chimney. Grandma Botsworth, who sat in her accustomed corner by the “janvb, ” busy with her knitting, made no reply, while Uncle Billy proceeded to remove his coat, hat and boots, and, having filled and lighted his pipe, sat down to enjoy himself. 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 tho rousing fire talking over the events of the day. A little later Mrs. Botsworth joined thorn, 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 sho 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 weie to start for Dakota, Mary and her husband diove to the old home, where she got out of the buggy and started to go into the house to say good-by. £he did not ask nor expect forgiveness from 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 latch, and, with tear-filled eyes, was taking in tho dear and familiar surroundings, when her father, coming round the corner of the house, saw her. “Don’t yer como 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 and shaking his whip at Uncle Billy, .‘■aid: “Bill Botsworth, if you wasn’t my wife’s father, I’d thrash you till you couldn’t walk for a week. You ob e t to ms for a son-in-law only because I am poor; but I’ll see the day I can buy an’ sell you ’s If you was b ack, darn 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 tell in;* what might have happened had not M Iton and Jacob at this juncture made their appearance and urged him to be qu'et. So Mary went from home an outcast; and, as tho buggy disappeared around the bend in the road, Milton turned to his father, and, with tears in his eyes, said, reproachfully: “Pap, you oughtenter 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, pan, you was too hasty,” she added. “Mary Ellen was alius a mighty good girl; an’, though I’d ruther she’d not a married Will Kenney, yet I hope the Lord will prosper them both.” “You are right, mother,” said Jacob, the elder of her sons, “you are 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 in the direction of the barn. 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 thought of her, or had the slightest interest in knowing whether she was dead or alive. But on the Christmas eve that I have introduced him to your notice, he sat by the 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; but he still remained silent At each family reunion, always held on Christmas day v he had missed her. Aad

as the coming one was to be held at his house, and his brothers and sisters, with thoir families, would be there, he, with some bitterness of feeling, was brooding over the fact that, through no fault of his, he reasoned, tho pleasures of the day would bo 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 busy with his thoughts, gazing the while moodi.y into the fire, and now and then punching up the fore sticks in a spiteful sort of way, Grandma Botsworth suddenly spoke up and said: “Tomorrer’ll be another white Christmas. This makes two on ’em right hand rtinnin’. Three years ago was a mighty mild winter, aud 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 mote buryin's that year in the Bald Hill buryin’ groun’ than there has been since all put together.” “Yes,” assented Mrs. Botsworth, reflectively, “a green Christmas aliers makes a fat graveyard, they say, an’ I never knowed it to fail. ” “I reckon it’ll be good sleighin’ tomorrer, ” observed Uncle Billy, “an’ all the folks’ll come over in the bobs. Eh! what’s that?” Tho exclamation with which lie concluded his remark was caused by the furious bark of old “Maje,” the watchdog, the sound of voices in the front yard, and what seemed to bo 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 latter ihe sitting-room door was flung open and Jacob strode in, bearing in his arms a bright and lusty 2-year-old boy. Almost snatching the wraps from about it, and holding tho little fellow up, he shouted: “Pap, look at your grandson; Filsey s come, an’ this is her boy. ” “The devil it is,” roared Uncle Billy, springing to his feet, with a face as black as a thundercloud. “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 ' stepped into the room, his figure erect and eyes blazing with anger. “Hold on a minute, I say,” he continued; “I want a word, Bill Botsworth, I can buy and sell you. I am a rich man, but you don’t have to own me fer a ion-in-law on that account. As for me, I can got along without you. But Mary hero wanted to come back and see her mother and all of you once more, and I said sho 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 still loves you, but wbo wants to come home only for a little while, I will speak for, and fight for, too, if necessary.” 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 fergivo you, I don’t see how you can help fergiven’ them. Come now, son, do right. ” For an instant ho stood struggling with his passion, then love conquered, extending his hand to his son-in-law, he said: “Billy, I knock under; I’ve made a mistake an’am sorry for it. Daughter, come here.” With a glad cry Mary put her arms around his neck and kissed him again and again. “There, there, child!” tho old fel'ow murmured, in a voice husky 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 round 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 wore not needed. Ho did, however, build up such a fire in the old fireplace as it had not seen for many a day, and, as they all sat around it. and talked until long after the stroke of twelve, it was, indeed, to them a happy Christmas.—Arkansaw Traveler,