SAM SPERRY'S PENSION.

Wairarapa Daily Times, Volume 4, Issue 1073, 13 May 1882, Page 2 (Supplement)

SAM SPERRY'S PENSION.

For more than two years it was the joke of Bloomington Centre—that bright hope, that idle dream, that fond delusive fanoy, known as" Sam Sperry's pension," The wits who congrogated in the bar-room and grocery of the Bloomington Centre postoffice sometimes had only a sad consciousness of futility in their best efforts; .the column of facetite in the local nowapaper frequently palled on the senses j but Sam Sperry's lank and stooping figure as he descended faithfully, twice overy week, from his lone home on the distant mountain, to " learn the news from Washington," bore with it an aroma of never-failing interest and diversion, " Any 'ficial dokkerments arrived for me ?" Sam was accustomed to inquire, on entering the post-office, with an air of ill-concealed consequence; and on being answered in the negative, the look of Biidden surprise and incredulity which overspread his features was always as fresh and real as if it had been during the first six months ho had undergone the blow. His recovery was as complete and instantaneous, when, seated on the counter with the " boys," he derided the very existence of his proud nation's capital in terms of the most reckless sarcasm, or, in a softer mood, induced by cortain grateful potations, palliated the official judges with a forbearance which hislistenera found oven more irresistibly entertaining. "They think they're comin' it over me, down there to Washington," Sam observed on ono occasion, rolling his eyes upon his near neighbour on the counter with a look which was dark without menace, and at the same time forcibly introducing tho sharp point of his elbow to that gentleman's ribs- " thoy think they're comin' it over me, down there ,to Washington, And the time they're hangin' off about my pension, what's accumulatin' down there!—what's accumulate' !" Here Sam's companion was actually obliged to move an inch or two away in order to escape the too severe emphasis of that emaciated elbow "Back pay!" chuckled Sam; "that's what's accumulatm'-back pay! Let 'em hold of! ten or a dozen years longor, and I'll be swimmin' in back pay--I*ll be fairly wallerin' in it." With which the deeply confidential aspect of Sam's face changed to a triumphant simper, and turning to nudge another companion (as he supposed) on his right, ho inadvertently thrust his elbow through the wrappage of a large parcel of sugar, the contents of which were scattered over the grocery floor. Sam's expression of dismay was pitiful, " Have it charged to your back pay, Sam, cried an uproarious though cheerful voice, Sam took up the cue, and ever after that his descent from the West which had before been significant of a small invoice of skunk's fur, blueberries, and the like, at tho Bloomington grocery, missed the hampering weight of those hardly acquired products, and Sam's business transactions at the counter-the understanding being good between tho grocer and those jolly Bloomington boys-were rounded by a regally careless, " Chargo it to pension, Ned-reg'lar pension or back pay, I don't care which,' Barely, very rarely, Sam really did find a document waiting for him at the post-office, marked with the mysterious seal of the Department of the Interior, and opened it with fingers of trembling expectation, only to find a printed sheet of painfully worded statistics, to the effect that, "besides the two hundred and ninety thousand filed claims, others were constantly being entered, but that in duo timo each would receive careful consideration," &o. His first heat of desperate indignation yielded later to tears of unaffected sentiment, as ho murmured, " Pension 1 I guess so, boys '.-the grass 'll bo growin' over my grave before I see any pension," and later still to smiles and hope again, The gunshot wound in his right hand upon which Sam had based his claim on the national bounty was of small account compared with tho harm which he had-suffered, both in body and soul, from the soldier's camp life, the Southern marches-above all, the: Southern prisons. | "I don't know what Sam might.'a been, or what he might not 'a been," said Judge Holcomb, a prosperous citizen of Bloomington, who had been incarcerated with Sam at Andersonville, " Ton my honour, boys, he began uncommon bright, though he wa'n't never what ye'd call partick'lcr tough or long-winded, But I can tell ye one thing, Sam Sperry wa'n't never the same man after he como out o' that prison," Even after this asseveration I do not know that any of the frequenters of the Bloomington bazaar remarked that the boyish head on Sam's bent shoulders, with its rings of elosecurling light hair, was of a Byronic cast, or that his eyes, when not filmy from the effects of ague or rum, were of such a perfect and heavenly blue as is seldom seen even in the undimmed orbs of children. Sam was their Punch, their bye-word, their theatre comique; they would have paid twice the price of his lordly though prudent negotiations at the counter rather than miss the zest afforded by his semi-weekly appearance, With a touch of real pity too, perhaps, for their old comrade, they condoled with him in his forlorn hope, encouraged in him at all times the freest expression of his sentiments, flattered him, and regaled bim. And often, alas! the feet which had come shuffling down tho mountain awkwardly enough and loosely enough, retraced their steps in a still more desultory and uncertain manner, and chance passers-by have told how Sam, pausing at length by some way-side fence, frequently nudged the post with his elbow, as though having just committed to it some gravely confidential or facetious remark.

There was one person whom Sam's weaknesses and derelictions failed to inspire with appreciative mirth, In the neighbourhood of Sam's house on the mountain there were two other homes, One was possessed by Isaac Travers with his belligerent wife and numerous small children; in the other Mary Ellsworth dwelt alone with her mother.

Years ago, Sam and Mary had gone down hand in hand to the school kept in the little hamlet at the foot ol the mountain, Mary still keeps the green-covered "speller" in which she and Sam studied their lessons together; And they were at the head of t*e class always, the mountain boy and girlalways at the head of the class, and always first and most imperious in play; Mary small, brown-eyed, sharp-witted, and Sam handsome and tall, with his chuubio curls and saucy red lips. Then Sam's parents died, and he went over to help John Ellsworth in his mill, and the work prospered under his strong blithe hand. And as the days passed by, Sam and Mary shrank coyly away from the affectionate intimacy of their childnood, and ended by falling as deeply in love with each other as though they had now for the first time exchanged glances across the rapturous bounds of manhood and maidenhood. Their love, having such tender root in the past, sent out bright branches of hope for the future, and was as strong as life with them both, Mary would have borne anything for Sam; and Sam, who was of a quick and impetuous nature, found his equilibrium in the sweet firmness of Mary's character, and adored her for the loving sarcasm with which she rebuked his pet faults-such bright and captivating faults as Sam's were then. Sam and Mary were engaged when the war broke out; and the two men of John Ellsworth's household went away, and the two women waited in their solitary home on tho mountain, cheered by letters at first; afterward their only hope lay in some chanco returning figure along the road that came winding up from the villages below. John Ellsworth never came back along that dear familiar road: and when Sam returned one day, weak, ague-shaken, demented, but still

fondly, foolishly called of .God to endure this greater sorrow thaii any• death could bring spent the solitude of' one black night in terrible rebellion, and when the morning dawned laid her broken heart at the foot of the cross, and rose with a calm ''l will—im evermore," *• Sam went baok wonderingly to ocoupy the long-deserted home. of. his childhood j-.trnt it was Mary's hand that brought him bread and meat, that made his bed, and swept bis floor,' and furnished bis poor borne with every, comfort. • Saraknow that it was all changed somehow. •" The tongue once so winningly sarcastic was now ever too thoughtfully kind; the once laughing eyes too deeply compassionate, He sorrowed over it with the vague sorrow of a child, -But he trusted Mary, She knew she would set it all right in time. The light, the hope, -the promise of his youth, so, helplessly, so mysteriously lost—they were all kept waiting for him somewhere in Mary's great dark eyes, ; But when' Sam came tottering up the hill on his return home, he had brought with him a parcel, the contents of which he had not re-' vealed to any eye, It contained his wedding clothes, new and sleek as the finest. 1 black broadcloth, In the pathetic loneliness of his • home he acquired a habit of fondling these,'of gloating ever them, even of ; trying them on before the glass; and then, as hestoodinhis best mood, with his bonnie' hair carefully curled, one never saw so sweet and weak-a f ice, Bam longed yet ever hesitated to appear before Mary in these splendid habiliments.. That Btrange trouble on his mind deterred bim, He was never'so shy, so simple, so conscious of his lost estate, as when iti "Miss.-Mary's" presejce—never J withal so strangely happy and content; .One evening as he sat before her, the wedding garments ho had left at home filled, all his thought. ■ ■' .'*"■■ "1-1 never cared for any girl but you, Mary," he exclaimed, abruptly, with a'spark of the old fire in his eyes, "I-I never could." ' "No, Bam,". Mary answered, quietly, "I don't believe you ever could " " You—you • promised to marry mc once," said Sam, that brief fire changing, for another instant, to a look of solemn wonder and reproach. ■ ■'.•■' A- deathly pallor crept over Mary's face. Then she came close to Sam, and laid her hand on his, and looked into his eyes with all the beautiful tenderness and pity of her deeply tried soul, "I shall always be true to you, Sara," she said. "There are some things we can't understand. We must be patient. But that —what we hoped for once—now—in this world— that, dear Sam, must never be 1" "Yes, Mary," Sam answered, sweetly obedient, thrilled through and through by the touch of her dear hand, "Mo; must never be," And he repeated the words all the way home, " That must never be." It was all right, somehow. "Mary knew." But he folded the wedding clothes and put them away that night as one who should never need to take them down again, After this the ruined life clung still closer to that strong and patient one, and the little services which Sam was accustomed to perform for Mary, when not suffering with the ague, or followingafter the fond hallucination of his" pension "—the fetching of wood and the drawing of water—these lost to his poor adoring mind every base and menial quality, and were like the offering of a devotee laid, trembling at the feet of an angel, And the time passed all too swiftly for the

work of Mary's hands, Besides her ministrations to Sam and her mother, her generous thought for the wretched Travel's family, the name of Mary Ellsworth, for the gracious help and sympathy which it implied, was known and loved in all the villages below; and in times of sickness or sorrow, or added care, the journey up the mountain-side was cheap which eould procure a day of those coveted services,

It was the affliction of unexpected company which had overtaken Judge Holcomb's wifeless home and refractory servants, Mary, with rare firmness, established there in a day her universal rale of peace. Among the other guests was a young actress from New York, the judge's neice, blonde, handsome, magnificent. At evening, as Mary stood, before her return home, waiting an instant in the hall, so quiet and demure, with her dark hair parted in an old, old fashion, and her sad lustrous eyes and her face breathing that ineffable refinement which the calm endurance of some hidden and exalted sorrow alone can give, tho dashing young actress advanced upon her suddenly, and folded her with an impetuous gesture in her strong white arms. " I love you I" she whispered., " I love you I I love you desperately I"

The judge's own wooing was less impassioned, when, some weeks afterward, he left his smart horse and buggy at Mary's gate, and entered the house,

"I formed a very fav'rable opinion of you, Mary," said this grandiose personage, "a good many year* ago, and I've never had any cause to alter that opinion, In fact, I come in here to say that I should like to have you come dowD to my house in the capacity of a wife."

There was a grace, a perfect self-reliance, in Mary's old-fashioned manner, which relieved it from any imputation of stiffness, as she answered, in much the same words that she had used in addressing Sam some time before, but with which such a different tone in the ring of her clear voice," I thank you, but that can never be," And the judge drove away, amazed and disappointed, but most of all sorry for Mary, Samjwas the next caller. He had seen, the smart buggy at Mary's gate, He entered, 1 timid and hesitating, and sat for some time shifting uueasily about in bis chair, At length, "I—l never cared for any girl but you, Mary, I—l never con! J," he repeated earnestly,

And Mary answered, as she had done before, "No, Sam, I don't believe you ever could."

Sain drew his sleeve quickly across his eyes. "You-you ain't goin'to leave the mountain, are you, Mary ?" he gasped. "You ain't goin' to leave the old mountain, Mary ?" "Never I" Mary answered, and, as before,, her tone quieted and consoled him, After what seemed a long time, though the tears, were still standing in Sam's blue eyes, " I forgot, Mary," he said meekly. " I came ; in to say—you're young yet, and handsome, Mary-and if you had a better chance-I don't know what I—what we should dp without you—but if you had a better chance—you mustn't-you know—Mary—" There he paused. Mary did not smile, but her heart yearned over Sam as a mother's might over a child who has tried in vain to be good, and brave, and unselfish. And Sam went away comforted,. It was the third bleak winter since Sam's return to the mountain, and he meanwhile growing weaker and sillier with each successive season, but ever faithful in his inquiries of his pension at the Bloomington Post-office. The Bloomington boys thought it a rare joke to impress upon his mind that the only reason why Miss Mary deferred giving him her hand in marriage was his continued inability to obtain his pension, " Jest wait till you get yourpension,'Sam," said Ned Hemingway, the storekeeper, delicately hinting on this point, "and then see!"

And Sam doubted utterly at first—away down in his heart doubted always; but as he lent himself more and more to the erratic fancy, it fired and consumed his brain, One night, from the alternate chills and fovers which shook his frame, Sam fell asleep, Instead of his.lone dark room, the road winding from the mountain to the village rose before his eyes. That road, usually so

tortuous and long, w«3 straight and bathed in' light;. Ho traversed it. 'At the end a palace gate, and at the gate a white-winged angel stood, his pension in her shining hand. Sam gazed. Above those peaceful wings was : Mary's face.- She smiled as she had smiled upon him long ago. He woke, and slept no more that night.

: With, the; morning he put on his .wedding clothes, No doubt or hesitation possessed him now. -There'was a terrible exaltation in his eyes; Thistime he did not stop, as was his wont, at Miss Mary's house. 'The road down'the mountain-side was tortuous and long, .There was no palace gate at the end; no in this last instance of his ever-recurring disappointment say that siook came oyer it which had hover been there before, He rested on the counter, and drowsed and almost fainted, but he would not drink,' 'This pro- 1 yoked unbounded astonishment. Sam's dying flesh craved the cup with an awful thirst, but Mary's eyes were stronger, and Mary'B eyes ■seemed to be i upon him, and he would not, drink. '■ . ■'<■'"' x : - i*

; ''lt would ohoke me, boyfl," he tried to say, turning away weakly.'

: He manifested "a desire 1 to make his will. It was a, raro dbcasibn at, the Bloomingtbn grocery. ' . '' • : " ! ;. i "It's all to go to Mary," he exclaimed, excitedly, "pension, back pay, and all," The last flame of the fever was flickering and wasting in his eyes. Ho rested and dozed again, At noon he started for home j at four o clock he had'traVerded 'joriTy; half- of the lonely winter road; at the foot Of the mountain—it was sunset(-he staggered and,'fell dowii, 'By and bye, however, the pain in his body eased, . Across his mind flitted a brief trouble. . '.'.' ' : ' ■''.'[■ '

. : ".I wiali Mary could ktiw," he said,". that I wouldn't touch it—for h?/ aake." : And later and more wish', Mary could, know—that I seem—now—to T underBtand,. I seem—now—to see—,'. ~. ';•""..' I And Maty knew,' When they .brought Sam home to her in his redding garments, she looked, upon his f (ice, and she knew that the bridegroom had indeed come back, clothed and joyful, to the bride;; the lost spirit to the strength and beauty of italfirst estate.- And she kissed the dead lips in tliat last act of perfect love and and knelt and thanked God, ' ; ; •■■■'■.:

i A fe(y, days after Sam's death, Ned Hemingway, entering Mary's house, either: fromcuriosity or worthier motives, with a stammered apology, and the words," Of course it' aiu't o'no account,.but I thought ye might like to keep it," handed Mary the will in which Sam had devised to her his pension, As he did this, the mirthful grocer cast down his eyes, and blushed to the - roots; of hia hair. Maryfookthe littleparchment, read it quietly, and just the shadow of a smile played about the beautiful tenderness of her lips. Then she turned to the grocer, and unconsciously transfixed him with her clear, thoughtful, .halfinattentiYegaze, , ' "I think Sam owed you something,"she said. ■

.""Oh, no, no," stammered.the grocer. ',' That's all right. The boys 'll sea to that." " I should prefer to have you give me the bill," Mary said; and still transfixed by that courteonsly compelling gaze, the abashed and reluctant grocer complied. .' . Mary keeps the will in which Sam gave her his pension with a lock'of hair that was always golden and boyish,' and the greencovered spelling-book. ' 'Sometimes, in the pauses of her toil, she,'can smile her tender smile over these," she can weep tears over ihm.-Harpei's Monthly.