1
I was standing at a railway depot in
Boston, Near was a elderly man,
in a rather shabby yet carefully kept
buffalo overcoat, such at used
see in Vermont twenty years ago. The
old gentleman was parting hands with
his son, who evidently, was a city
dweller, probably a young and strug-
gling business man here our town
,and 1 should not surprised if even
yet had some of the father's farm
money as the nest egg of his capital.
"You amt much on r'ligion yet, Tom.
Wish you were. But e\en r'ligion amt
of much account 'nless it's made a feller
a man of honor. Keep it high out
o' the dust mighty sensitive about
it quick as scat about your honor
when it's involved, i '11 pull you
through this world any how. That's
the best I can say for your new year.
'Good-bye. God bless you'"
I among the hills of Yermont,
whither perhaps, to cheer a winter's
fireside, that son sends the Ledger, that
honest, ancient yeoman of honor's guard
should chance to read these lines, I
him courtesy, and assure him that I
could not help it. His sermon should
be read thousands. The preaching
farmer's name I know not. God knows,
and will give him. all the credit, when
the great harvest is brought in, for any
added good his golden homily may
hereby.
