The Cushing Herald. (Cushing, Okla. Terr.), Vol. 5, No. 20, Ed. 1 Friday, December 1, 1899 Page: 1 of 4
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The Cushing Herald,
VOLUME Y.
CUSJIING, OKLAHOMA TERRITORY, FRIDAY, DEC. 1, 1890.
NUMBER 20
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THOUGHTS FOR THANKSGIVING If
UNCLE EZRA'S THANKSGIVING.
Yep, Thanksglvin' Day Is playin' out,
er so it seems to me,
Fer it don't make no comparison to
what it use' to be;
Though the turkey and the mince
pies is the same we've alw'ys
known,
An' I'm here, an' Sary Ellen, but we're
eatin' 'em alone.
It's the bulldin' of the railroads thet
hes made it that-a-way—
Thet hes tuck our children from us an'
hes sp'ilt our holiday—
Holdin' out their ■ wild shameeries
about lan's that can't be beat
(But whar cyclones digs the taters, an'
whar chinch bugs mows the
wheat).
•Why, It use' to be thet youngsters didn'
seem to want to go
From the homestead of the ol' folks
any more'n a mile er so;
They 'ud take things 'twas given 'm,
an' they'd settle thar an' stay,
An' they'd fill the homestid table when
it come Thanksglvin" Day.
Law me! yes, them times is ended!
Little Sary married fust,
An' Jim Medders 'lowed he'd take her
out to Idyho er bust,
BUT WE'RE EATING 'EM ALONE.
An' he bustid, an' I've ben a-sendin'
money ever sence.
Though it's more fer little Sary thet I
care than "the expense.
An' then Chrissy went to Texas—
Chrissy alw'ys was our pride,
But he headed off some cattle, an' he
hurt his spine an' died.
An' now Sammy's in the city, an' that
ain't so fur away,
But he's writ us that a baby's brought
'em their Thanksgivin' Day!
So we narrered down the table, bein'
by ourselves, you see,
An' the turkey'll las' forever, Jes' fer
Sary an' fer me;
An' the raisins in the mince pie,
bought fer Sammy's special
taste,
Sence he didn't come to eat 'em, sorter
seem to be a waste.
Yep, the railroads tuck 'em from us,
an' we're all alone at last,
An' Thanksgivin'8 like I told yeh, Jest
a mem'ry of the past;
But we're countin', me an' Sary, on a
better place, an' then
"We will have a big Thanksglvin', an'
the chlldr'n home again,
A. B. P.
HIS THANKSGIVING.
Tinkle-tinkle, tinkle-tinkle, tinkle-
tinkle.
The leading man engaged In an at-
tempt to remove a black spot from his
dress cravat by means of an applica-
tion of white grease paint, paused and
listened.
"It's a mandolin," he nald. "That's
a new wrinkle. We've had all kinds of
fiends in this company since we started
out, everything from clsarettes to bi-
cycles. Who's the musician, I wonder?
Oh, I say, Jenks! Jenks! Who's the
band wagon?"
There was a step In the narrow pas-
sageway that led to the dressing
rooms, and Jenks, the property man,
appeared in the doorway. "Sh!" ho
said, "not so loud. The old man'll
hear you."
The leading man started. "The old
man, did you say—not Merrlam?"
"Yes, Merrlam," in a whisper.
The leading man sat on his trunk.
"That beats me," he said. "The An-
cient Mariner tinkling a mandolin.
Now I'm prepared to see Father Time
playing sentimental ditties on a Jew's
harp."
Jenks did not laugh, a fact which
helped to sober the other man. "It's
no surprise to me," said tho property
man, gravely. "1 says to Mrs. Jenks
just before ( left the hotel, says I.
'Mrs. Jenks, you know what night this
is?' 'Thanksgiving,' she says. 'Why,
right,' says I, 'and it'll be a hard night
for Merrlam.'
" 'Poor old man,' says Mrs. Jenks,
a-wipin' of a tear. 'Poor old man, I
suppose he'll be playing of his mando-
lin again.' 'That he will,' says I.
"He hasn't missed it, as near as I
can Judge, for thirty years. As eure
as Thanksgiving night comes. Just so
sure he gets out that old mandolin of
his and tinkles away. And it's always
the same tune. God! But it does
make my mind go back. I'll never for-
get the first time he played it. You
see, me and Merriam hare been to-
gether, off and on, so long that I know
his story most as well as he does him-
self. Not that he ever talks about it.
To-night, after the show, that instru-
ment '11 go back to the bottom of his
trunk, and it won't come out again till
this time next year."
The leading man was all ears.
"Thirty years ago I was stage door-
keeper at the old California theater.
Now, the stage doorman ain't so un-
important as some folks think. There's
mighty little goes on that he don't
know something about. He gets the
flowers first, and he usually sees the
cards. He's a good friend to the actor
when the actor's a friend to him. and
he can do a favor now and then that's
worth the while.
"Merriam was Just beginning to
climb up the ladder in those days. He
had come into the stock three years
before as utility, but he was a hand-
some chap, with brains and ambition
to back his good looks, and It wasn't
long before he got to playing leads.
Say, when Merriam went on as Romeo
at the matinees you couldn't see three
rows in front of you for the bonnets.
Mrs. Jenks used to live In a regular
garden those days, for Merrlam
wouldn't have none of the flowers
the silly girls used to send him. When
I'd offer to bring them home to him
he'd laugh, and tell me he reckoned
my wife cared more for flowers than
he did.
"But I often noticed that he came
Into the theater with a big bunch of
violets or roses that he'd bought him-
self to give to the little woman who
played opposite parts to him. I asked
him once why he didn't give her the
flo'vers the girls sent bim, instead of
spending money that way. I took a
kind of fatherly interest in Merriam in
those- days. Lord bless you, to look
at him now you'd think he was my
grandfather. He looks that old.
"Well, I seen how things was going
with him and Nellie Moore, and every-
body else seen It, too. When she was
on the stage he stood in tho wings,
and his eyes followed every move she
made. I remember one of the women
saying that it was worth while to have
a man care for you like that, and cer-
tainly Nellie seemed to like It. She
came to me one afternoon—that
Thanksgiving I'm telling you about—
and said that she was too tired to go
home after the matinee. She osked
me if I'd run across the way and order
dinner for her. Then she whispered
in my ear that she wanted it served
for two, and asked if I couldn't fix a
bunch light on the stage, so she and
Merrlam could have a cozy Thanksgiv-
ing dinner all alone.
"Of course I done It for her, and
while they were eatin' I went over to
my boardln' house. There was to by
I WANT YOU TO LEARN IT.
a change of bill that night, bo I crime
back early to get my props in shape,
as I had them to attend to as well as
looking after the door. When I came
back to the theater I heard Nellie
Moore playin' a mandolin. Che was
always fond of music and carried the
Instrument around with her.
" "Now yon try,' she said, and Mer-
riam answered that he didn't know a
note.
" 'I'll teach you,' she said. 'There's
an a!r I want you to learn and remem-
ber.'
" 'All right,' said Merrlam, and ho
took the mandoilo from her. She
showed him where to place his fingers
and kept humming the tune until he
could play it with only one or two
breaks. Then she went to her dress-
ing room to get ready, and Merriam
sat there thrumming until the half
hour was called.
"That night there was a good deal
of hand-shaking, and the word went
around that there was to be a weddin'
at Christmas.
"The next night on my way to the
theater I noticed a crowd arouud the
stage door, and heard talk of a run-
away. I hurried up, and as I did so
Merriam came out, his face as white
as a ghost's.
" 'For God's sake, get a doctor.
Jenks!' he cried.
"I rushed to the nearest drug store,
and, luckily, found one there. When
we got back to the stage door Merriam
was waiting, and, without a word, he
led us to a sofa in the wings on which
Nellie Moore was lying. The doctor
bent down over her for a mliiute, shook
his head and said he was too late.
"An understudy played Juliet that
night and Merriam as usual was the
Romeo. The audience didn't know the
real reason for the change, but in the
tomb scene I don't see how they could
help feeling it.
"Those of us who saw it from the
wings will never forget It. The women
were in hysterics and the stage hands
and flymen were nearly as bad. I don't
know how Merriam ever lived through
it, but this I do know. He was a dif-
ferent man from that night. He
seemed to lose all his ambition and he
withered up so, that when I met him
at a rehearsal two years later, I hardly
fF+7~
• ^
KITTY'S HUSBAND
ii&L
By Author of ''Hetty," Etc.
A CROWD AROUND THE STAGE
DOOR.
knew him. He was bent much as you
see him now, and was playing char-
acter old men. Every year he dropped
down further, until they wouldn't trust
him with anything better than bits
and servants. Yes, sir, and that old
man has played Romeo with the best
of them."
The story &as finished, but the man-
dolin still tinkled. The leading man's
face was drawn, and Jenks sat think-
ing. Perhaps the former was thinking
of his own high tide of prosperity, and
of what the future had In store for
him.
But sympathy and curiosity are
closely allied, and soon the two men
were tiptoeing through the passage-
way. They paused before the old act-
or's room. A ray of light filtered
through a crack in the thin pine door.
Merrlaih was dressed and made up for
a comedy servant. His green livery
coat hung on a peg on the wall, and
the red wig with which he covered
his own white hair lay on the dressing
table before him. There, too, was a
faded photograph of a pure-faced girl
in the dress of Juliet. The actor was
bent over his mandolin and the lead-
ing man now caught the tune for the
first time, broken, but recognlzaVe.
"Whc* other hearts and other lips
Their tales of love shall tell,
Then you'll remember, you'll •emum-
ber "
Twang! There waB the sound of a
broken string.
"First act! All up for the first act!"
The callboy came tumbling down the
passage and the listeners hurried up to
the stage. A few minutes later the
callboy came up, too, and he found
the stage manager fuming.
"Where's Merriam?" he cried. "I
can't hold the curtain all night for that
doddering old fool. Hurry him up,
will you?"
The boy disappeared, and reappeared
almost instantly.
"Mr. Merriam's " The toara
choked his voice and he got no further.
The stage manager made a rush for
the stairs. Ten minutes later he cams
up dressed for the comedy servant,
but the man whose name was down
on the bills for the part lay in his
dressing room clutching an old man-
dolin. with his eyes fixed on a faded
photograph.
T)i> Vp-tu-linte KlupeinenU
Ira to Father—"This way, policeman;
this wny!"
Pollreman—"Wot makes y" t Ink
dey'rr gone dis way?"
lratf Father- "They eloped in an
automobile and I can smell the gaso-
line."--Pyratuse Herald.
CHAPTER XIII.—(Continued.)
After much opposition on my part
and quiet, steady determination on
John's, Meg wag sent for. She was
not a very attentive,. but she was a
very cheery nurse. She forgot my
medicine one hour, and gave nte a
double dose cheerily the next, and
laughed gaily at her own mistakes.
And In spite of her mistakes, I got well
Quickly.
But, long after I was well, Meg con-
tinued to stay on with me.
"You have nicer dinners than we
have at home," she would confess with
sweetest candor, "and your chairs are
softer. And I feel that 1 am doing an
act of benevolence in staying. I save
you and John from eternal tete-a-tete.
Now confess, Kitty, that you are duly
grateful."
I was silent.
"Silence means confession," Meg de-
clared. •
She stayed through almost all Nov-
ember with us. Whenever she spoke
of going John gravely interposed and
begged lier to remain; and she re-
mained willingly. Sometimes I wished
ungratefully that she would go and
leave me alone; but John seemed to
have more fear than I of those tete-a-
tete talks from which she saved us.
Yet, one day, it struck me that John,
too, was growing tired of her long
visit. Meg was late in coming down
stairs; he and I were alone for a min-
ute at breakfast. He held his pa<)er,
but he was not reading It; presently
he put It down. Glancing across at
him, I was pained to see how worried
and anxious he was looking.
"Meg is staying all this week,
Kitty?" he asked me suddenly as he
caught my questioning glance.
"You asked her to stay, John."
"Yes, I Itnow," he said; and he took
tip his paper again with a little sigh,
"I think not," said John.
"Tell we whose It is."
"I am very sorry. I cannot tell you.
It is a private correspondent."
Meg said no more. She relinquished
the letter meekly, and John took it un-
opened into his study and did not ap-
pear again.
CHAPTER XIV.
It was a cold, boisterous day, but 1
had shopping to do, and wag out alone
all the afternoon. I came In to find
Meg sitting pensively before the fire,
her hair untidy, her morning dress un-
changed, her elbows on her knees, her
chin on her hands. She was looking
before her into the fire with a tar-
away gaze, and started when I entered
the room; she looked round at me,
her eyes laughing, and yet with some-
thing of mingled melancholy in their
depths.
"Why, what are you doing, Meg?" I
asked.
"Thinking, dear—an uncommon
thing," answered she; and she shook
back her fair, rippling, pretty hair, and
seemed as though she would shake
away her thoughts with the samo im-
patient gesture. "I've seen a ghost,"
she said. "The vision has been haunt-
ing me all day. Don't I look like It?
I've seen the ghost of an old love, Kit-
ty."
She spoke lightly, scofflngly, and yet
there was an undercurrent of deeper
meaning in her tone. I knelt down
apon the rug beside her chair, and she
put her elbows once more upon her
knees and her chin upon her hands,
and again looked musingly Into the fire
before her.
"You didn't know I had an old love?"
she said, still in a scoffing tone. "You
didn't know that I went about the
world with the smallest possible
fraction of a heart, did you, Kitty?
I DON'T SEE WHY I SHOULDN'T TELL YOU.
and it again struck me that he did not
read it.
Meg came down stairs, gaily hum-
ming as she came. As she passed
through the hall the postman arrived,
and she brought In the letters, looking
carefully In a perfectly open way at
each one. Suddenly the smile faded
from her face; she glanced quickly at
John with a half-questioning, half-
startled look.
John rose and put out his hand to
take the letters. He was more eager
than usual to obtain them. Meg gave
them to him slowly, one by one.
"Only three," she said. "One from
Madame Arnaud. One from a person
who ought to go back to copy-books—"
John took the letters she held out
to him. She still retained the third.
"Let me have the other, Meg," he
said In a tone of tired forbearance.
She put the letter down upon the
table, but she was still holding It.
"Whose writing is that?" she asked.
John's face puzzled nie. He was
evidently striving against a sharp, Im-
patient answer. He was anxious to
obtain possession of the letter, and
anxious that Meg should not any
longer examine It. Meg, too, was
graver than her wont us she atood
looking doubtfully, first at him, then
again at the handwriting on the en-
velope.
"1 know that writing," she said half-
defiantly.
On the whole, I got on very well. One
enjoys the world better without a heart
than with one, I think. Pretty bonnetB
are more satisfactory than lovers."
"Meg," I Bald, looking closely and
curiously at her, "I don't understand
you—I don't understand a bit what you
are meaning."
"Nor I," said Meg, with an odd little
laugh that was half a sigh. "A person
who has seen a ghost may be allowed
to be half-witted for half a day. I saw
a ghost at breakfast-time this morn-
ing. 1 took it in from the postman at
the door. It Is residing now in John's
study, I suppose. And, If it were not
for an old-fashioned idea of honor, I
would go and rifle John's study and try
to find it."
"Are you talking about the letters,
Meg. that you took this morning?"
"Oh, wise Kitty! About one of those
letters. Yes."
1 looked at her In perplexity. For
many minutes she did not speak again.
"I have a score of love-lettsrs all in
that same handwriting," she said at
last, turning her head to smile at me—
"tho only love letters I ever had, or
ever shall have. Preserve me from
having any more."
She clasped her hands behind her
head and laughed.
"It was such a fooliBh affair, so
childish, so allly," she added, with a
lingering regret In ber scornful toa*.
1 thought I bad forgotten all about 11"
"Tell me about it, Meg."
"Tell you about it, Kitty? Thank:
you, dear, I would rather not."
I did not urge her any further.
With her hands clasped behind her
head, she sat looking before her.
Presently she turned and looked mus-
ingly at me.
"I don't see why I shouldn't tell
you," she said. "It may amuse you.
Poor little Kitty! Life is dull enough
for you; you want a glimpse of com-
edy now and then to make you smile.
Well, smile at this. When I was six-
teen, Kitty, I lost my heart. I had a
lover—my only lover—laugh, dear."
"I don't want to laugh, Meg."
"Don't you? Is the story so tragic?
I assure you it's comic, too. I used to
play truant from school In order to go
for walks with him. Was that comic or
tragic or only Improper?"
"Who was he, Meg?"
"His name doesn't matter, dear. Hfc,
at all events, thought that It didn't
matter. He called himself Arthur Les-
lie. I found out afterwards that the
rest of the world called him Arthur St.
John."
"That was Madame Arnaud's name,"
I said vaguely.
"He was related In some way, I
think, to Madame Arnaud. It was from
him that I first heard of her; we were
talking about the theater, and he told
me her story, though not quite aa I
have heard It since. I don't
know why I am telling you
all this. I don't know why
I am thinking of it. I ought to
be ashamed to remember such a allly
episode. I used to write letters on
pages of my exercise-books and leave
them for him at a pastry cook's. He
used to leave his letters for me every
day at the same place, and a young
lady with golden rlngletB would hand
them to roe with an acidulated smile.
The same young lady Is at the same
pastry cook's still. I never go through
that Btreet—"
Meg's lips were trembling a little,
though her eyes were laughing at me.
"How long is this ago?" I asked.
"Oh, a century ago! When I was
sixteen, nearly four years ago."
"And"no one knew?"
"No one. Only the golden haired ^
lady who sold up Jam-puffs and lemon- ' j
ad.- aud tees."
"And was he as young as you?"
Meg serfied.
net as young as I," she said
arlly. "He must have left schocy ten
years before. He had left college. He
had left the bar—I think perhaps he
lUld left a dozen other professions
which he never mentioned. Oh, yes,
Kitty, he was in every way a hero, old
enough, tall enough, dark enough,
wicked enough, I dare say I"
'You were In love with him, Meg?"
"I thought I was, dear. Onci can
Imagine most things when one is six-
teen, or a little over." >
"How did It ena, Meg?"
"It didn't end. He left a note one day
with the golden haired lady, asking me
to go for a walk with him by the Ser-
pentine. I left a note In answer to say
that I would come.. I went; but he
forgot the appointment. He never
wrote to me any more. I have not seen
him or heard of him from that time to
this. I have often been very glad."
It was hard to know what to say. I
sat looking at her thoughtfully.
"The letter that came for John this
morning was from him?" 1 asked.
"Yes—I am sure of it," said Meg.
She rose from her seat, humming a
scrap of a song.
"1 shall go and dress now," she said.
"When one tells one's love stortes one
should always tell them In picturesque
dishabille. Did I look sufficiently love-
lorn? Did I amuse you, Kitty? Well,
I am tired of looking ugly; I shall go
and dress."
She went away, still humming, up
the stairs, and 1 sat reflecting on alf
that she had said. Was Meg laughing,
or was she in earnest. 1 did not know.
So deep was I in thought that I did
not hear tho door open, did not hear
John enter.
"Kitty," he said In a quick tone,
leas calm and steady than was hia
wont, "I want to apeak to you. Come
Into the study with me; I want to
speak to you alone."
"Meg has gone upstairs," I observed,
rising obediently, however to follow
him.
He closed the study door behind us.
and drew forward a chair toward the
fire for mo. It was weeks since I had
sat alone thus in John's study with
hlro. 1 looked around the room. It
somehow looked more dreary than It
had been wont to look. The dust lay
thickly on the chimney piece and writ-
ing table; there were no flowers any-
where; the hearth looked dirty; the
fire burnt dull and low, and John him-
self had changed since I had sat there
with htm last. He looked sadder,
older.
"Kitty." he said, standing before me,
one elbow on the chlmney-plece, and
looking down at me. "I am going to
entrust you with an Important secret."
He waited. I looked gravely at him,
and did not answer.
"I feel sure that I can trust you."
"Yos," I replied simply, "you can
trust me."
(To be continued.)
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Rendall, William J. The Cushing Herald. (Cushing, Okla. Terr.), Vol. 5, No. 20, Ed. 1 Friday, December 1, 1899, newspaper, December 1, 1899; (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc269525/m1/1/: accessed April 25, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.