The Newark Journal.
O F. CRAIG, Editor.
NEWARK- - , ARKANSAS^
INDIGNATION
OF FATHER.
BY SI SAN HI BBARD MARTIN.
Father went regularly to the
post office every day, though he
never got any letters himself.
Most of the mail came to the girls,
three of them. Once in a great
while mother received a letter,
but not often. The girls did a
thriving business, however, and
father’s trip to the post office was
the principal event of tin* day.
They had a great many corre
spondents. as girls do; belonged
to several clubs, and, being young,
gay and light-hearted, were in
much demand at parties and so
rial gatherings.
Sot he girls had a merry time
opening letters, invitations, and
notes, enjoying the fun with all
their hearts. If fat her was disap
pointed over his own letterless
lot, he never showed it. and yet
mother sometimes thought when
he distributed day by day the let
ters to the girls, that he did show
it a little.
"You can’t expect to get letters
when you never write any. he
would say, cheerfully. "I never
was a great hand with a pen, and
now my lingers are too stiff. I
dare say some day though I'll get
a letter, all in good time, all in
good time. I don't say I wouldn t
enjoy ’em if I got 'em."
So father went his way, mild,
gentle and thoughtful, distrib
uting the mail and stamping let
ters with faithful promptitude.
He was such a good, unselfish
father that the girls did not ap
preciate him. He never scolded
and he never found fault. He pro
vided well for them. He paid their
bills, he indulged their whims and
fancies as far as lie was able, de
nying himself many things that
they might have the more. Ashe
asked nothing in return, the girls
grew to expect it, and fathers
wishes were often set aside.
"Father would not care,” they
said, when they took tin* big leath
er rocking chair into the parlor.
Father would not care when they
replaced the sittingroom lamp
which just suited his eyes with
one that hurt them. Father would
not care when they took grand
mother’s portrait up to the attic.
Father did care, but he didn't
Say anything. So the girls had
their way. They were good heart
rd girls in the main, but thought
less, and they never took the time
to study father's feelings or com
fort. If it hadn't been for mother,
he would have had a sorry time of
it.
Cornelia, for a rarity, went to
.'he post office one day. Father
had been ailing. When, in addi
tion to their own letters, there
■was one for father, Cornelia’s eye
brows went up. It was addressed
in a straggling, irregular hand,
and Cornelia deciphered the poor
writing with a tine scorn. ‘‘Albert
L. Fairbanks,” she read, slowly.
“I wonder who in tin* world now.
can be writing to father?” and
then shi* speedily forgot all about
it. She remembered it two days
afterward, however, and called to
Laura, who was dressing in the
next room:
‘‘O Laura,” she said, “there’s a
letter for father in my coat pocket
downstairs addressed in the
queerest, shakiest hand. Some old
fogy writing to him, 1 suppose. 1
wish vou'd give it to him when you
go down.”
“All right,” replied Laura, in
differently. She had a hand glass
in her hand and was studying the
effect of her auburn braids in the
back. “I’ll get it for him,” she
added.
To her credit, a few minutes lat
er she did get the letter, and read
the address with a condescending
smile. Then some one rang the
bell and she tucked the letter hur
riedly behind the clock on the man
tel, and then she too forgot all
about it.
“O Eleanor!’’ she called, a day
or two afterward, from upstairs.
Eleanor was in the parlor arrang
ing some vases. There was com
pany coming. “There’s a letter for
father,” added Laura, when Elea
nor answered. “You’ll tind it be
hind the clock in the sitting-room.
1 wish you’d give it to him. 1 for
got all about it until this very min
ute.”
“Very well,” Eleanor replied,
“the world must be coming to an
end. Father never gets a letter.”
She was trying to decide
whether to take the big vase off
the piano or leave it on, and in her
dilemma she too forgot all about
the letter.
It lay there two days longer. It
was at supper one evening.
Mother had got up to look for her
pocketbook, and in her search she
reached behind the clock. There
“if here ain't a letter.” And then
lay a letter. “Bless me," she cried,
she too read the address. “ ‘Al
bert L. Fairbanks.’ Why, it’s for
father,” she added, in a surprised
tone. She went back to the din
ing room. “Father,” she began,
“here’s a let ter for you. I found it
behind t he clock.”
Father looked up. “A letter?"
answered. “I'd like to know how
it got there. No one but me ever
goes to tin* post office and I never
received any letter. 'Tain’t likeh
I'd put it there if I had. I’d think
too much of it. Hand it here, Me
lissa.”
Cornelia looked conscience
stricken.
“You didn’t go to the office last
Monday, father, a week ago," she
replied. “You were sick, you re
member? I went and got the mail.
Your letter was among ours. I put
it in my coat pocket and told
Laura a day or two afterward to
give it to you.”
Laura's face flushed. “I put it
behind the clock and forgot it, then
when I remembered about it. I
called to Eleanor and told her to
hand it to you.”
Eleanor laughed a little. “I
never thought of it from that mo
ment to this.” she said, lightly.
Father rose. IIis gentle eyes
flashed. “You forgot it?" he said,
in a tone the girls had never heard
before. “You forgot it? Your old
father goes to the post office for
you every day. Hoes In* forget
your letters? Does he?”
For once the girls were fright
ened and sat still. ‘‘Don't he,”
the strange voice continued, “go
for you in heat and cold, in storm
and sunshine, whether he wants
j to or not, whether he's able or not,
so that you won't be disappoint
ed? Maybe you didn’t think he’d
like a letter once in awhile too.
There's nothing strange about
that, is there? Why shouldn't he?
Haven't fathers got feelings the
same as their girls? Haven’t you
ever thought that maybe father
might be disappointed day after
day when no one wrote to him?
And when (father’s voice broke)—
when his own children don't think
or care enough about him to give
him a letter when lie does get it?"
It was the longest speech of
father's life and the most telling.
The girls sat silent, remorseful,
and ashamed. Mother wiped away
a furtive tear. Then, in the still
ness, father took his letter and
opened it. He read it all through.
When he had finished it he looked
up. “It's from my Cousin Corne
j lius,” he said. “We were boys to
\ get her. We haven't seen each
j other for 30 years. He's got a sick
daughter out west and he's gone
to visit her. He had to pass
through Finley, only 15(1 miles
from here. He’s going home by
another way and lie wanted me
to met him there. He reached
Finley Wednesday. If I had re
ceived this letter when I ought to
I could have gone. As it is I am
too late, and I wouldn’t have
missed it for a hundred dollars. 1
always loved Cornelius. I named
Cornelia after him seem’ 1 hadn’t
any boy.”
There was a silence. Then
father folded his letter up and
went slowly out of the room.
“Did you ever?” whispered Elea
nor. “Who would ever have
thought he cared so much for a
letter? I’m sure I’m sorry for the
part I played in it.”
“I’m sure 1 am,” echoed Cor
nelia, sincerely.
“And 1 am too,” concluded
Laura, with a new thoughtfulness.
It was mother’s time to speak.
“You see what you girls have
done,” she said, soberly. “You
ought to have been more mindful
of your father’s feelings. You re
alize now what all this careless
ness has led to. It's struck me of
late, though 1 may be wrong, that
you don’t love your father as you
ought, and it grieves me; it does,
indeed. Well, well, it can't be
mended now. but I hope it will
teach you a lesson. Poor Corne
lius, I suppose he was disappoint
ed too.”
Father did not again touch
upon the subject and dropped into
his old gentleness again, but the
tone of his voice and the flash of
his eye were not forgotten, and
almost unconsciously the girls be
gan to treat him with a new ten
derness and a new respect.
Then one evening, several weeks
later, the bell sounded. Before
anyone could answer it. the front
door swung open and a queer lit
tle man walked in. He had a long
blue coat and he carried a cane
and a satchel. His hair was quite
white and there was a twinkle in
his kind, faded eyes.
Father jumped tip. “Bless my
soul,” he cried, “if it ain’t Corne
lius,” and then he went over to
him and hugged him like a boy.
“I couldn't go back without you,
after all,” said Cousin Cornelius,
a few minutes later. “Susan was
better after I got there, and as she
didn’t need me any longer 1 con J
eluded to come back the way I
went and let California go. I don’t
calculate to visit her again soon;
maybe never. Folks can’t depend
on themselves after they get my
age, and so I said to myself in ac
countin’ for why you didn’t meet
me: ‘Perhaps my letter was mis
carried; perhaps it was owin’to
the carelessness or thoughtless
ness of some one. There’s some
good reason.’ said I to myself.
Anyway, see Albert I must and
will, and here I am.”
Cousin Cornelius beamed upon
the little group. Eleanor, Cor
nelia and Laura flushed a little,
but Cousin Cornelius regarded
them affectionately.
“And these are your girls?” he
added. “Bless me, bless me, it
don’t seem possible. And Melissa
here don’t look a great deal older’n
they do. Well, well, this is
treat.”
a
After awhile the girls stole
away, leaving father and Cousin
Cornelius busily talking.
‘•(’■iris,” said Laura, solemnly,
‘‘now is your time to make it up
handsomely to father about that
letter. I’m not sure whether lie
has forgiven us or not, but we'll
make him. We'll give Cousin Cor
nelius the time of his life. We’ll
let other engagements go. He is
funny and old fashioned, but he’s
good, and father loves him. That’s
enough.”
And they did. Cornelia took
him out driving, showing him all
the places of interest. She even
put herself so far in the back
ground as to drive him to the
stockyards, and, being a lover of
fine cattle, he liked that the best
of all. Eleanor made him candy
and Laura read and sang to him,
not even smiling when lie asked
her if she knew “Daisy Deane,”
and “Just before the Hattie,
Mother.”
Take it all in all. Cousin Cor
nelius enjoyed himself as he had
never done before in all his life.
“Albert,” he said, before he
went away, “I ain’t much of a
hand at praisin’ folks. It don’t
come easy, for 1 was taught it was
sinful, from a child. You know
how New Englanders are about
that? But before I go I’m in duty
bound to tell you what nice chil
dren you’ve got. Some folks are
inclined to slight ’em and make
light of ’em when they grow up.
but yours—well, I’ve been a noth
in' em and 1 akin’ stock of’em ever
since I’ve been here, and I must
say a better behaved, nicer actin’,
finer mannered lot of girls I never
saw. They're pretty, too—bless I
’em. I’m a tolerable close ob
server too. Folks can’t pull the
wool over my eyes much. I'm pret
ty apt to know about it when they
do. I know I’m queer and old
fashioned, but those girls, sir.
made as much over me as if I’d
been the prince of Wales, or one
of the moguls from India, and I— :
I appreciate it—I appreciate it.
Albert, you're a happy man.”
Father smiled. If lie remem
be red the time when things were j
different, lie forbore to mention it
now. "Yes.” he said, slowly, as lie
knocked the ashes from his old
pipe, “they’re pretty good girls.
Cornelius, pretty good girls.”—
Young People.
VERY DEAR DAINTIES.
Three-Ounce Birds at a Dollar and
Asparagus at 25 Cents a Stalk.
There arc dainties of which a
single mouthful costs as much as
would provide two or 1 hrec people
with a good dinner if their ideas
did not stray very far from the1
homely joint, says the London
Home Chat.
Such is the ortolan, that linyj
bird so much prized by epicures
for its delicate flavor. It is diffi
cult to catch, and takes many
weeks to fatten, and after being
fed to a state of plumpness does
not attain a weight of more than
three ounces, feathers and all.
I liners in high-class restaurants
pay from 7.” cents to $1.2.” apiece
for what is, after all, a mere trifle;
and in years when the bird is
scarce as much as $2..”0 has been
given.
However welcome a joint of
lamb may be as a change from the i
more substantial beef and unit
ton. one would hardly think of it
in connection with those costly
articles of diet which tickle llie
palates of gastronomieexquisitrs.
But t here is one kind of lamb of
which a good plateful would cost
you $d. This is the famousagneau
de Pauillac, or milk lamb, which
comes from the* little town of
Pauillac, in France. The animal is
taken from the mother’s side, and
its flesh is as white* and tender us
a chicken.
For some [>eople you cannot
have anything more delirious or
expensive than the dish which is a
made from the edible nest of the
Chinese swallow. A single ounce
of this highly prized dainty costs
The nests are of a gelatinous
substance, made, it is believed, i
from certain kinds of seaweed,
which are themselves much used
for food in the east, and are high
ly strengthening and nutritious.
People who are very fond of
truffles, and are not hampered by
any considerations of expense,
very often eat t hem in the place of
potatoes. A good sized truffle in
champagne, which is the approved
way of serving, costs about fl.25.
The dearest egg which is Hold
for eating is tin* plover’s. It
comes into season on the first of
April, and if ordered a fortnight
before that date costs as much as
ll.no a piece. As the season ad
vances the prices go down some
what.
Luxuries which are quite within
the range of the ordinary person, j
at least once in a wav, cost the ep
h'ure L'b times as much money j
when he has them in midwinter.
For instance, asparagus is a do-1
licious vegetable, but to give 25 j
cents for a single st irk seems to be i
a wanton piece of extravagance.
This price, however, is frequently
paid in November and December.
In England.
One out of two workingmen
in England who reaches the age* of
l»5 dies a pauper and is buried at
t he poorhouse.
\ "
A good laugh is sunshine in a
li o use.—T h acker ay.
\
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