Argosy and Railroad Man's Magazine, Vol. 107 No. 3 — page 115: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

DOC WAMPLER. “Wait once,” she said comfortingly, “ you're got empty, ain’t? I got some nice souse in the pantry. Wait once.” Stallman waited. He liked souse, and although suffering, was hungry. He heard his mother’s bare feet slap heavily into the pantry, and then through the kitchen. He heard the door flop after her, and judged that she had gone to have a word with. Mrs. Mitzel, over the fence which divided their yards. The season was June, and their voices dulled and ‘blended with the hum of the bees; but now and then he caught a word and sentence. “‘ He’s fell away wonderful,”’ came in his mother’s heavy tone. | ‘“ Now sink!” said Mrs. Mitzel. “ And he makes wonderful,” came in his mother’s voice. — ‘“‘’Mebbe, fer all, he’ll pass away like _ Jimmy Spinny,” said Mrs. Mitzel, com- fortingly. Then their voices mingled again with nature’s and he lost them. “To pass away still!” To go, not be- hind, but in the hearse! No more of this life’s joys! No more inspecting of the “corp,” but being one! No more funerals, fishing, or picnics. (Their joys diminish- ing in the order written.) More hot tears slipped down Stallman’s | cheeks and mingled with the souse. Stall- man gulped. He heard his mother moving about in the big kitchen. She was singing more energetically than wisely, the refrain of a hymn of which she was fond. ‘In the Valley of Death,” was the cheering chorus. “In the walley, in the walley, in the walley of dess!”’ she bellowed. ““ The walley of dess!” echoed Stallman. A sob mixed with a too large mouthful of souse, and he choked convulsively. “ Ach!” said his mother, who had hur- ried to him from the kitchen, ‘“ I’m that worried that I’m clear funny!”’ She thumped him on the back, and went, sighing heavily, back to the kitchen. Her heart was with her little, putty-colored son, but “the Mr.”’ must be fed. She put four loaves of bread, three pies, a plate heaped with doughnuts, a large platter of fried ham, pickled beets, frie? potatees, and a 457 pot of coffee on the table, and then going to the door, called loudly in the direction of the adjoining field: ‘Pop! Come eat yourself!” Pop came. He settled, and began to wield his knife. Mom stood, passing him what he would have, and longed to go to her small boy, who was ‘“ making wonder- ful.” One of the “ neighbor men ” entered; he said his how-do-you-do, and settled, broad hat still on. ‘’ My wife went to York once,” he said. ““She’s wanted to go wonderful this long time. I sez, ‘youse go’: she can go so long as I have pies and doughnuts and hard-boiled eggs. I cook the coffee good myself, already.” “Yep!” said Pop Hollinger. ‘“ For what good do they make but to cook still; . ain’t?” ‘“T sink!” agreed the neighbor man. They all laughed uproariously, for this was subtle humor. Mom Hollinger pre- tended a vast displeasure, and said, with an airy wave of her hand, ‘‘ Youse dunno when you're got it good, and mebbe, fer all, you’ll lose once a good cook. Sink I’m going to stand down and cook fer a man where talks that funny?” “Mom!” came in the feeble tones of the invalid, “I feel fer an apple dumpling!” ‘Wait till Pop has et himself,” answered his mother. She sighed deeply. The neighbor’s expression was sympathetic. “Fer what ails him?” he inquired. ‘“‘ Liver growed, once.” . “Say not!” said the man. “ Will yez have Doc Wampler, him where—” “TI don’t hold fer doctors,” interrupted Pop, ‘“‘ and this, where learned to doctor in a furrin country still!’ Pop closed his lips tightly, Doc Wampler disposed of. “That there girl where wisits Miss Hill, her niece mebbe, or whatever her an’ doc read wonderful much of a furrin language, Eyetalian or French,” remarked the neigh- bor man. “It wonders me,” said Pop Hollinger, his speech somewhat thickened by a large piece of pie, “‘ how he can want fer such a dumb language where nobody in South Hebron can understand still!” COMICEDOO S CO in