Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 21, Number 22, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 22 November 1890 — Page 4
..^r&masesb *.3 1"
THANKSGIVING STORY.
4
TALE OF OAPK COD AND NEW YORK N KW8PAPEH UFK.
(Copyright by American I'neiw Association.]
0
DEAR old lady on Cape Cod was once listening impatiently to a friend who was in rush ancl bustle of Boston's busiest streets. After a few momenta she interrupted: "Yoti needn't toll im\" she said "1
know nil sltout it. Hain't I Won over to North Brid^owntor?" I know this is true, for my grandmother told mo of it. and she hntl no talent for fiction.
P. VVinthrop Bowers wont to New York with some Cape Cod idona, though perhaps nono of them was quit© as pronounced the old lady's. I'eter thoy called hini at home, btit ho was determined to bo a city man. That wius the mwum he got into trouble. And of all the men on the stuff Bowers had the greatest faculty for getting into the most kind* of trouble at oneo. None of us knew why the city editor took him on, and the longer he stayed with uh
the leas
we understood it. To bo sure he had a hearty, good natured way with him that captivated everybody whoknew him. We got to calling hitn Cocktail Bowers after the first week because hia laugh waa infections, and Billings declared that it wna better than a
cocktail to meet him
in the morning. The city editor was very shy of cocktails. Hi* predecessor wa« enjoying a year's vacation, without pay. in consequence of certain inabstir.ences that had come to the notice of the chief, and he had been chosen, we all thought, on account of his rigid virtue rather than because of any other (Uncos. That might have been one reason why he took Bowers on. Anylwxly could see in a minute that Bowers had never been on a jamboree in his life.
He lost no time. In somewhat less than ti week he showed up an hour late at the ofilce, a gorgeotia lecture of teiuliorary ruin. The j»allor of hia face was such that chalk would have made a dark mark down his cheek, and his eyes looked like two red, rising moons, with dark clouds around them. Some of the youngster* laughed, and the older men wondered whether he would catch the reaction soon. Bowers laughed.
The reaction didn't come. Sometimes it hapj»ena so. though from watching the habits of successive generations erf youngsters we rather expected it, when the matt was really a man at the bottom. It doesn't take very many years to become a veteran in reporting, ami if a man get« beyond his third or fourth year ho is likely to turn out well enough, according to his nature. After five or six he will either have settled into an irredeemable, or have gotten a start upward, or have left the business* Always excepting the men who are born reporters. They stay where they are.
These--the veterans—learn to measure the youngsters pretty accurately, as a role, and, as 1 said, haven't long to wait to learn how their prophecies will pan out Bowers puratled its, though. "Bowers, you're making the pace too hot for the first quarter*"* said the sporting editor to him very kindly one day. "You'll bo out of the raw in the first half mile sf you don't pull." Bat of cour?»\ though it was meant well, that did Bower* no good. He was waiting for his as boys do. It eaaifc—4t always doe?: and because happened to bo mixed up in it at two eud* is why I m»
writing thia story, Lon.£ Wore the story deretafwd itwif 1 ha«l be»vnw isjtepwted in yrrtRg Bowtr»—forgHv fnm? cariosity, for »hil»n» throve «tforts frow perfunctory ia the abnormal oo&titiotui of a tww*p«p«ar office, and ewa your desk neighbor be» come# a mere unit in the umltittttJe which
i»
too attmcroot to be rvatlily af-
fected by individual effort. Of coane
omi r^£j{0Mt
all this is only a stage of development, but it is the last stage that a good many men reach.
Bowers responded readily enough he was one of those who tell any casual friend all their aspirations and griefs. You love them for their ways even while you deplore their folly. He talked the usual stuff that captivates so many boys when thej' begin feeding the press with what they consider ideas. He was in love with Bohemianism. And Bohemianism meant to him, as it does to so many, the writing of verses, the drinking of much tipple, the ignoring of regularity in all the habits of life and tho constant association with other similarly misguided youth. Bowers thought he could write verses, and had lea mod with what facility he could do all the rest.
Bowers kept along, doing his work fairly well, but never rising above mediocrity. and managing by several narrow shaves to ©scape the dismissal that might perhaps have made a man of him, when one day he had the luck to make the acquaintance of an adventuress.
It won as bitter bad a chapter for Bowers as it could easily be, for he fell in love with her, or thought ho did, in manly, honorable fashion and wanted her to marry him. Bohemianism even Of hia type doesn't kill that impulse in the first' year or two. Fortunately for him the woman was not in a marrying mood just then, or if she is she dared not, for two of her husbands were in the city watching her very closely. Of course Bowers knew nothing of that. She told him she was a widow. It amused her, I snpjiose, to play with the boy's feelings. She was young enough, perhaps, (o tako pleasure in vain imagining, for she was only thirty or forty years older than he, having been born tive years earlier than he was. Natural ly she had no good influence whatever
eowuts
cams in drunk.
over him. and equally in the natural course of things he thought she was everything that was bright and beantifnl.
One afternoon the news came into the office that a noted man about town had been shot by this woman. Bowers happened to hear it spoken of, he was standing near the city editor'* d»ak while that official was instructing another repeater t© "work up the ca»e,"
He turned very white, but spoke quietly enough. "1 know her very well," he said, and he was wise beyond what was to be expected, for he did not say "the lady." he wanted to. If be had the dty editor would have mistruisted him instead of saying. "Then you tak® the detail. Bower# and, Filkina, you see the mayor about that deadlock In the police commissions which waa exactly what Bower# wanted.
He said "Very well, jar." and started out It was ©ally when he went. Mid he should hare beet* back with his story by 10 oVlocfc, hat he wasn't.
At l«af past 10 the city editor called at* up. He used to ctsae ia of an evening very often, though his day wa# over at 6 o'clock, trbea the eight city editor cause **1 am getting
mtv&m
temvr»
about
Boimx* be said. "Doycm know how well he
2:*?? .iSIIte
^assfe
"1 guess it's all right," said I, though I had the same feeling but he continued: "Don't go away.. If he doesn't come in by 11 you will have to go and cover tho story."
In a few minutes Bowers came in stxipldly drunk. It was the first time he had ever offended so grievously, and our amazement was great when it transpired that he was unable to write' or even to tell his story.
I took a cab and went over his ground as rapidly as possible, managing to get a fairly good account of the shooting in type*before the paper went to press, but Bowers was discharged peremptorily.
I hunted him up in a day or two and asked him how it haippened. He declared that he had been drugged by an
I
intimate friend of tho woman to whom he had gone for fuller particulars than {he could get in the routine way. He saw an plainly as I that the drugging had been an,idiotic attempt to keep the news out of the paper we worked for, but what he could not bo made to acI
knowledge was that the woman bp lavad was worthless. He raved about injured innocence, and declared that she had shot the man in her own defense.
This showed plainly enough that it was a good thing for tho paper that Bowers had been unable to write the story, but it made me anxious about Bowers.
Luckily I knew the detectives who were investigating the case, and I got them to lay the full details of her career before the boy. Bowers had got his lesson.
It would have been a Bevere one for a stronger man. It seemed for a few weeks as if it would be altogether too severe for Bowers. Somehow I didn't look on him as a mere unit in the multitude in those dayB. It really seemed to be worth while to try to save him.
I was getting dubious about succeeding when I was suddenly ordered to Cape Cod. A ship had been driven ashore in one of the fiercest gales of November, and when the news came there were known to he a number of men still on board, in peril of their lives, and unable to get away. There was a chance for a magnificent story if I could get there before they were rescued, and I lost no time.
The chance was caught, and I was hard at work in my room in the village tavern, sending copy page by page to the telegraph office by a boy who was chartered for the night, when he brought me word that there was a man down stairs who was very anxious to see me. "Tell him I can't see him to-night unless he has important news," I growled impatiently but the boy replied, "He don't want to interrupt you, he says, but he wants to see you a minute when you are through." "That will be 1 o'clock,** I said still more impatiently, and straightway forgot the man. As I hurried across to the telegraph office with my last nage, however, a white haired gentleman at the tavern door accosted me. "Be you the reporter of he began. "Don't stop me now/ I exclaimed angrily "I haven't a minute," and I rushed on, not too quickly, however, to hear him say politely, "I beg your pardon." Whereupon I turned my anger against myself for not being as court©ous as he.
After had "given the office good night" I took time to wonder who my caller wa#, and speedily found out. He was still at the tavern door.
Be
ytm
the reporter of the XewYock
~T he asked* as 1 came upr I am, sir," said I, trying to make up for former bruaqueaesR by extra civility. "My rame is Bowers," he said. "I have a
mm
wottrin* on your paper, V1
thought maybe you might give me news on him. I hain't heerd from him for nigh two months," and the old gentlenan's YfBce almost broke. "Why yes, Indeed* said I. "I see Mm almost every day. So he Is your sob, knew he came tran New England, hut I didn't know just what part.** And I weat on nervously apd verbosely belling him how much we aS
that woroaa? I hav* a liked the hoy," atd how he liked his
feeling that 1 ought not to have given work, hoping to escape wme question! tiyMUkfcalL* that I knew w&oM be hard to
They had bo answered though, and I wish all my sins lay as lightly on my conscieace as those I committed in the next fifteen minutes. It was plainly impossible to tell all the truth to this ragged, earnest, simple white haired Puritan. And I found it equally impossible to resist his insistent invitation to visit his home and tell "mother" all the glad news I had told him. It was easy to plead fatigue as an excuse for not going that night, but in the morning I must go. The short way was to accept There was always the plea of urgent business.
In the morning though other Bowers'' drove over with the old gentleman, and of all the dear old lames that ever gladdened the eye die was the dearest I could see at once why her scapegrace son was everybody's favorite. He had her eyes.
It was Tuesda*sa»d she had come to get Peter's friend to spend Thanksgiving in the old homestead. They had expected day by day to hear that Peter was coming, and hadn't given it up yet, but whether he came or not I couldn't go away. I pleaded work and the necessity for getting back to the city at once, but such a look of pain came in the gentle fSce that I wavered and gave up.
One sneaking thing I did. There was much telegraphing to do yet about the wreck, and of course I was busy all day, But before any copy went to the paper a short dispatch went to the prodigal son. It read, "Come home at once if yon want to see your mother alive," and it was signed Peter Bowers. That would bring him if anything wonld. And I told the old people that probably young Peter was intending to give them a surprise. That was why he had not written. "It wouldn't be much of a surprise to §ee him come home for Thanksgiving," said'hisjinother smiling, but the wistful longingAnd doubt in her sweet eyes told a different story.
So we,Went to the old farm house, and as I knett with the family at their evening prayer, and listened to the earnest eloquence of the old man praying for the youhgest son to be preserved from the temptations of a great city, I shud dered to think what sorrow I could have brought them by telling the truth.
Next day I drove over to the village and attended to what business I had left, which was little, for the sensation was over. Then I went to meet the train on which I hoped to find young Bowers. He was there, and I, forgetting for the moment that he did not expect to see me, was surprised when he passed me with a slight nod. I hurried after liim. though, and caught his arm. "Don't detain me," said he, "my mother is dying." And I was very glad to see the pain in his eyes. He was not really bad. "Your mother is perfectly well," said, "and is at this minute busy get ling my Thanksgiving dinner ready."
THE PRATER AND PRAISE OF THAT THANKSGIVING.
Young Bowers looked at me in a confused way. "What do you mean?" he demanded. 'I mean I have played you a trick. I sent the telegram to rouse you from—-" And then I went on and preached the first and last Thanksgiving sermon I ever delivered.
Young Bowers listened in silence. When I was through he said, "Thank you, old man." As he shook my hand I knew I had said enough.
When he had yielded to his mother's pleading, and had promised to stay at home instead of going back to the big city, the Bowers family was the happiest one on Cape Cod. He admitted, with a blush that I honored him for, that his mother was right in thinking that newspaper work was too severe for his health, and no one mistrusted that dissipation and not work had paled his cheeks
And the prayer and praise of tnat Thanksgiving day were as wonderful as the feast of turkey and pie and all of nature's bounties that I enjoyed as I never enjoyed a feast before.
And if Peter's friend does not take his Thanksgiving dinner in that house every year it is because he can't get there. There is always a chair set for him.
David
a.
Centra
Happy Th«aftit.
Wi£e—This turkey is altogether too old and tough to eat. What on earth shall wedo with it?
Hushaod—Wfay not send it around to
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1891.
Harper's Magazine.
ILIiTTSTIEfc-^TlEm
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