People's Pilot, Volume 4, Number 27, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 December 1894 — AN ELOQUENT CHRISTMAS SERMON. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

AN ELOQUENT CHRISTMAS SERMON.

WAS ChristzflKli mas eve, a ’fit?/ time fraught ■M with so many jri pleasant recoil e c tions to

those who have enjoyed the blessed experience of a home and the associations of a united family circle; a season when memory opens her portfolio and points out to us the pictures of the long ago from which time has taken all discordant colors and mellowed them into beautiful harmonies; an hour when men’s hearts are more tender and sympathetic and more easily prompted by benevolence. The travel was comparatively light on the through express, for most of the commercial “runners” had managed to finish up their work and were already rejoicing in the comforts of home. Of •course there are others than drummers who travel, but the drummer is the staff of life to the passenger service and hotel enterprise, so I mention him first. There were but four commercial men that I recognized as such on this special train, and as usual they were making the best of the occasion with story and joke and merry conversation. Having reversed one of the seats without permission or aid of the conductor, a button hook saving all such ceremony, four of them sat facing each other, forming a jovial group—more noticeable, perhaps, on account of the gloom which seemed to envelop the other passengers. There were about twenty-five pilgrims occupying the car, comprising the usual varieties of character to be found under the circumstances. The train boy had passed and repassed through the train all the afternoon, laden either with his burden of well-worn papercovered novels, or his basket of posthumous ripened fruit, but his stock had not appeared to diminish any in .spile of his industry. By the weary .and discouraged expression of his countenance it was evident that trade was nqt very lively. The train boy in this case, as in most cases, was a man in years, but still short enough in stature to be called a boy without absurdity; one of those unhealthy and weak-look-ing mortals who are uninteresting to anyone except their own near kin. The train boy seated himself in an unoccupied corner next to the group of •drummers, and taking from his pocket a meager handful of small coins began to count them over. He seemed to derive little comfort from this occupation, for he soon replaced the money in his pocket with an audible sigh

I began to feel a languid compassion for the fellow —not, I confess, the sort to do me any credit —for my pity was not entirely free from a feeling of contempt, a spurious pity, barren of any result; a sort of speculative pity, leading me out into meditations on the diversities and proportionate responsibilities of humanity. The wretched fellow made me feel. uncomfortable. What right had the authorities to torment the traveling public by introducing such a factor into their service? A train boy is always a nuisance at his best, with his impudent and constant annoyance, his utter lack of delicacy, his trespass on time and patience, his presumption and intrusion on our privacy. And by what law of equity should I have my sensibilities pained in a fretful sympathy for a supposititious misery? I couldn’t help it. What could I possibly do for the fellow even though I were to make an effort? The half-smothered sigh of the train boy seemed to attract the attention of one of the commercial travelers; either that or the lugubrious expression on his face; for the traveler immediately accosted him in a way peculiar to knights of the road in addressing an employe, with whom all drummers and railway men assume a familiar acquaintance. “Hey, Jimmie! brace up! What’s the matter with you? You look like you’d

had an invitation to your own funeral.” His name might or might not have been Jimmie; if it was it was only a coincidence, for the drummer probably had no more idea than I had by what name the train boy was christened. However, it served the purpose and the remark was answered by a sickly effort of a smile. “Business slow?” continued the interrogator. “That’s what it is,” was the despondent answer. “Well, cheer up, Jimmie. We all strike hard lines some time or other, and to-morrow’s Christmas, anyway, and don’t you-forget it.” “ghat’s what makes things worse,” says the train boy, evidently glad to relieve his feelings by confiding in the somewhat rough but not unwelcome sympathy extended. “Ye see, there’s the old woman and free kids waitin’ fer me at home, and they’s all a lookin’ fer something. Besides, I expect mother to our house to spend Christmas, and I tole Jennie —my wife —I’d have a turkey sure; and you see, no biz, no turkey. So I was thinking about this and them three little stockings hanging up on the mantel shelf, and felt kinder blue when I see I’d have to fill the stockings wid bananas out of my stock, and get along with pork and beans fer Christmas dinner. ” “How much did you take in to-day?” inquires the C. T. “T’ree dollars and fifteen cents, and I git twenty per cent, out of it.” “That leaves you about sixty cents profit, eh?” “Jest about.” “And you want a turkey dinner and a little present for Jennie and mother, and plunder for the kids, and you’ve got sixty cents on hand. Sixty cents will go a good way in peanuts or hairpins, but it hasn’t much show to buck up against a Christmas turkey. Now, I’ll tell you what’s the matter with you. You don’t know how to sell goods. In the first place your goods are no good anyway, and in the second place you meander through the train with that flunked-out expression on your* face as though you really didn’t expect to make a sale anyway. That’s no way to drum up a customer.” “Oh, yes, it’s easy enough kidden me, but nobody could sell nothin’ on this train,” says the train boy. “Couldn’t, eh? Well, I’m betting they could if they only knew how to work it. Now, if I was in your place for about fifteen minutes I’d show you how to sell goods. By George! I’ve an idea! Listen, boys, what’s the matter with me trying it on? What d’ye say to my taking this here stock and working the train for all it’s worth?” “Go ahead, Rube, and try it,” cries one of the group. “Yes, let’s have some fun,” says another. “You haven’t the sand to try,” remarks a skeptic. “Try it, Rube, and give the boy a lift,” puts in the third. “Here goes, then,” says the redoubtable Rube. “Here, Jimmie, hand me

your basket, and give me your cap.” With this he snatches the official cap from the small head of the news vender and places it on his own large cranium. Nothing could be more comical than the effect of the train boy's cap perched on the zenith altitude of the prematurely bald head of the jolly commercial traveler, while his own capacious derby almost settled on the shoulders of the train boy. Rube stood up fully six feet in his shoes, and I should judge would turn the scale considerably beyond two hundred pounds. All of which added to the absurdity of the situation, and without more ado, beaming with jollity and good nature, off he started on his expedition of charity. The weary and homesick travelers in our immediate vicinity at first stared, then smiled, then seemed to awake from their melancholy reveries to an interest in something that bid fair to relieve the monotony of the tiresome hours of travel. Seated behind me was a young man, arrayed in a brand new ready-made suit of clothes of rather loud pattern, all the creases of which were painfully conspicuous; a young man evidently from the rural districts, but he seemed to be on his guard and wore an expression of dignity and gravity which he probably deemed in harmony with his apparel. A faint, indulgent

Biilile appeared upori - his face when Rube—l Call him Rube because that was the name his friends gave him — presented himself and stock in trade. “Apples, oranges, peanuts, bananas, specially selected and shipped from Florida for this identical train? Buy some fruits of the tropics, sir?” “Not to-day, thanks.” “Of course not; I knew you wouldn’t fool away money on this stuff. I was just trying to be funny, you know. Men of the world like you and I must relax a little now and then; no offense, I hope. I know you society men are apt to be a little stiff with strangers. But most of you fashionable fellows are good-hearted, after all. And tomorrow’s Christmas, you know.” “Oh, I understand; that’s all right,” replied the flattered youth. “It’s a pretty gay sort of a life you fellows lead, I reckon. I never was in society myself, but I’ve read about it considerable in Ward McAllister’s new book, ‘Society as I Have Found It.’ Queer duck, McAllister; ’spose you know him personally. His book is all the rage with the Four Hundred, and something you’d appreciate. I’ve got one copy here, and I don’t mind giving you the first show for it.” The young man seemed to be gratified by these remarks, and did not conceal the self-conscious expression of his face as he took the volume and turned over the leaves. “What does it cost?” he inquired. “Well, the price marked on it is fifty cents, but you know it’s the lastan the lot and getting mighty rare. But I’ll let you have it for seventy-five cents, seeing to-morrow is Christmas.” Well, the young man bought the book and probably had his money’s worth, as he seemed deeply interested in its contents from that time forward. The volunteer next attacked me, and had no serious difficulty of swindling me out of twenty-five cents on a fivecent package of cough-drops, which he declared would cure any disorder of the human system in a miraculously short time.

The seat in front of mine was occupied by a typical priest. Now, I never saw but two types of traveling priests —one the German and the other Irish. This one was unmistakably Irish—quite willing and ready for a tournament of wit—and a match for the irrepressible drummer. His sharp thrusts at the salesman were applauded by the little coterie of friends across the aisle. It seemed to me that the cunning Rube was purposely laying himself open to give pointers to the priest. However that may be, he managed to leave his reverence poorer by a silver dollar, but in an excellent humor with himself and all the world. The industrious salesman had by this time proceeded beyond the range of hearing, but was steadily gaining in popularity, and as he progressed shouts of mirth greeted him. Almost every one entered into the spirit of the enterprise, and his stock was considerably diminished before he had passed out to enter the next car, for it was the smoker, and if he had successfully broken the ice in our car he was just

the man to reap a harvest amongst the democratic and anarchistic smokers. The original and only train boy was an interesting sight His despondency had evaporated. He no longer put me in mind of a sick chicken on a rainy day, unable to find comfortable shelter; his despondency had taken wings. He no longer drooped, but sat erect in his seat His dough-colored face took on a mahogany tint, The dull eyes were sparkling with a new light Hope had given him back his manhood and courage. He could appear before his humble family in the character of a protector and provider. He could respond to the welcome home as every true man loves to respond with some new comfort for those he loves. He would come home with good tidings for Christmas; for the jolly Samaritan had sold enough in our car to insure his hopes. But here comes Rube, returning from his labors with an empty basket and but two volumes of the disreputable literature which forms the bulk of supply for the trainboy —“The Mistakes of Moses,” and “Nance.” There is a smile lurking beneath his mustache—l can detect it by the dimples in each cheek —and there is sunshine in his eyes. Six feet of you, Rube, and every inch of you a man! I would like to shake hands with you, old fellow, for there is a big heart thumping under your vest; a heart in proportion to your great body. No doubt you are a sinner, Rube (we are all sinners, for that matter), but you are a saint on this Christmas eve. People disposed lobe critical may deplore your lack of dignity and the cynical may say you have made an ass of yourself; but that will not trouble you, old fellow. Your face is aglow with a brightness brought from heaverily places, that ridiculous cap on your head is a crown of glory to you, Rube. You have preached for me an eloquent sermon, a lesson of uses. You have shown me that sentimental emotion is of no value or account. Benevolent wishes are moral vaporings unless they find their ultimate in doings. The gifts you possess you have cheerfully laid on the altar of charity, all unconscious of having done anything for your own glory, delighting only in the joy you have bestowed upon your neighbor—a Merry Christmas, Rube, and a Happy New Year!—Frank Beard, in Ram’s Hdrn.

THE YOUNG MAN BOUGHT THE BOOK.