A TRAMP'S ROMANCE.

Mt Benger Mail, Volume I, Issue 44, 2 March 1881, Page 2

A TRAMP'S ROMANCE.

Robert Preston and wife, a couple who, happily united, a few days ago arrived in this city en route for Texas. The story of their marriage is rather a romantic one) not that it abounds in hairbreadth escapes or blood in large or small quantities, but that—well, that it is romantic. About four years ago, Miss Emma Roland, of Galveston, visited an aunt in Warren county, Kentucky* It was summer, the season was, and one evening the girl sat in the yard, half reading and half regarding the enormous bumble bees buzzing around. A Warren county bumble bee will attract attention anywhere. He can make you think that he is tangling himself in your hair, aud looking round you will see him ten feet away clinging to a thistle-bloom. That's enough about the bee. A footstep didn't rouse the young lady. It was a voice that said, " Can I get a drink of water V Two arms and a chin of a tramp leaned over the fence. He was dressed in a tramp', garb, a wardrobe at once so describeable and indescribable. " I say, can I get sqme waterV' "Yes," said the girl. " Must I go around to the gate or climb over the fence !" " Both, if you choose." " That's the way I like to hear people talk," said the tramp, climbing over and approaching. " Now, wheie's the water?" "I'll bring it." You'd better briug the well, for I'm dryer than a brotnophyle." The giil went to the house and returned with a bucket of water. When the man had finished drinking she did not think he had exaggerated his thirst. In fact she did not think that his comparison had been adequate. "What book are you reading ?" " Mill on the Floss." " Overrated, I never liked it. All depth or no depth, I don't know which. Str&ined characters, or no characters, I don't know which. The author has tried to write a story without a well-defined plot, and has failed. Goldsmith's success as a plotless and charming writer was a bad example."' " You shouldn't tear my favorite book to pieces. I iike Gcoin's iSiioc I\Vr works." "You don't like ' Mill on the Floss.' You have been nodding over it for the past half hour. You only pretend to read it because you imagine that in doing so yon develop literary taste." '' I think, sir, that you are impudent." •'But truthful. Here's a book that you should read," and the tramp took from his ragged coat a tattered copy of Burton's " Anatomy of Melancholy.' "Dl Johnson said that this book was the only work that could induce him to get out of bed in the morning sooner than his regular time of rising." " And that's why you like it," remarked the girl, taking the book.

" If Dr. Johnson hadn't made that remark you would not find the work so charming." " That's all right. Give me some more water." The conversation was pursued until the tramp accepted an invitation to supper. His idea of Burton and Johnson was soon covered up with batter cakes. The tramp, Mr Preston, remained all night. Next morning, when he announced his intention of leaving, the girl accompanied him to the spot where she sat when he hailed hex*. Why do you tramp around ? Have you no home V' " Yes, as to the home. Don't know as to the tramping." " Whisky ?" Yes whisky." " Why don't you quit?" 11 1 will." Now, on one condition. That you will consent to be ray wife. Meet me under this tree four years from to-day." " I will." " Good bye," and he climbed the fence and was gone. No correspondence was carried on between them. The manly, handsome face of the tramp hung before the girl like a portrait. Deep, earnest eyes, and a merry laugh accompanied the tramp. Several weeks ago the young lady visited her aunt. One evening last week she sat under the tree in the yard where, four years ago she nodded over a book. Bees buzzed around—the same bees seemingly. On her lap lay " Mill on the Flossnear her a tattered copy of Burton's " Anatomy of Melancholy." A buggy drove up. A man alighted and climbed the fence. "Mr Preston." "Miss Ronald." There was no indication of a trauip iu

the handsomely-dressed gentleman. The clear, earnest eyes showed no lurid light, kindled by Satan's breath. Clasped hands, kisses, renewal of vows. That evening the buggy went 10 Bowling Green. Next morning a happy couple left on a southerns-bound train. They are now in this city stopping at the Grand Central. To-morrow they will leave for Texas.