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Updated: June 4, 2025
Let 'em go? or tend to somethin' else besides your own business? Honest, now, what's what?" "I don't know what you're up to, O'mie." She was looking dreamily into the grate, the firelight on her young face and thoughtful brown eyes making a picture tenderly sweet and fair. In her mind was the image of Judge Baronet as he looked the night before, when he lifted his head after Dr.
O'mie had hit home. Had we not sworn our fealty to the flag, and protection to our town in our boyish patriotism the Summer before? "Boys," O'mie went on, "if the storm breaks here in Springvale we've got to forgit ourselves an' ivery son av us be a hero for the work that's laid before him.
It was not until O'mie was brought to our house that I understood why he should have been trusted to no one else. We longed to know his story. The town had settled into its old groove. The victories of Gettysburg and Vicksburg had thrilled us, as the loss at Chancellorsville had depressed our spirits; and the war was our constant theme.
The two boys are men now, one in Seattle, and one in New York City. Both in high places of trust and financial importance. One October Sabbath afternoon, O'mie fell into step beside Marjie on the way from Sabbath-school. Since his terrible experience in the Hermit's Cave five years before, he had never been strong.
"Ever since O'mie went into the store, your books have been kept, and incidentally your patronage has increased. That Irishman is shrewd and to the last penny accurate. All your goods delivered by Dever's stage, or other freight, with receipts for the same are recorded. All the goods brought in through Jean's agency have been carefully tabulated.
The summer breezes ripple the grasses on his grave, the sunbeams caress it lovingly and the winter snows cover it softly over the quiet grave he had wished for and found all too soon. Dear Bud, "not changed, but glorified," he holds his place in all our hearts. For O'mie, the winter campaign was the closing act of a comic tragedy, and I can never think sadly of the brave-hearted happy Irishman.
And once more I thought of O'mie and how his thin hand gripped mine when he said: "Most av all, don't niver forgit it, Phil, when the thing comes to you, aven in your strength. Most av all, above all sufferin', and natural longin' to live, there comes the reality av them words Aunt Candace taught us: 'Though I walk through the valley av the shadow av death, I will fear no evil."
The boy was stolen by a band of Indians when he was hardly more than a baby. It was a common trick of the savages then; it may be again as our frontier creeps westward." The priest paused and looked steadily out over the Neosho Valley, darkening in the twilight. "You know how you felt when O'mie was lost. Can you imagine what his mother felt when she found her boy was stolen?
O'mie looked at me curiously. He was shrewder than Bud, and he caught the tone I had meant to conceal. "Where? Just now he's gone to St. Louis. He's in a hospital there. He's been sick. I never saw him so white and thin as whin he left. He told me he expected to be with the Osages this Winter." "I'm glad of that," I remarked. "Why?" O'mie spoke quickly. "Oh, I was afraid he might go out West.
"Well, let's foind out," shouted O'mie, "I ain't afraid av no Injun." "Neither am I," I cried, starting after O'mie, who was out of the door at the word. But Marjie caught my arm, and held it. "Let O'mie go. Don't go, Phil, please don't." I can see her yet, her brown eyes full of pleading, her soft brown hair in rippling waves about her white temples.
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