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The day book. (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917, November 27, 1912, Image 18

Image and text provided by University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library, Urbana, IL

Persistent link: http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045487/1912-11-27/ed-1/seq-18/

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THEIR THANKSGIVING
By, George "Munson.
'(Copyright by W. G. Chapman.)
John Robinson lay ofihis bed
in the hall room which Ke occu
pied in the cheap lqdging hou,se,
reading a -letter from his folks up
State. It was signed by his moth
er and his two sisters.
"We shall all be thinking.of you
next Thursday when we eat our
me Jle Found Himself Holding Her
Little Hand in His.
Thanksgiving dinner," they
wrote. "Father sends you his
love and hopes you are well. He
is glad you ar6 getting along so
ip nicely. We wish you could be
with us, but, as you say, business
is business and you "will have to be
at work Friday morning."
There wasvmuch - more, but
Robinson had only skimmed that
part about the dbing-on the farm.
His heart was in the cottage in
the little hamlet where he had
been reared before, to make his"
fortune. His tales of success had
been lies, amiably devised for the
sake of the old people.
John Robinson was only twenty-four,
but he knew that if he
were forty his prospects would be
no brighter. He was just an or
dinary, clean-minded country
bpy, caught in the machinery of
the city, and just earning a wage
oi eignt dollars a week as a gro
cer's clerk. That was as well as
he could do. He might have been
a longshoreman, if he were
stronger, and earned a little more,
?dr a street car conductor, or fill t
any one of many such positions.
But he saw quite clearly the exact
limitation of his prospects. He
wished he were back on the farm
again. But he could not, swallow
his gride. He had gone off amjd
the .salutations of the half en
vious village lads of his own age,
and to go backwould ipean a ter
rible downfall ft their estimation
and a confession of failure. ,
A strange and yet familiar smell
'assailed his nostrils. Of a sud
den he realized that he was hun
gry. He had intended to spend
that Thanksgiving day in his
room, resting, and had-made a,
cheap mess of bacon and eggs
upon the little alcohol stove on
which he cooked his breakfasts.
But 'fiis starved bbdy suddenly
demanded better nourishment; it
clamored desperately, wildly, for
this now remembered delicacy. .
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