Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 December 1898 — IN THE PHILIPPINES. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

IN THE PHILIPPINES.

lIRISTMAB, 1898, is near. The American sentry on patrol duty before the long row of tents and frame quarters just outside of ' Manila paces the .monotonous round in a lazy, languid way—even the jests of groups gathered here and there directed at

*im or audible to him fail to arouse either interest or response. He is thinking of home, is Pierce Grinnell, this sturdy, hardy soldier boy who had gone to Aguinaldo’s land to uphold the flag and help retain the glories which Dewey had won—home aud the approaching Christmas. It is the harder to bear the memory of the olden Yuletide, because there is absent in camp as in the nearby Philippine cap'ital all that preparation, anticipation ensemble that in the poorest village of his native land blossoms forth at holiday time —once a year only, maybe, but once a year— magically, mightily— Merry -Christmas! | He came off duty looking more bored 'than wearied, and lingers for a moment where an animated group are piling up 'boxes, logs, refuse. “A year ago,” a grizzled plainsman is •aying, ‘‘there was ten feet of snow at iKort Custer, and ” “You didn't belong to the army of occupation then!” breaks in a suggestive voice. “Occupation? I call this gentlemanly leisure!” was retorted tartly. “Only—say, fellows! • I’d give a week’s rations to have a chill—just to remind me of home, and ■now, and real Christmas weather! Pile those boxes straight, boys; now then, eriss-crosß the logs.” i “What are you about here, anyway?” [inquired young Grinnell a little curiously. “What are we about? Why!” stares

the Westerner, as if affronted, “Christ■sas preparations, of course!” The young soldier smiles, half sadly. “I don’t see any Christmas trees, or My, or wax candles, or ” “Nor won’t!” comes the terse interruption “Still, we’re going to make the best ■iay nt it we know how when the date arrives. ” “And that is ” “Tobsild a roaring campfire first.” “Isn’t the climate naturally warm enough for you ?” “Keter you mind! We’re going to build ■ regular scorcher—wrap blankets around ■s, huddle up as if we were frozen to death, imagine we're out on those gl-lori-ens plains where a fellow can always feel Christmas, if he don’t see much of it—and tell stories about last year, and the year before, and the years when the regulars*ad some kind of a holiday, even if * was a ragged one.” • The Officer Of the day smiles indulgently an the turbnteat infraction of camp rules, sand thewotnridl an< l Btaff appear to hand la their rent i Um lion - a box, not a box of ssgars. ThettMare pineapples, cocoanuts, banaMB awroranges, bnt more than one wry

face shows that a juicy red pippin, a pan of hickerynuts. would have been more acceptable than “all these smothering fallals!” as the Westerner dabs the ample tropical fare. “If our Christinas ship had only come in!” he remarked, and with a fixed stare at a comrade who had just come from town —a stare with a wink in it—be observes: "Steamer probably delayed, you told me, Perkins?” “That’s what,” is nodded. All hands look savage at this. Christmas cheer, was on its way to them—of that they had been advised by way of Hong Kong a week since—but the steamer was overdue, probably delayed by a storm, and their holiday cheer from home might not arrive till New Year s day. Still, as Grinnell watches the Westerner and observes him more than once gaze covertly in the direction of the corduroy camp road, he wonders if he is not nursing some spirited surprise that he will spring later on. The stories begin, and soon all are engrossed. One man tells of a Christmas at a far Western Indian-beleaguered fort, where the event of the day was the stealing of the only wild turkey in knowledge from a sportsman savage. Another had seen 'B4 in Alaska, where a keg of frozen cider was the only reminder of home. A third described the best Christmas dinner he had ever eaten, and all mouths watered, and here there is an uproar. The sound of cumbersome Wheels echoes —there is the snap of a whip. and. waving his whip and yelling to his mules, into camp bursts the negro driver of the commissary wagon. “Hi, dab!” he grins, “am dis Camp Jawge Columbus Christopher Washington?” “You know it is. you rascal!” roared the Westerner, springing to his feet, aglow. “Out with it! the steamer is in?” “She am, sah. I waited, sah, as yo’m dareckted. Dah’s a pahcel foh de camp —dat Chris’mas consignment hab arriven!” “Whoop!” Pandemonium breaks loose. Over the camp spreads the news. Half-dressed men, riotous runners, make for the campfire, as up to it, straining mightily under the heavy load of crates and boxes and barrels, puff and pant the mules with their Christmas store of remembrance**. Even the camp dogs rally to the call of the tumult. Then, surrounded by a pressing, eager crowd, the Westerner mounts the load, hatchet in hand. He pries open those “pahcels,” he liegins to deliver them. Hearts gladden, lips quiver, eyes sparkle-even in the faraway Philippines’ Christmas had come! “Pierce Grinnell”—with tremulous hands the young soldier receives his package. and steps back a bit from the crush to inspect it. Ah! it is glorious to be remembered! There is a Bible from mother, a watch from father, a dozen handkerchiefs from IG-year-old. sister Sue, a cookie, ribbontied. caraway-dotted, from G-year-old Nell—“all cooked by my own self—and—another parcel. The soldier boy’s heart thumps mightily. Well does he know who sent this last. It is a response to a question that the loneliness of the camp, time to think over how dear pretty, winsome Claire Rushton at home is to him —a homely, blunt, “Claire, when this ‘Spanish war is over, will you ‘have me? ”

.Grinnell opens the package—a pair of dainty home-knit mitts. What in the world does he want of mitts in the broiling Filipino country! Still, the good intent is there. Then his finger tips tingle and tremble so as he feels a tiny note in one of the mitts, that he drops everything to the ground. Nell's cookie must have caught the sniff of a hungry camp dog. It makes a bolt, misses the cookie, and gratis up and runs off with—the mitts with the note in them. ‘‘Stop him—sto-o-op him!” “What is it?” “Hi, the robber!” A crowd “catches on” to the appalling mishap. There is pursuit. They corner the canine, but not until he has torn up one mitt. “Why, there’s a note in here!” torments the rescuer of half one mitt, and Grinnell devours a torn fragment of dainty, scented letter paper. “I won’t have ” That is what his blurred sight reads, and his heart falls. “Hey, Grinnell—here’s the other half!” The poor fellow puts the two pieces of paper together. “I won't have anybody but you!” There is the sentence, complete. Despite himself, the happy soldier boy uttered a fervent, relieved yell of delight. “What’s bit you—a tarantula?” demands a staring comrade. “No!” shrewdly guesses the jolly Westerner, reading between the lines—“Sant* Claus!”

[?]RINNELL’S HEART THUMPED MIGHTILY.