And when, a hundred years hence, some antiquary
reads this story in a number of the "Omaha
Intelligencer," which has escaped the detrition of the
thirty-six thousand days and nights, he will say,--
"Why, this was the beginning of what we do now! Only
these people seem to have taken care of strangers only
one month in the twelve. Why did they not welcome all
strangers in like manner, until they had made them feel
at home? These people, once a year, seem to have fed the
hungry. Would it not have been simpler for them to
provide that no man should ever be hungry? These people
certainly thanked God to some purpose once a year; how
happy is the nation which has learned to thank Him always!"
THE SURVIVOR'S STORY
Fortunately we were with our wives.
It is in general an excellent custom, as I will
explain if opportunity is given.
First, you are thus sure of good company.
For four mortal hours we had ground along, and
stopped and waited and started again, in the drifts
between Westfield and Springfield. We had shrieked out
our woes by the voices of five engines. Brave men had
dug. Patient men had sat inside and waited for the
results of the digging. At last, in triumph, at eleven
and three quarters, as they say in "Cinderella," we
entered the Springfield station.
It was Christmas Eve!
Leaving the train to its devices, Blatchford and his
wife (her name was Sarah), and I with mine (her name was
Phebe), walked quickly with our little sacks out of the
station, ploughed and waded along the white street, not
to the Massasoit--no, but to the old Eagle and Star,
which was still standing, and was a favorite with us
youngsters.
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