Newspapers / The Dispatch (Franklinton, N.C.) / Dec. 16, 1887, edition 1 / Page 1
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TELIv BOTH SIDES, AND TAKE 3K ' ***'~i£. TOIi. 1. .16,1*87. ■Mi FBANKLINTON, "N. C. MOuMr IS PUBLISHED WtcKLf BY muvnc mi. #. f, mobhis. tow * Baylus cade. ■ Publioher. Editor aod Agont. Editor. 50B8CKFTI0I PIIGE $1.00 PE* YEAR IIADTAJCE. Btit*All communications to Thb Dis patch should be sent to Baj’lus Cade, Editor, Lock Box lU3,j LpuUtburg, N- C. IQTAII advertisements must be handed • in by Tuesday evening or they will be left over until next iSafu. THE FEAST OF THANKS. Of Tears pass like winds that cease to blow. Like stars that fell from heaven’s dome; By Winds of years, by winter snow - Unquenched, still gleam the lights home. '1 v I Among* the living or the dead, Oh hearts we love where’er ye be, For yotf the sacred board is spread, The feast of Love and Memory! Clear eyws tuTfitled of holier light, ‘1 Clear souls at peace: past death’s dim -• banks, j Through all that gloom of utter night, Come keep, us the day of thanks! The waves of storm-scourged years that roar, May fleck the golden head with foam; By the old hearths we sit no more; » "JTet God be thauked for love aud home! Though hope and joys,* like April snow. May melt, though good or grief befall; For all man’s life, for bliss or woe; Bejthauks said at this festival! , Old homes, old hopes, old friends, old days, Wherefrom full many a season parts— For all, for all, to God ibe praise, And most for love and kindly hearts? . •' .. r.j t i - -■-*». THE WANDERER’S RETURN. Every Christmas, or New Tear’s, or Thanksgiving day, Mrs Forrest placed a chair at toe table for their only sou aud child,;David, who had left his home fifteen years before, at the age of niueteeu. Since he left, no word from lifrn had reached them. The faithful heart of the mother re* fused to think of the lad as dead, and so she laid his plate at his old place, and by it placed a little bouquet of his favorite flowers. “You see, he may come back at any time, father, aud then he’d under stand that we’ve been thinking of him all the time.” The o:d man shook his bead. “Boys like David don’t come back, Sarah. Vice drove him away,.and vice will probably keep him away. If it’s any gratiflcaliou for you to keep a place at the table for him. you know that I don’t object; but I wish you could make up your mind that he will never come back. These yearly reminders only bring the old pain back, and if i could, i should like to forget him altogether.” “No,you wouldn’t James. He was wild ,aud disobedient, aud brought shame and sorrow over this th reshoid; but for all that he’s! our ouly child, and I'm sure we can neither of us forget that.” ll was just uiteen years si ace the young man came home one uight in a beastly state of intoxication. It was not the first time, but the first time his father had seen him in that condition. He was a clerk in a dry good store, and when he came home late at night, his father supposed he had been Ue. ained by his business, and went contentedly to bed. The poor wile, who sat up for the wayward boy, knew better; but like many a geutle but - Unwise mother, she concealed her son’s vice from his father, hoping he might re* form. Her husbaud was a very stern man, and was unsparing in his de nunciations of the special vice of in temperance. The truth is, she was actually afraid to tell him. The night 1 have spoken of, Hr. Forrest had a letter! to write, which kept him in the siting room long after his usual bed time, when the slobbering idiotic young drunkard reeled iuto the room, his lather sprung from bis chair as if he had been shot. He looked at bis son, but did not say a work. Then he sat deliberately dowu in n chair and watched him, with such a look on hi* white, set.face that his terrified wife laid her trembling hand on his arm, He shook it off. In a few moments he turned to her, and said, in a hard, merciless voice: “How lpng has this been going^on, Sarah!” “Oh, I don’t know, James!” she sobbed. “I’ve seen him two or three times under the is flue nee of lienor* bat never so bed1 as this, James,. I didn’t tell you, because he pfomtsed to reform. Ob, don’t be too lard on him, father! Pray, don* the to h rJ upon him l” “Too hard!” he repeated, looking with angry disgust at the young man, who waa huddled iu h heap in a large arm chair, trying vainly to sit erec^ With a silly drunken grin on lis face. •‘Too hard! Why, if I turned him out of the house this very night, and dis own him as my son, I shod Id be do ing right! A.nd you hate kept this Atom me? How could you, how dare you, do it, and thus become respon sible for this disgrace* I might have checked it. Now it's too late'. Look at that idioiic face*, the stamp of the drunkard who is post recovery is upon it. It’s too late!” “Ob, don’t, don’t, James!” his wife cned, kneeling beside him. *;I did it for the best. Don’t say it’s too late! He’s but little more than a child yet, and bad company has led •him astray.” The drunken boy laughed idioti cally. “G’long callin’ me chile, ole ooman ! Bes’ poker player in-town! Los'ten dollars. Ole Rapp’s money though. Took it out till. Gov’nor looks madf. Wbatermatter?” “Oh, hush? hush! huse!” the dis tracted mother said, taking him by tlie hand. “Come to bed. David! Oil, do come.” The drunken boy pushed her asidie. “Gov’nor mad! he muttered. “Won’t be ’stated! Gimme satisfac tion of gentleman. Ten paceB, pistols,” aud as he maundered on. his head sank on the table before him, and he slept heavily. “bon’t try and get him away,” Mr. Forest said, sternly. “He shall stay there all night, and I’ll sit up with him. Yon beard what he said!” with a bitter laugh. “Our eon is not only a c run* ard, bat a thief. Let him stay there; I want to get accustomed to the disgrace which base owe upon me, and a night with that object be fore me will help me to realize it. Do go to bed. I mast take his man agement out of vour weak hands.” “You won’t drive ‘nm away, James? You’ll give him a chance? You will gi vti hi in one opportunity to try to reform? Don’t turn him out into the wicked world, to be lost forever!” she pleaded, with sobs. Her husband did not immediately answer her, but at last he said: “I will not drive him away yet. He shall have one chance more—a single one. I’ll make him understand that, when be can understand any thing. Now leave me with him.” The poor mother creet weeping tn her bed. She left the door partly open between the rooms, that she might watch ■ both husband and son Mr Forrest sat rigid and motionless as if he was carved in stone, but the boy slept on beavily. Towards morn ing he began to move uneasily in bis seat, then raised his head from the table and straightened himself up. . The mother, whose eyes had not closed through the whole of that long night, conld almost see the terrified expression in bis eyes when they fell on his father's,grim features oppo site. He rose unsteadily to bis feet. “Stop, sir!” said the father, walk ing to him. “I have a few words to say to yon.” What was said was in coo low a voice for Mrs. Forrest to hear. There were a few brief questions, and when David answered ene of them, he hong his head like a convicted crimi nal. Then she heard her husband's stern voice f«r a few minutes longer, and David half Staggered to the back door, opened it and passed out. Mrs. Forest did not dare ask her husband any questions, but did not feel uneasy when David did not ap pear at.breakfast. She concluded be bad gone to tbe store, not wishing to meet bis father so soon again. Bet when dinner time came, and, be tree still absent, her fears were awakened, and she noticed her husband cart un easy glances towafds, tbe dart when* ever it was opened. She pot on her bonnet after - dinner, and went di rectly to the store. Mr. Rapp was standing at the door. ••Good evening,1 Mrs. £orrest P* he. naid. "Where on earth is David to* day!” •'Isn’t be in the rtrtef” she asked, with her heart beating like a fledge* hammer. "Indeed, be isn’t. He came in for a minute early this morning, and bundejF-iae a ten dollar bill, ahd mumbled out something about hav ing foi gotten to put it in the till. He looked pale and sick, and I'm sure ought to have been in bed.” Without a word Mrs Forreft hur ried home. "W hat did you say to him?” she cried, passionately, to tiler husband. "You’ve been harsh and cruel to him, I know, and now he’s gone away, and I shall never, never see my boy again!” "I told him what i said I would,” he answered, coldly. "One more chance 1 gave him for amendment. Yes, 1 told him be was a disgrace, a dinging disgrace, for l didn t believe he would reform. 1 gave him some money to replace what he stole, and that was all. 1 don’t regret a word 1 sa id. Reproach your own weak ness. It isn’t just to reproach me. Since lie has chosen to leave us, it is perhaps the best think be could do.’’ • But though Mr. Forrest spoke in this manner, he spared neither money nor labor to gam some tidings of his son. They ^traced him to a seaport town, and then lost all trace as ut terly as if tbe earth had closed over him. As moments and years rolled by, Mr. Forrest gave up expectation of ever seeing him again, but the mother hoped still. The father grew more silent aud sad. Time as it passed had taught him that he had erred iu the harshness aud bitter ness with which he had treated his son, and he would have liked to re tract some of his words. Misfotunes. Urn, bad p/essed upon him. His crops bad failed three years in suc cession, he had mortgaged his farm in order that he might live; and in a few years there was to bo a foreclo sure of tbe mortgage, and the old place mu-1 pass out of his hands. "It's no use striving any logger, Sarah,” he said, drearily; "I do not know where to look for help, we must submit and leave the old homestead. Father was born here, as well as my self, and I hoped to die iu tbe house >n which he died. We’ll barely have a roof over us at Myron Cottage, but at least it will be our own. We didn’t think much of it when your aunt left it to you, And now it’s our last refuge.” "It will ontlast our time, James,” she said, sadly. “There’s no one to come after ns, unless David comes home.” Mr. Forest shook his head, lie bad long ceased to combat what be said was his wife’s monomania about the return of his sou. She always insisted that in the family devotions he should be prayed for as still living, and witn a cruel pang the father ut tered the name of the boy he be lieved dead. <• “It will be our last Thanksgiving dinner pn the old place,” be said, the day before Thanksgiving. “A lonely oue indeed, i wonder if in all the work! there is a couple as lonely and as desolate as we are.” She did not speak, bat slipped her bands in his. He pressed it warmly, the faithful hand which nad never wearied in its tender care of him, and there the old couple sat, silent and thoughtful. They did not need to speak. Each knew of what the other was tanking. Tbe mother said in her heart. “Dear Lord, Itriag our hey back to tie-** The rather thought, “LotrLbelp us to bear patiently ,tl»e affliprions tbat-are bringing oar gray lake with sorrow to the grave.” Thanksgiving Day dawned, tt was a dismal day. ' The rain poured, the Wind btew, the sodden leaves cover the earth, (be whole landscape was dreary. ‘Tt is pretty dismal, isn’t , it, motherf’ said the old man. “ICsa good thing, we don’t expect guests in this storm. ..Weil* I suppose we ought to be thankful for a,shelter this weather, and food enough to keep us from starving.” “Is that all We have, father?” asked bis patient wife. “We have health and hope——” “Hope of what?” he asked, smiling sadly: “I think, my dear, yon and 1 shook hands with bo. e long ago and hid it farewell.” 1 “Hope of a home where all these longings and heartaches will be over. O, James, what can keep that from us.” \ “You are right,” he said solemnly, and I needed the reproof. We will make this a kind of sacramental day, and wrestle with our griefs, as Joseph did with the angel, until they bless us. Why, there is a traveler out in all this rain. He looks as if he didn’t know which way to go.” “Call him in James,” said his wife. I’m glad the Lord h&a sent some one to eat our Thanksgiving dinner with us. The traveler obeyed the call of the old man, and dashed into the yard. "Stranger, this is a heavy storm; come and stop until tbe rain holds up,” Mr. Forrest called out. “Put up your horse in tbe stable there. We have no servants, and I can’t venture into the rain to help you.” In a few minutes the traveler stood at tbe threshold. * A tall, well-built mau, with a heavy brown beark and moustache abich nearly covered his face. “Come in, come in,” Mr. Forrest said. “Why, you are as wet as a rat.” “Only my overcoat,” he answered, in h hoarse voice, “ W itb your per mission, i’ll stop a minute in the hall and take it off.” . . He was a long time getting otf his coat, and when be came in Mrs. For est was placing an ample meal on the table. The stranger walked to tbe window and looked nut, • You have & pretty place here,” he said. “At*least, it must be »n at tractive place in good weather,” “Yes, answered tbe old man, with a sigh, “we are fond of the old house and its surroundings.” “Do you live alone here?” “As you see,” he answered, shortly. He thought the stranger too inquisi tive. “But dinner is ready. Take a seat.” The traveler noticed that one place there was a handsome china plate, and in a glass near it a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. Naturally supposing it was a seat of honor ap propriated to guests, he moved to wards it. Mrs. Forrest nervously waved him back. “Not there, sir!” she cried. “Please take this seat” “Excuse, me, madam,” as be took the indicated place. “Pm afraid yon will be disappointed in the guest you expect, the storm is so severe. But be ought to have tried to come. There should be no vaoaht place at Thanks giving dinner.” “It is always vacant sir,” Mr. For est said. “It is a notion of my wife's to keep it for our boy, who left us fifteen years ago. You see, she has always kept his plate on the yearly returns of these days, and put* n bouquet of bis favorite flowers near it. It nseaaa to dp her good to think be will come back some day.” “He will come back to it ” she said, quietly. “I've always felt sure that my boy would sit there ^face to face with me some day." The strtmger’s face worked cost* vnlsively, He suddenly moved to* ward the seat, and held oat hie arms «o her. ■•Mother f motbw l” he with tears filling bis eyes, ♦‘Don’t yon know me? Fattier, mother I’ve come b/tck to yon !” She fell in hjfs arms with a glad cry. But die father made one step forward and fell unconscious on the floor. It was so unexpected, se al most impossible that the shock over came him. But joy seldom kills, and he was soon, restored to conscious ness, and learnea with a feeling of rapture, such as for many years he had never experienced,:that his apn had some bacek a reformed min. “I did not mean to run away when I left the house," David said. “It was only when paying the money to Ur. Rapp that 1 realized the depth of my degradation, and 1 felt as if 1 could never look either of you in the face again. I shipped as a sailor in a vessel bound to Brazil, and when it reached there 1 left it, and found work up the country. I did not write, for I thought you’d rather think of me as dead. My business prospered, and then after 1 had ae cumulated some property, 1 began to long for heme, and for mother and for you. And so 1 bare come to see if you still care enough forme to take roe back.” It was a Thanksgiving supper they had that night, for tbe interrupted dinner had been entirely forgotten. Do yon think that three happier peo ple could have been found in this World on that Thanksgiving Day?— Youth’i Companion. _ He Should Have Told the Bull. I like'the fellow who is always ask ing or seeming to ask, “Don’t you know who 1 am?” It is human nature to be ashamed of'beiftg unkncftvn. The occupation does not deprive a man of that sense of being of so me importance in the world. At the same time there is nothing a. man resents so quickly as being asked. “Don’t you know who I am?’ Nobody in creation can keep back the answer internally, if he can keep it to him self, of “No. I Don’t, and I don’t care a-There was once a very im portant State official in Colifornia who thaught that everybody knew him, or ought to know him. He was one day walking through a field, when a bull addressed him in an un dertone and made for him with his head down and horns in a pos tion to raise him. He was a State official, a man of dignity and political power and natural pomposity, bat ’he ran. He ran surprisingly well. He ran even better than he did for office, and h? got to the fer.ce first He elum bared over out of breath and dignity, and found the owner of the bull calmly contemplating the operation. “What do you mean, sir?’ asked the irate official. “What do you mean by having an infuriated animal like that roaming over the fields?* “Well I guess the bull has some right in the field-” “Right! Right! Do you know wlw> I am?’ The farmer shook his head. “I, sir, am General ——.” “Why in thunder didn’t you tell the bull?”—Sou Francisco Chronicle. Smith—“Yon look <§ little mussed up. Brown.” Brown—“I should aay so! I’ve just had a row with my mother-in law, and I’ll be banged if she didn’t put me out of the house. The house belongs to her, you know.” “Smith—‘You told me a day or two ago that your mother4n-law was very feeble.” ’Brown—“Yes; I meant feeble tdr her.”—Harpers Bazan. We will take wood for what y«u owens. * ffeuf. --id sm 'f iiWli• • H.OO 1 mouth,... 2«tW "■•P****' »-'womhis zzzssrztHrxiM. 4.oo I* 6 mouths,...lit*. 6.00 “«—U mouths.... lh.OU Contraetsfor larger spat es can be tnado at greatly retraced rates by H(>p)yiug to the Soliciting Ageut. - » ,? 4 Local notices to regular advertiser# one cent a ..ord, To U«o>* uut regular advertiser# ten centa a ^lpe. . it# larsend for saihple copies. "i . k Ttlli #4 fw- !! ■F«N. dippedfrom Bxcban#ei. “Waiter ! such a IfcUe bit Of sage for tea cants, and it smslbk tooP* % • * *WeIl, no# If it won Id smell worse !" woa bigger it Young Jinks bad always told hit employer that be never touched liquor. Employer invited him into a Saloon to take a lemonade with him. Waiter, who knew Jinks, remarked to’ him. as hie set down a'hottie of old rye that he brought in s “Jfo use ask* ing what you will take.” <£>hiternation of ^Young.—Texas Siftings. “Hello. John, yon look quite hap* py!” ‘ Well, I have cause to he happy. I was married two weeks ago. and last night my wife got me on the po lice forc^” “Your wife got yon on? Why, yon were ten pounds below the standard weight when the surgeons rejected you, and you are no heavier now.” ' “I know it, but three days after being married I ate two of my wife’s first biscuits, went before the sur. geons again and tipped the scales at the standard weight.”—Cincinnati Telegram. There was a large company at din* ner the other day at the Dean’s, and Miss Ella was looking out of the window as if expectiug some one, “That’s dear Mr. Karlstop; now we shall^have some music. Is it he? Yes, it is ! No it isn’t, yes, that’s hia gait I knowrv . .... “Taint his gait either, sis, an* don’t you forget it,” shouted a sweet youth in knickerbockers. “Fop says be ain’t a-goin to have no music-man a hanging on his gate with you” But here he was muzzled and drag ged out of the room.—Dctrgit Free Pi ess. Omaha Youth-“Say, Dick, will your sister be at home to-night?” Littie Dick—“Nop#”’ •‘Did she say where she was going?” “Nope.” “Has she any regular engagement for this evening!” • j “No, gness not,” , . “Then maybe she’ll be at home.' “No she won’t, ’cause Si* is a girl of her word.” t “Her word?’ “She said if yon asked if she’d be at home I should say ‘no,’ and then she'd go somewhere, so it wouldn’t be a lie.”—Omaha Herald. “This is all so sadden, Mr. Samp* son,” she said, with maidenly re* serve, ‘and so unexpected, that al* though l confess 1 am not entirely* indifferent to you, I hardly know what to say in reply tp-— “if you are in favor of the propo* sition,” suggested Mr. Sampson, who, like Dick Swiveller, is a Perpetual Grand Master, “you will please eig* nify your assent by saying Aye.’ ” “Aye,” came softly, “Contrary?’ “No!” thundered the old man. opening the door. ^ 1 <gj “The ones have it \ff a large ma* j jority,” said Mr. Sampson, reaching for bis hat.”—New York Sun. “Well. Jndd what is it yer are so anxious to tell the boys?” asked Deacon Skinberry of ‘the village Ananias. * ^ “Wall, rdonno’s yon’li b’lieve it.** “Never mind; tell It anyhow.” “Er—you fellers was telling 'bout fast train time, sixty miles er nour, ’n so on; but I calkUtc I kin tell yer 'boot a lilenin’ tram ez beats 'em ML 1 went down ter tber depot one day w’en 1 lived at Scooperville. on the Tearing Thunder Road, an’ ex I step ped on the cars an* turned to kiss my wife gnod-’bye, ther trslA pulled out *n 1 Inseed r cow sir miles not in ihtfr keouy.*'— Duttum. Tcxus, IVtws.
The Dispatch (Franklinton, N.C.)
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
Dec. 16, 1887, edition 1
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