“Now, I think we can afford to see the Exposition, Paul, dear. And this is the initial Exposition, too,” she excitedly exclaims.
Under the arch of the great Appalachian exposition he led her. It was now in all of its glory—running at its best—was this great exposition in his home city. Under the glare of millions of electric lights and in the din and thunderous roars of rival performing shows they were happy. There were assembled the stupendous and gorgeous pyrotechnical displays of the world, the exhibits from the most wonderful mountain country in America. There were the airships and the races by day. There was the moonshine still! Gena had seen a moonshine still before, but she saw it all again and was happy.
Long before the wheels of the great exposition had run down and stopped, Paul Waffington and his bride were established in their own little home in a quiet corner of the city, there to dwell in mutual love.
But each succeeding summer the thoughtful Waffington carried his bride back to the village of the hills, and they spent their vacations in the cabin on the side of the mighty Snake. A piano and new furnishings found their way into the little cabin. A porch was added to the front and a dexterous hand had planted jessamine and wisteria vines at the corners. When each succeeding vacation period was over, Uncle Lazarus was appointed caretaker of the house during the long winters, and the following summer made ready for the coming of the master and mistress.
And now, kind reader, let us together turn over the leaf and take a look at the last picture in this humble narrative.
Six years have now rolled their cycles into the past since Gena Filson became a bride and went away to her city home. And with the passing of the years, many a change have been wrought in the village of the hills—Blood Camp. Fen Green long since offered his heart and farm to Emeline Hobbs, and that individual promptly accepted. Notwithstanding, the new duties of wife that devolved upon her, she still continues to hold on to the helm of the Sunday-school with a firmer grasp than before. Over near Slade Pemberton’s store stands a little church now. It stands with its steeple pointing into the blue above, a monument to Paul Waffington and the faithful Emeline Hobbs. On Sunday mornings its bell rings out from the steeple, proclaiming that the days of moonshining are over in Blood Camp, and calling the people down from the hills to worship God.
The mark of Father Time is beginning to tell upon some of the fathers of Blood Camp now. And the children of but a few years ago are now young men and young women. The strokes of the blacksmith’s sledge upon his anvil in the shop are growing fainter now and farther between. And like the aged sledge its master has swung for years, the blacksmith, too, is growing old.
Summer is now over again. The first day of September is come, and Paul Waffington and his little family are making ready to return to their city home.
In the heat of the summer they had journeyed hither, from the grime and smoke of the torrid city, and in many a jaunt among the hills they have been refreshed in body and soul. Now they would return thither, with a more elastic step and a double portion of sweetness that will not fail to permeate the succeeding years.