Corsicana Observer. (Corsicana, Tex.), Vol. 34, No. 9, Ed. 1 Friday, December 20, 1889 Page: 3 of 8
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COBSIOAITA WEliXLY OBS^BTEB.
A TIMELY GREETING.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
CHRISTMAS CAROLS.
ING loudly, O
my soul,
A psean to the
Lord!
His goodness,
grace and
love extol,
And for his
mercies
poured
Upon thee as the
seasons roll,
Give thanks in glad
accord.
For on this happy
day
A star from heaven
was torn,
To blazon out the
humble way
To where our Lord
was born,
And change earth’s
twilight, cold and
gray,
To spiritual mom.
Rejoice, my soul, and know
That Christ is born anew,
His grace new mercies daily show,
His works our work imbue;
And to the world his words outgo
In endless love and true.
William E. S. Fai.es.
“Merry Christmas!”—ring it out
All ye happy festal bells,
Through the sweet magnolia groves,
Frozen moors, or snow heaped fells.
Carols rise, and yule fires glow,
Sprays of silver mistletoe
Shine from out the dark green pine.
Yule tide, peace and joy be thine!
“Blessed Christmas!”—ring it out,
All ye tuneful festal bells,
Unto cheerless hearts, w'herein
Neither hope nor gladness dwells.
Heavens smile, and stars shine out
‘All our yule decked homes about;
Angels stand within the door—
Christmas tide is come once more!
—Helen Chase.
THE MERRITT MATTER.
HOW HELEN BLAKE BROUGHT ABOUT A
CHRISTMAS RECONCILIATION.
[Copyright, . 1889, by American Press Association.]
; !i
WONDER what you’ll be
like at my age,” said Will-
j iam Merritt angrily to his
son Albert, one day memor-
able in the lives of both.
f/^ William Merritt was what
the people called “a hard
man to get along with.” He
„ was hard, just, sincere and
©vere. He began mature life as a fiatboat
iaptain, and finished his training as sheriff of
m Indiana county. A born ruler, at 50 years
)f age he knew absolutely nothing of any
nethods save stern command and force ready
:or instant application. To this he added a
mbit of perpetual fault finding.
He had been going over the hoary harangue,
vith which some old people have insulted
young ones since the days of Homer, about
;he good boys and the industrious young men
if his early life and the degenerate sons of
;hese days, when Albert’s satirical humor
'ose.
“You’re mighty little account now,” said
die father. “What’ll you be at my age?”
“I suppose,” said Albert, unconsciously
imitating his father’s sneer, “I’lTdo like other
;>ld men—sit and tell lies about the big things
[ did when I was a boy.”
It was one of those insults which some men
consider “the first blow,” and the second fell
promptly. Raising his broad, right hand,
and foaming with rage, the father brought it
down flat across the son’s mouth. The blood
Hew from Albert’s nose as he staggered back.
He rallied, gazed an instant on the father,
then turned away w.th clinched teeth and
set purpose.
He sought his confidant, Sam McCorkle,
the drunken shoemaker’s boy near by, who
was of the same age as Albert, but knew
fifty times as much of the tricks and devices
of the oppressed. At 10 years Sam was an
expert in evasive tricks; at IS he was simply
a prodigy.
These two had met and conferred often—
the sad, cynical skeptic, whose father was
among the well-to-do farmers of the commu-
nity, and the finished trickster, whose father
was the outcast; they often laid out wonder-
ful plans of life in distant regions; but soon
a fair young face rose before Albert Merritt’s
eyes, and he could not make up his mind to
go. It was the face of Helen Blake, only a
few years before his schoolmate. But now
Albert was resolved. If Helen thought of
him as often as lie did of her, she would wait
for him to return, and if she were worth the
winning she would respect him more for
leaving the discomforts of his present life.
Thus he reasoned.
Late that night two lads with small bun-
dles might have been seen, but took care not
to be, on the river road, and it was soon
known to all the community that they had
left the place.
. Of farewells the boys had said none.
Albert had indeed written a brief note to
his mother, in which he had bidden her a
good-by full of clumsily worded tenderness,
and another to Helen, which he had formally
begun “Miss Helen Blake,” and in which he
had as formally expressed the hope that,
though absent perhaps for years, he would
not be forgotten. These epistles he took with
him in his flight, and a day or two later en-
trusted them to Sam McCorkle to post, but
that individual, fearful that the route of de-
parture would be guessed by the postmark,
calmly destroyed them, although he solemn-
ly declared to Albert that he had deposited
them in the postoffice of a considerable town
through which they journeyed. And so the
two boys were quite cut off from the old
world of semi-servitude.
That a father should be sorry for the flight
of a son is but natural; that he should, while
a spark of pride or anger remains, tell any
one of his sorrow would be contrary* to all
recorded precedents in such cases. William
Merritt was not the man to violate prece-
dents of discipline. He held himself stiffly,,
waved away the subject complacently, and
said when.be spoke at all: “Oh, he’ll soon get
sick of his flirt—he’ll be glad enough to come
back.” But late summer yielded to autumn,
and autumn gave place to winter, and a sad
Christmas day had come, for Albert Merritt
had made no sign.
When Helen Blake was told that Albert
Merritt was a “runaway boy” she merely
said, “Ah, indeed,” and bent very low over
her work; but she knew why he had gone—
knew it, indeed, about as well as he did.
Ere long she and Mrs. Merritt seemed to
have a good deal to say to each other. They
seldom if ever mentioned Albert, but it al-
ways seemed that the mother was much
cheered after a visit from Helen. In her own
desponding heart the mother said: “He will
never come back, he is too much like his
father,” a favorite delusion with mothers,
by the way. And so, on this sad Christmas
day, the two sorrowful women exchanged
deep sympathies without exchanging a word
on the subject nearest their hearts, and the
mother felt that night as if volumes had
been spoken on the subject, when in fact it
had not been mentioned. And thereafter
Helen came oftener and oftener, and some-
how after each visit the mother felt an as-
surance that all would be right, and felt it
just the same whether Albert’s name was
mentioned or not.
Now, after the first shock was passed,
Helen Blake never felt a doubt in her bosom
that she would in good time receive some |
word from Albert Merritt, and she would
have risked much on her conviction that she
would hear before either of his parents,
though she could not have told you why, and
probably would not if she could, for the best
farm in Jackson township. Yet she knew it ;
all the same, and visited the Merritts often, |
and at each visit it somehow fell out that |
something rather singular happened.
On cue occasion she grew quite hilarious in j
reminiscences of a certain school exhibition,
and told how the teacher had photographs of
the whole class taken, a set for all, and how
childish the pictures looked now, and how
everybody had changed, though it was but
six years ago, and then she brought out the
photographs—cheap, tawdry things they
were, but among them was one of a tall, fair j
boy, with all the glow of class leadership in I
his eye, and light hair curling around a bold
forehead, and under it, in round boyish script,
was the autograph, “Albert Merritt.”
A pang shot through the father’s heart, j
and he longed for her to talk of his boy; but j
she rattled on about Tom and Jennie and |
Mattie, and soon hastened home.
But the mother noticed that Helen “had I
forgotten her pictures,” and so they lay on j
the looking glass stand for many a day, i
where the father often saw the presentiment j
of his boy, but he never touched it, and they j
lay there till Helen came again.
This time she brought a “story paper” for .
Mi’s. Merritt, saying that the main story in I
it had interested her very much; and after j
she was gone William Merritt picked it up
and pished and pshawed and ridiculed the
pictures, but he read the story. It was a ,
commonplace novelette of a son, who had fled
from a harsh father and enlisted in the Fed-
eral army, and who was sick almost unto
death in a southern hospital, and how in de- j
lirium he babbled of home, and how a Sister j
of Charity wrote to the father, who came !
and patiently nursed his boy back to life and
love and forgiveness. A commonplace story ;
—one of ten thousand war stories of the time j
—but the father’s hand trembled as he read, |
and he rushed to the field and drove his work
with unusual energy and shouted louder than
ever at his team, and at night was stern and j
silent and solemn to a degree that surprised |
even his long suffering wife.
The other children would occasionally ven- j
ture a reference to Albert, and now when
Helen came the father would blame the run-
away ; but she only listened quietly and ask-
ed if they had ever heard of him, and turned
the talk to their school days. And so two
years passed away and the third Christmas
came. In celebration of the day the Mer-
ritts were to be the guests of the Blakes, and
when they gathered in the big room of the
great farm house it happened that all the
young people present were of that last day
class at the head of which Albert Merritt had
stood. Of course Helen Blake never thought
of alluding to such a fact—“it just happened
so,” her parents thought—but there were
plenty in a class of eight young people who
could talk as fast as they could think, and
usually did it, too. And so the conversation
rattled on about that glorious day, and the
father, whose heart was literally pounding
against his ribs, and whose internal strug-
gles were such that he could not tell whether
he was eating turkey or oak chips, talked
loudiy and aggressively to those at his end
of the table, and quite overbore Mr. Blake
on politics, and finally offered to bet “the
pick of his horses agin’ a yearlin’ calf” that
his candidate for the presidency would have
500,000 majority over any man the other side
could put up next year.
and no one received greater respect than he.
But he did not rise to the height of his glory
till evening, for at the dinner table Albert
would not suffer his own praises to be sung
in too high a key. But when Albert, seem-
j ing to have something particular to say to
; Helen, whose grear. brown ey< s sparkled im-
wontedly and whose cheeks persisted in
blushing furiously, led her away with him
into a quiet corner and left the field to Sam,
that individual chanted his hero’s deeds to
his heart’s content and everybody else’s de-
light, though he did not let slip the oppor-
tunities to tell of some things he had himself
accomplished in the west.
The close of this veracious history may be
clipped from The Tekeewah Bugle of March
15, 1869:
“Mr. Samuel McCorkle, the gentlemanly
and enterprising agent for Flash & Hittem’s
justly celebrated lightning rods, has returned
from Indiana healthy and happy. His friend
and our former townsman, Mr. Albert Mer-
ritt, has concluded to remain east, where he
will settle down upon his father’s extensive
farms. A little bird has whispered that the
blind god had something to do with Mr.
Merritt’s decision to forego a share in the
golden future sure to come to Tekeewah.
Those who are curious in this matter are di-
rected to the notice in the marriage column
on another page headed ‘Merritt-Blake.’ ”
Henry Dawson.
A CHRISTMAS SERENADE.
A HUMBLE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
with their music” at a certain Christmas eve
church festival, and, by request conveyed in
a note inclosing the stamps, the publisher di-
rected a copy to “A. Merritt, Esq., Tekee-
wah, Kan.” And this sort of thing went on
for eight months more, and the golden au-
tumn set in and the country was most
mightily stirred over the presidential elec-
tion, and the Blakes and the Merritts began
to look forward with strangely mingled feel-
ings to another Christmas.
William Merritt was the same and yet not
the same. His hair, which was just streaked-
with gray when his son Albert had left him,
was now whitening visibly. His broad, bur-
ly shoulders had begun to stoop. His hard
eyes had lost somewhat of their steadiness,
and occasionally there were lines denoting
mental pain visible in his austere counte-
nance. His voice, too, sometimes quavered
in a way that astonished no one more than
himself. And one day just after the sorrel
colt—a wild, vicious beast, he was breaking to
the saddle—had almost thrown him- on the
way to town, he had caught himself audibly
wishing that Albert, who must be a full
grown, strong man by this time, were there to
help subjugate the animal. ,
JUMPED TO THE GROUND.
Now. Helen was quite satisfied in her own
mind that the little surprise had done its
work, but that evening her brother brought
home the weekly mail, and in it, after all her
weary waiting, a little surprise for her. It
was a copy of The Tekeewah (Kan.) Bugle,
and great was the wonder in the family as to.
the why and wherefore of its coming; but
Helen knew. There wasn’t a mark of any
kind on the printed sheet, so eke set herself
resolutely to read every line. Never had far
western publisher in the most heated cam-
paign a more devoted reader, and at last,
in a leaded arttcle in the page headed
“Local Intelligence,” she found a list of
members of a new fire company, and among
the names was “Albert Merritt.” A writer
in the “County Correspondence” of the
next issue of The County Democrat told of
“our fail- ladies who charmed the audience
“CAN’T WE GET ALBERT BACK?”
And so when Helen next paid the Merritt
homestead a visit she found the fortress of the
old man’s heart ready to yield. She had the
day before received a copy of The Tekeewah
Bugle, in which she found the following-
paragraph half way down a crudely written
account of a fire in that enterprising town:
“We should utterly fail in our duty to our
readers if we omitted to take more than pass-
ing note of the heroic conduct of one of our
young townsmen, a prominent and efficient
member of Avalanche Engine company No.
1. Of course we refer to Mr. Albert Merritt,
than whom a braver man never drew breath.
No sooner had it become known that a child
was in the burning building than, at the risk
of his own life, Mr. Merritt rushed into the
smoke and flames, dashed up the stairs almost
at a bound, and, groping about in the stifling
heat, found the infant, fought his wav through
the fire to the window, for by this time the
stairway was burning, and jumped to the
ground with his precious burden safe on his
arms, tie was greeted with such a cheer as
only Tekeewah throats can give. We regret
to be obliged to add that Mr. Merritt suffered
a painful, though not necessarily dangerous,
injury in the breaking of an arm, which was
struck by a falling timber. He was also
rather severely burned. It is hoped, how-
ever, that he will soon be himself again.”
Tliis paper Helen brought with her but
carefully hidden. She had determined, if
need be, to show it to the stern father, but
she proposed to hold it for the last resort.
But her manner (for, though ordinarily calm,
she was now much excited) betrayed her,
and as soon as William Merritt looked into
her face he knew that she knew something of
Albert; and her unwonted agitation, as he
gazed fixedly at her, convinced him that
something was amiss with his son. Mrs.
Merritt was about to speak when her hus-
band interrupted her in strained, quivering
tones:
“Helen Blake,” he said, “is Albert dead?
Tell me the truth!”
There was a world of paternal love in the
old man’s voice now. ■ But for a momeut
Helen said nothing, for she felt that were she
to speak she would instantly and completely
lose her self control. So with a deprecatory
gesture and a white fac8 she walked to the
window to compose herself, while the father
and mother waited in suspense. After a lit-
tle she turned again to them, and, with a re-
assuring look toward Mrs. Blake, vvbq sat
with clasped hands and parted lips, she took
the paper from her pocket.
“I would like to read to you an article from
The Tekeewah (Kansas) Bugle,” she said, in
as steady a voice as she could command. And
then she read the account of the fire, from
headlines to dash, without a break, and with-
out looking up. When she had doue she
raised her eyes. Mrs. Blake was crying qui-
etly and the old man was quite broken down.
“Helen,” he said, reaching out both hands
to the girl, “it’s no use. I can’t be a hard-
ened old fool no longer. Can’t we get Albert
back here with us? Hadn’t I better go out to
Kansas and get him? Poor boy, may be he’s
hurt worse than it says. ” And then the old
man let the tears flow unconcealed.
That night a letter was, mailed to Tekee-
wah, Kan. It was written by Helen, though
unsigned, and here is a copy:
Mr. Albert Merritt:
The account of the recent fire in Tekeewah and
the bravery displayed by yourself on that occa-
sion has worked a great change of opinion in
certain quarters, a change which would have
come soon, however, in the natural course of
things. Your father is very much broken and
anxious to see you. A Friend.
When Albert Merritt received this letter
he was convalescent, lying on the bed of the
best room in the Tekeewah tavern, while Sam
McCorkle was standing in the center of the
floor telling some admiring friends for the
thousandth time how “my pard here saved
that gal baby.” “I tell you,” he said, “it
takes the boys from old Indianny to do things.
Now, I mind me one time before I came west
of how little Jimmy Jones fell into the river,
’n’ I jumped right in without stopping to
peel a. bit”- And then he reeled off a
wholly imaginary yarn of his own bravery,
while Albert smiled and the rest listened open
mouthed. When Albert had read his letter
he said, quietly:
“Sam, I’m- going home for Christmas. 1
shall start as soon as I can do it safely.”
Sam was astounded, but he did not remon-
strate, and finally concluded to go, too, “just
to take care of Al,” he explained to the boys.
But secretly he was glad of the excuse.
The next issue of The Tekeewah Bugle con-
tained this paragraph:
“Our well known townsman, Mr. Albert
Merritt, is about to visit his old ho.me in In-
diana, where he will probably spend the holi-
days. He is very nearly well of the injuries
sustained at the recent fire. He will be ac-
companied by his fast friend, Mr. Sam Mc-
Corkle, the well known lightning rod agent.”
The stage was due to pass Wiiliam Mehritt’s
house at 4:30 o’clock on Christmas eve, but
the roads were bad and it was quite dark
when, with a sweeping curve, it swerved to
the side of the. pike and stopped in front of
the house, in the open frontdoorway of which,
in strong silhouette against the flood of light
within, stood the burly form of William
Merritt, his hands outstretched with trem-
bling hopefulness.
“Come along, Sam,” said one of the young
men who dismounted from the back seat of
the high stage, “I need yon yet.”
There was a cry, in which recognition, wel-
come and forgiveness were all blended from
the figure in the doorway, and an answer
from the taller of the travelers, who still car-
ried one arm in a sling. And a moment latei*
William Merritt led this one into his house.
“Mother,” he sitid, “our boy has come
back.” v
lu the ecstatic joy of meeting his mother,
Albert had forgotten Sam McCorkle, and
when he looked for him that individual had
disappeared. As he afterward explained, he
“didn’t feel like he was any use when folks
was all a-cryin’ and a-weepin’ and failin’ on
each other’s necks, so he just sloped.”
But Albert did not look for Sam very long.
He had much to tell of his new life in the
west, where he had been fairly successful, and
his father and mother and brothers and sis-
ters-had quite as much to tell him.
There was not very much on the table—in
fact, it wasn’t very much of a table, being
made of a dry goods box stood on its side.
The room belonged to the grocer, but he had
told them they could have the use of it for
Christmas night. In the corner there was a
little, cracked stove, which was so hot that it
shone like a big lump of Christmas cheer in
the semi-darkness.
Pretty soon “Swipesy” came in out of the
roar of the city street. He had a few unsold
papers under one arm and a small—a very
small—bundle under the other. With him
was his sister Suze. They were orphans try-
ing to make their own way. She had had
good luck and had sold all her papers. She
took what was left of Swipesv’s stock and
spread a nice clean paper over the dry goods
box. Then he unrolled his bundle.
“Oh, Swipesy!” said the girl.
There was a can of cooked corn beef and a
little box of figs.
Pretty soon the others began to come in.
There was “Mickey” with a little packet of
coffee, some sugar, and (what luck!) some
cabbage that the apple woman on the corner
had cooked and given him with big tears in
her honest, Irish eyes when he told her about
the dinner.
“It ain’t much, Mickey,” she said, “but
may the good saints make it taste as relishin’
as if ’twas as big as a barn and cooked in a
gowld skillet. ”
There were five charter members of the
dinner party, so to speak. “Rocks” (so
named from his manner of defending himself
in his frequent “scraps”) came into the room
next. He too had a little bundle which was
undone with due ceremony. When “Piper”
came in he stopped a minute just inside _ the
threshold, and held the door open while he
beckoned to some one on the outside.
“C’mon in,” said he. “The fellers ’ll be
glad ter see yer.”
Then there entered a little fellow not more
than 6 years old. He was very much em-
barrassed, and held his finger to his lips.
Piper, by way of introduction, said:
“Fellers—and Suze—this ’ere little cove”
(Piper himself was a big cove, having seen
thirteen years, and being the oldest member
of the dinner party) “is cornin’ to our Cris-
muss. He’s just gone into the paper sellin’
biz, an’ he ain’t got no boodle. I’m a takin’
care o’ him till he gits started. See?”
For a minute an embarrassed silence hung
over the little group. Then the little people
opened their hearts to the newcomer (and
they were big hearts for such very small
bodies), and he was one of the' dinner party.
Piper explained to him':
“You see,” said Piper, “we fellers and
Suze had heard a lot’bout Crismuss. We
don’ know ’gzac’ly what it is, but we do know
that everybody, wot is anybody, has a Cris-
muss dinner. So we jes’ chipped in, and—
and” (waving his hand around the room)
“here y’are.”
“But I ain’t chipped in,” said the new-
comer.
“Well, wot if y’ ain’t. Y’ can nex’ time.”
So that was settled.
Suze in the meantime had produced a pail
from somewhere, and an old stew pan from
somewhere else, and some broken crockery
from still another place.
“Youz’ll make the coffee and warrm the
cabbage and meat, darlint,” said Mickey.
“Yez are the only woman here.”
So Suze went at it.
It wasn’t long before 'everything was
ready, and they gathered around the box.
The savory odor from the coffee pot and
stew pan had tickled the twelve little nostrils,
and the six mouths were as eager to taste the
poor little dinner as ever yours was to pick
your succulent Christmas turkey bones.
They fell to at once.
“I’m ’fraid the coffee ain’t very good,” said
Suze. But she smiled the satisfied smile that
every housewife smiles while decrying her
own dainties, and was as pleased as you ever
were, my fine lady, in similar circumstances,
when Rocks exclaimed in answer:
“Finer’n Delmonico’s, I’ll bet.”
Before very long the dinner had been
eaten. They sat around and talked for
awhile, and the little 6-year-old fell asleep
with his head on Suze’s knees, and her fingers
passed lovingly over the little fellow’s dirty
forehead, and by-and-by she leaned over and
kissed him.
The tallow candle burned low in its green
bottle candlestick, and when Piper rose and
queried:
“Well, fellers—and Suze—has we had a
merry Crismuss?” A fervent “You bet!”
went from the mouths of every one but the
6-year-old, and he smiled in his sleep.
The dinner party was over. D. E. M.
THERE WAS A CRY.
The next day there was such a Christmas
gathering at William Merritt’s house as had
never been there before. Such roast turkey
with cranberry sauce, and such juicy mince
pies, and such mealy potatoes, and such fine,
white home made brepd. and such good things
to eat generally as they who sat down at the
dinner table partook of have never been ex-
celled. All the Blakes were there, and so
were all the members of that class of eight,
whose photographs were the first weapon
Helen had employed in storming William
Merritt’s flinty old heart.
And Sam McCorkle, too, the drunken shoe-
maker's son, full of far western dash and his-
torian of the time “Al rescued the baby.”
He was “Mr. McCork] 9,” an honored guest, j
The Drumstick.
Behold my rotund wealth of meat,
With all its juices, rich and sweet I
How firm, how solid, are my parts,
And how I go straight to the hearts
Of children, with tjistended jaws,
In wait to hide me in their maws.
Ah! how I love to lie in state
Upon the table, while you wait
With eager eyes and teeth that burn,
Until it comes to be yifur turn.
How crisp my skin, and, oh! how brown,
And how I tickle going down;
And, then, my bone, oh! what delight,
To pick it till it’s clean and white.
How would you like, on Christmas Day,
To tramp till noon and then, we’ll say,
To come back home, well almost starved,
And find me waiting, nicely carved?
Between your> finger and your thumb
You hold me up, thus (yum, yum, yum!)
I tickle every nerve, I thrill
Your stomachs, and I fill the bill,
And with all men I nothing lack—
In fact, I have the insidetrack!
Tom Masson.
„ "___—_________
III.
A - - — "'•= -jgaxra-
-Judge.
Christmas Trees.
It umy seem surprising, but it is neverthe-
less true, that the cutting of evergreen's for
Christmas trees is doing serious damage to
the forests in some sections. This wholesale
destruction of valuable young trees is becom-
ing painfully apparent in the gradual wiping
out of woodland in some of the most pictur-
esque portions of the Catskill and Adiron-
dack mountains, and many of the trout
streams are drying up. Even small forests
help to serve as reservoirs to water, for un-
der the trees the ground is apt to be less
spongy, thereby retaining for a time water
from rainfalls, and later on allowing it to es-
cape in tiny rivulets as feeders to brooks, big
and small.
Confidence.
“A merry Christmas!” far and wide
Rings out this wish on every hand,
A greeting glad ibis Christmastide,
Re-echoing through all the land.
Tramp (to little Willie, who has opened the
door)—Have yer had yer Christmas dinner
yet, little boy?
Little Willie—No; we’re just going to eat
it now.
Tramp—Then perhaps, if 1 wait around, 1
can get some of the eatables left over.
Little Willie (feeling of his stomach)—
There ain’t going to be anything left.
An Awful Possibility.
Little Emma-—Mover, won’t we see Tris
Tingle agin afore next Tris’mas?
“No, dear.”
“Umhe. Mebby he might dit sick and die
afore nen. an’nen we’d be in a bad fix.”—
Kentucky State Journal.
Would Catcli Dp.
Customer (in restaurant)—You may bring
me for my Christmas dinner, waiter, a nice
cut of turkey, to be followed by a piece oi
mince pie.
Waiter—Yessir. Will you have cheese
also, sir?
Customer—Yes; you can let the cheese fol-
low the pie.
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Miller, G. P. Corsicana Observer. (Corsicana, Tex.), Vol. 34, No. 9, Ed. 1 Friday, December 20, 1889, newspaper, December 20, 1889; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth874838/m1/3/: accessed April 25, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting San Jacinto Museum of History.