Newspaper Page Text
FOURTH PAGE
THE SUNNY SOUTH
MAY It, 1907.
| Z5f>e Part That Voilets Played \
) Between Two Young Lovers •
1 •
By MABXA PBTTU8—FINETA.
“A violet by a mossy stone.
Half-hidden from the eye;
Fair as a star, when one one
Is shining in the shy."
HAT is just one of the
verses about violets that
Cousin Madeline has in
her purse. She keeps ev
erything she can And
about violets, but that is
the only one I learned to
say. And I learned that
to say to my violet man.
The reason I call him
my violet man is ’cause,
ever since tne first time
I saw him there in my
there is the power to love. In some
Btage of development.”
He paused and his eyes wandered
away to the line where the mist still
lingered on the hills.
"It has been long years since my
sweetheart went away, but my soul
knows that she is ofttimes near me
still. It was just such a morning as
| and when papa canys home from the of- j this The skles were g oft | y blue, and
flee, mama asked; I the fragrance of the flowers and the
"What did you say was the name of SOEffg of th e birds floated into the lit-
the young man staying in your office, l t]e room ghe lay Hke a faIr
now?
•Robert Grayson, and a mighty fine
young fellow he is, too."
"Why haven't you invited him to call
on Madeline?"
"Pshaw, he’s no society man. He
wonlt look at at girl. He's a woman-
hater, he is.”
I didn't know what that meant, but
next morning when I went to papa's
office, I went right to my violet man’s
desk, and after I had hugged him and
kissed him “good morning,” I asked him; j
"Are you a woman hater?"
“No.” he said, and he laughed quick-I
like, "but I ought to be. I loved one
woman, not wisely, but too well,” and
kissed him again.
papa’s office, when he j he looked so sad
took me up in his arms ! and asked him;
and kissed me, he's been sending me j "Then, why don t you send my pretty
violets most every day. He says i mi cousin some \iolels.
the only "sweetheart" he has to send! " ho is j our cousin.
"Cousin Madeline.
* j "Madeline." and his face was just as
while, "what else?"
j "Madeline Marchmont.”
' "She doesn't want m e to send her any |
violets.” ' i
"Xo, of course, ’cause you haven’t,
even been up to get acquainted with her
yet; but I want you Jp send them to her, j
though," I said, "'cause she just cries j
and cries—” j
"She does?”
"Yes. 'cause Robert went away, and
broke her heart, I heard her tell mama
so—and violets is all she’s got to—” J
"Sav, little girl, can you keep a se- :
cret?” And, of course, I promide at
once.
That's the reason I didn’t tell any
body anything about the violets till next |
j day. when Cousin Madeline came back
! from her drive, and then I said, just as j
\ if T thought She knew about it. j
i "Cousin Madeline, don't you want some j
' violets?” j
: "Yes, dear," she said, and I ran and ;
threw open the parlor door, and said; j
"Here they are, then.”
And there stood my violet man, with
a big bunch In his hand. 1
"Oh, Robert," Cousin Madeline cried, ;
and I thought she was going to fall,;
j and he thought so, too. I s’pose, ’cause j
h e caught her in his arms, and those,
violets were all crushed.
Nobody cared though, ’cause we’re go
ing to have some more at the wedding.
I am going to be flower girl—Ruth and
I—and we are not going to have any
flowers, except violets—just violets.
sleeping lily. And I know that she
loves me still for she comes Into my
dreams and tells me so. And her white
hands woo and beckon me across the
lonely years. Some fair morning—I
know it will be morning—I shall join
her out there beyond the bowered
gates of sleep.”
The tenderness and pathos of his
voice moved me to tears and in spite
of my efforts to hide them he saw
them fall.
In a moment he. was-all contrition.
“Oh, forgive me! I sometimes forget
that you are a human mimosa.
"It must have been the smell of the
red onions over there.” I said lightly.
He smiled. “What have you been
reading?"
“Paracelsus”
He made a little grimace. “Take
at home for ?he present, I hope to have »■»♦«»«*>**»»»'»* et***—*
f ‘ time to catch iup with all obligations ♦
• T /a Sga ^a/st4«a ^9 4 I Ibis summer (Including some photos
♦ t-fOUlW/Ua ^ ; I have ling promised to have made.)
* Bids
* The Household
l A Last Farewell
%
By LOMACITA.
violets to, now—and he looks as sad as
anything. You ought to have heard
mama asking:
“Child, where in the world did you
get that beautiful bunch of violets?” the
first time I carried any home; you would
have thought I had the whole conserva
tory-
I left It to papa to explain about that
“chap in the office who has taken such
n fancy to Mildred”—Mildred, that’s me,
you know. And papa lets me go to the
office with him most every day, now.
Sometimes, I give my violets to papa's
patients in the hospital, or take them, to
th£ little crippled boy down the street,
here; and sometimes I take them to
church, when I go to Sunday school.
That is, I did before Cousin Madeline
came to see us—but now I keep them
every one in the house, she won’t let
me give away a single solitary one, and
Tbomas Elmore Lucey.
THE GRAY DREAMER.
Twilight was coming on and the
winds of evening whispered softly to
the happy, green trees in their robes
of spring.
And the woman who stood looking
out with me was silent—so silent I
read her thoughts. She is past the
years of girlhood and yet she is beau- presence! he exclaimed with an
tiful and youthful.! Presently she I exaggerated air of grief,
turns to me with the glorious light j 1 kissed my hands to him and left
of love still shining in her eyes and j him whistling softly among the roses
finishes her thoughts in words. j and onions.
“I can wait. Time is nothing since i he has made
Paracelsus in broken doses, child. He
puts love on too low a plane. And the
man or woman who has not come into
a full realization of the divinity and
beauty of love is not at all times a
safe teacher.”
“It has been so long since I was in
love,” I said humbly, “I don’t believe
111 ever be able to concentrate my
affections again.”
“Ah, how can you be so cruel as to
make such a confession right here in
I know that he loves me.”
I watch her go away, a graceful,
gray clad figure beneath the trees. It
seems such a marvel. Only a few
the whole day
sweeter and brighter for me. Dear,
Gray Dreamer!
ITALY HEMPERLY.
I’ve got more vases full—why, they are , . , , .
Jus; everywhere. And every time Con- short months asro^hehad been so near
sin Madeline looks at them, her eyes
gel all shiny with tears, and I think
that is funny, don’t you? I’ve cried
about lots and lots of things, but I
. don’t think I’d ever cry from just look
ing at violets’; now, do you think that
you would?
It’s funny though, what grown folks
cry about, and laugh about, anyway.
Now, when I laugh it’s because my
brother tells me riddles. I do love to tell
riddles; don’t you? But one tlme'l got
so tickled, and It wasn't about a rid
dle. It was when Ruth—she’s the lit
tle girl I play witn every day, when we
don’t quarrel—and we were playing in
her playhouse that looks like a great
big tent, when Ruth fell down and
hurted herself, ari3 I was so tickled. I
went and hid myself behind the Play
house, and laughed and laughed, and I
didn't let Ruth see me, either, ’cause
she'd been mad.
One day. Cousin Madeline went and
hid herself in her room, and cried and
cried, and when mama went in, I peep-
the gate of death and then he had
come to her. And his very presence
had called her back to life. And yet
she is neither young—by count of j
years—nor foolish. . . . Tomorrow I ,
will go ask my friend to tell me ;
something about this mysterious power i
called love.
The morning broke sweet and fair
with a rippling breeze among the trees. ;
Slowly I wended my way to the home
of my friend, the Gray Dreamer. i
I have given him this name because
he still has all the dreams and joyous, i
infectious enthusiasm of youth, al- ,
though his hair Is white with the ;
snows of the eighty winters. I saw him j
down in the garden among the roses, j
and following the path, I surprised '
him in the act of tying up a half- J
bloom lily whose stem had been broken j
by the wind.
His fine, blue eyes flashed me a I
greeting more eloquent than words as :
he held up his soiled hand.
’Can’t shake; but I knew something j
ed through the keyhole, and heard them | g ood was going to happen today.’
talking. Cousin Madeline was saying
something about the earthquakes in
Mexico, and the starving folks in China,
but tllat what they suffered wasn’t as
hard as what she had to beaT. for she
said being shook up in a earthquake, or
being starved to death, either, wasn’t as
bad as getting your heart broke—’cause
that was something that got worse ev
ery day, that you couldn't ever, ever get
Over. And I heard mama tell her not
to grieve so, that maybe Robert would
come back; and if he didn't come back,
why. Cousin Madeline could make
put my- hand on his shoulder and
looked solemnly into his face. “I want
you to tell me something,” I said. “Tell
me how old people must be before they
cease to love and dream.”
He gave me a little hurt look.
“O, I don't mean people like you. I
mean just ordinary folks.”
“My child, people never get too old
to love and dream. It is the soul that
loves, and the soul never grows old.
It is the body that gets old and worn
with the narrow cares of earth.
O'Hagan—Ol have found
that hit me wifi a brick as Oi was
passin’ the alley, Mr. Murphy.
Mr. Murphy—And what did you do
It j with him?
long visit to us. and have such a good I we only knew how we could always j 0 - Hagan —Nothin,. 'Twa s all a mis
time with all the young people, going to ; keep the body young and beautiful. J take — tke man W as only doing his
picnics and parties, and everything, she; In his first state, man was not created | dufy jj e tjj 0u g[,t oi was a constable
could forget all about him. And Cou- to die. But we will have to change * | n plain clothes.
sin Madeline dried harder than ever
then, and said no, she. couldn’t forget
him. and the violets every where re
minding her ail the time that “the vio
lets might bloom in the woods forever,
and she sees him never again,” and she
Almost wished she was dead.
And mama said: “Oh,” just like that;
the world vibration before we can
attain to these things, and that will
take a long while. We cannot go to
perfection, but we can grow to per
fection. The power to love is one of
the proofs of our divine origin, for as
we grow toward perfection we can
"Tompkins has changed his mind. He
isn’t going to put a name on his auto.”
“Why not?”
“After thinking it over he finally de
_ _ _ cified that the law wouldn’t allow of
love more perfectly. And In every soul , his calling it w'nat he wanted to.”
OW many times have X
tried to stop writing to the
Household, and failed.
There was a charm about
our informal gatherings
which ej-ew me so irre
sistibly that I bad no
cWce but to laugh at my
self as a reincarnation of
Dickens' famous charac
ter-type of advertising
ruses.
The day 1 received The
Sunny South announcing
that we had a six week’s reprieve f
Jumped out of my chair and shouted.
■'Glory!” My mother looked t*p from
her bed and inquired mildly: “Well,
what sort of fit is it this time?”
"To think that I may appear again!"
I remarked with modest humility. “Of
! course, I am tickled to death that I’ll 1
get to read ail the good things the
others will send in, but I had shut down
the lid on a dozen °r more things I was
dying to say to those dear people, and
it was about to result in aipoplexy.”
So I can rflleve my mind of sundry
convictions about which I was afraid
I had been misunderstood by a few of
my friends, and now in this last letter
my one thought ia to try to tell you all
how much yens have been to me, how
dearly I love you, and how greatful I
shall -be to you for the rest of my- days.
So many have said to me in personal
letters that 1 wrote like I had never had
any trouble at all. I am glad tnat I
left this impression, for I do not want to
cast my shadows over other lives. But
almost all the great sorrows have been
mine. I have been called to suffer
agony over my nearest and dearest, and
to give up everything in life that I had
cner set my heart on. And sometimes
when I felt that there was no use to
struggle longer, that I might as well
give up and drift out with the other
human wrecks for whom the rocks of
circnrmstance have been too much—often
in such an hour some friendly word of
encouragement from an unknown friend
has lifted my broken: heart and made
me feel that I could try again. Friends,
from the deeps of exlperlence, I call to
you and say; Whatever else you do or
don’t do. never be chary with your kind
words. There’s no way of reckoning the
good they may do when you least expect
It, and when in the final accounting you
are called upon to give an excuse for
having lived, one little forgotten word
spoken by the wave id e may weigh more
for youi than all the great deeds you
counted on to make your election sure.
There is no power on earth like sym-
tpathy. It is love kinetic, and can spur
us on to renewed effort when all else
falls. Although, unlike "Earnest Wil
lie,” I cannot say that I owe m>- start
in literature to The Sunny South (hav
ing won recognition from many periodi
cals before I knew The Sunny South
existed), I can say with him that I owe
if more than I can ever hope to repay.
For it has tided me over the darkest
‘period of my life. During those weary
years, when the editors of first-class
periodicals would write me insisting that
I send in some more of my work, I would
toss the letters aside and say; “What
do I care about winning distinction in
the leading magazines? I couldn’t write
a decent article now if my life depended
on it.”
Yeit a few hours later, perhaps. I |
would read something in the Household j
that set my brain to working, and I |
would seize my pen and forget myself
n a letter to re:r page. It wasn't like
writing for an editor on request—it was
like talking to dear human fr’ends. I
didn’t haive to think about how I was
putting things or rewrite It when the
mood had left me. And so I relieved
my heart and kept my brains from get-
ing rusty.
Can you wander, then, that I deluged
M. E. B. with contributions, that I tor
mented the managing editor periodically
for Household numbers, that I was filled
with unrighteous wrath at the very idea
of leaving our department out of the
new magazine? The Household was a
part of my life, and whoever, struck at
It struck at me.
As for Little Mother, so well do I love
her that although I may never see her.
the man gh e ig named as one of the five equal
legatees In my will. Money could never
repay her for what she has done for
me, but so long as I live I shall follow
her with my love.
To the hundreds of friends who have
written to me. I want to say, please do
not think me unappreciative because I
cannot answer promptly. So far I ha'-e
hardly succeeded in answering the most
UTD^nit ‘letters! those irwf irtijg about
some particular point, those enclosing
stamps, those acconppanyir.g presents, i
and those from dear ones in trouble, or
giving me the friendly criticism I asked
Indeed. It Is like waving a magic wand,
as some one expressed it, to ask for
anything of Mother Meb’s big family.
Tou Should see the way back numbers of
The Sunny South have been pouring in
on me—some being sent on the mere
chance that they were what I wanted.
About a dozen wrote me they could
supply me if I would write what I
wanted. I shall remember this kindness,
and answer as soon as possible,
T5he Crowning With Happiness \
Of Two Sad Lives
Pilds Cured In 0 to 14 Daya.
PAZO OINTMENT is guaranteed to
cure any case of Itching, Blind. Bleeding
or Protruding Piles in 6 to 14 days or
money refunded. 50c.
t
♦
*
as
#*•■*•■»•*•■*•*•*»*«•*«*•■*•’*•*
«
By JULIA COMAN TAIT.
SUMMER night among the
hills of New England,
moonlight tinted with
opel mists that hovered
over the tops of the
mountains, standing like
giant sentinels in the
distance. The breeze
brought delicate odors of
blooming flowers to the
two—a young man and a
girl—sitting on a rustic
seat in the front yard of
a little cottage. It was
a night to invoke memories, and as
they sat silent, perhaps they were
thinking of their childhood days when
they went to school together In win
ter on the same sled and coasted, hand
A DEER'S BASE INGRATITUDE.
(From Central Point Herald.)
Will Scott, holding down a claim in
the tall timber a few miles from Butte
Fails, had an exciting experience one
day last week. He was at work in the
timber some distance from his cabin
when his attention was attracted by thej, n hand acrosg the frozen lake, while
ferocious barking of a pack of coyotes , .. , ..
■’Jin summer they were comrades in the
woods, picking berries or gathering
S flowers.
Later their life-paths diverged—the
boy went to a medical college in New
York, the girl to a boarding school in
her own state. The parting had been
sad, and each carried a heavy heart
on the journey that bore them from
each other. After years of student
life they had met again a few months
before; she changed from the awk
ward girl Into the polished, graceful
young lady, he from the gawky boy
into a young man of fine appearance,
whose hard study and natural ability
had enabled him to graduate with dis
tinction, his teachers predicting that
he would become eminent in the field
of medical science. The future was
bright with promise to these two. who
were rich in youth and hope.
Breaking the silence between them,
the young man s.«!d: “Marion, before
I go away tomorrow to begin my bat
tle with the world in a strange city, |
1 wish to tell you, what you already
know, that I love you fondly—have
loved you always—and that my dearest
wish is to make you my wife. Marion
can you return my love and promise
lo wait until I am in a position to
marry you. The knowledge that you
love me and will be mine will make
me supremely happy and will inspire
me to work hard for success. What
say you, sweetheart? Do you care for
me? Will you promise to wait until
1 can claim you as my wife?”
A year later a cry for help went up
from the south. That land of beauty
brush came suddenly within a few * an d romance was stricken in one of
yards of a magnificent buck surrounded j h er fairest cities by an epidemic of the
by the pack. j dread yellow fever. Hundreds were
The coyotes had chased the buck ; suffering, dying through lack of med-
through the deep snow until he nad j i ea l attention. The cry for help reach-
finaily made a stand, was making a ed the ear of Roger Brooke, a young
valiant though losing fight against th% physician in Boston, who. although he
hungry horde. With hoof and horn &• | had been living In that city only a
fought them off. but it was a losing j year> had established a fair practice,
game, and had Mr. Scott not appeared t t^ice his heart responded to the
on the scene the unequal fight must j ca u for assistance. Pecuniary loss
have soon been over. So interested were and the rIsk of hIs life did not weI ^ h
the combatants that they did not notice wlth hlm against h is sense of duty
the presence of a man, but when the' suffering . hu rn&nlty. Leaving his
coyotes , th ! y en q f!j! bright prospects, he set out lmme-
* ** ^ diately for the south, and arriving in
the infected city ho offered his assist
ance to the medical board.
Earnestly he went to work in the
crowded hospitals and wherever help
was most needed. Day and night he
and his other self-sacflficing brothers
in the profession battled with the
♦
•
9
m
more tnan verified—he had gained emi
nence and wealth in his profession.
He had not visited the south sinjo
his vain search for the sweetheart of
his youth, and as he sorely needed rest
he determined to take a trip through
the southern states. He stopped in
West Tennessee to visit a brother
physician whom he had known in col
lege. This doctor was the acting phy
sician of the county poor house, and
on one of his professional visits there
he invited Dr. Brooks to accompany
him. On the wtiy he related the sad
story of one of the inmates of this in
stitution—a woman, accomplished and
well-born, yet most unfortunate. On
arriving at the poor house Dr. Brooks
requested to see this special patient,
and in a moment he stood face to (««.*
again with the playmate of his child
hood. the sweetheart of his young man
hood. But how different from the
Marlon whose image he had carried in
his heart all these years. This was an
old woman with gray hair and with-
Mrs. M. M. Str&tner.
in the canyon below him. The sounds
were unlike the ordinary coyote cry,
and Mr. Scott, becoming interested,
started down the hill to investigate, and
as he stepped around a bunch of thick
beat a hasty retreat. With a snort of
F. I*. Orton.
ered features, but Marion—his Marion
still.
Seeing that he was > recognized, for
her glad cry of “Roger’’ greeted hTm,
he opened his arms and folded the
frail, yielding form to his breast, and,
there under the roof of that Tennessee
poor house each heard the story of
how the one had lost the other.
A week later a large river steamer,
northward bound, had among its pas
sengers Dr. Brooks and his three-days
bride. They were standing on deck
enjoying the beauty of the scenery.
The sunset glow was reflected in the
blue eyes of the little bride. Her head
had found a resting place on the broad
shoulder of her husband. As they
watched the shadows thicken and the
stars one by one come out to be re
flected from the water below them, sh*
raised her face to his and said:
“God. who made all the beauty and
wohders of the universe, doeth all
things well. He has brought us to
gether, beloved, in* His own good
dreadful epidemic until the worst was time.”
over, the fever was on the wane. His I The arms that held her clasped her
splendid vitality was greatly lowered ' closer, while from two heartj? a prayer
by what he had gone through, and was sent up to Him, who ii. Hisl
good time had seen
thus at last.
Harry M. Dean.
victory the buck turned ihs head and
saw the man.
He paused for the fraction of a minute
in surprise, then, with lowered antlers
and blazing eyes, made a rush for this
new intruder, and suddenly Scott re
membered that he had no gun. He did
not feel in a mood for foot racing just j
while the glad tidings. “The epidemic
is conquered!” was being telegraphed
over the land, the young doctor was
stricken by a parthian dart of the
dread disease. Fever in its most ma
lignant form held him in its grasp.
For a long time his death was hour
ly expected, but with careful nursing
he finally, after many months, regaln-
eu his strength. One year from the
date of his leaving Boston he was on
me streets of the city again. As soon
as his neglected business could be
looked after he turned his face toward
his childhood’s home there to see
Marion Stanbury, his betrothed, strange
it was that in the dark years that had
passed no word had come to him from
her.
Soon after arriving he went to the
cottage where she had lived with her
widowed
closed and still. On inquiry he learned j out causing them d!scomf(
that during his absence her mother! “Easv-to-Quit” is a trea!
had died and Marlon, finding herself
penniless and alone, had gone south
to reside with a maiden aunt—no one
knew exactly where.
to bless
Tobacco Bad
as
An Absolute “Sto
Brain-Killing', :
ing Tobacco
Been Fo
You Can Try It
The tobacco habit is
man knows It. Some
know it. Most men wo:
mother, but he found it they knew they could do
maxe the smoker and
lately quit for good the
in any form.
Marion Stanbury from her lonely
Florida home, on the banks of palm-
cringed Indian river, grew sad for a
sight of her dear New England. Her
then, either, so he shinned up a tree at [life had become very dark. She had
a pace that would make the nimble gray j written repeatedly before her mother’s
squirrel green with envy. Nor did he [ death to her lover in Boston, but no
have any time to lose, for as he swung j answer had come. Then came the con-
himself into the first branches the tip of elusion that he had broken faith with
the deer’s antlers tickled the bottom of her Among the lovely intellectual
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weak from suffering* Soothing.*ba*my% ... , Patients whom we are treating by mail. ‘McAbe, Philosopher, Mr. Ben N.. Notho-
Five safe, speedy and had one located to the same place and w,s rnnowo are ^ rom , 6 ’ fc ,ry Ktate ^ in Ihs rone, Bachelor Parson, Panhandle Boy,
T(le mogt horrible forms and aore healed In au weeto' time. Union, and we have found that where wnnla favor me with
- Mr. Brady Mitchell, of Number One. Tenn., cured the patients will follow our instruc- I*™ Parnet would tavor me witn
of eritheliema (cancer) on lower rye lid, hr home tions closely a rapid cure is the result, j their addresses. If they won t. then I
for. Many letters from my Household
favorites and. regular correspondents re
proach me mutely every day. But I will
get around after awhile, and hope to
, „ . - - „ , . . . . send each some little souvenir of Lona-
place for treatment, can be treated by t . „
mail and express successfully. We , J wish that Gnadeloupe. Harry
have constantly from 500 to 1,500 i Bill, Improvisatore. Senex. Franceska,
Persons living a great distance from
Kansas City, who cannot come to our
his foot and caught the hem of his over
alls, ripping them to the pocket.
That was perhaps the proudest buck
deer that ever trod the earth in Oregon.
He hqd Put to flight a band of wolves
and treed a man, and he concluded to
camp there awhile and enjoy his victory.
For an hour he guarded his captive,
stamping his feet, shaking his head and j, g r-*’auTit
making other warlike demonstrations,
while Scott remained in the treetop and
wished for his rifle. Finally the deer
tired of the game and moseyed off into
the woods, stopping once in a while and
looking back, as if to say: “I've a no
tion to climb that tree and get you
yet.”
Was Scott mad? Mrt—, rather. He had
saved the deer g s life, and for his kind
ness haa been repaid with base Ingrati
tude. He is an ardent sportsman dur
ing the lawful season, hut in his present
state of mind the whole deer family
would better give him a wide berth.
Italy Hemperly’s Little Boy.
certain cure. „ iimi
ef cancer of the face, breast, womb,
mouth and stomach, large tumors,
ugly ulcers, fistula, catarrh, terrible . . , .... ...„ ^ All communications by letter or other- thank theme here, and send my love.
etC ” % re V 1 successfull Y . wlse ^ iu . ?V\ r ‘ Ct l% „°^ nf uS ' 1 ^ hunted vainly for the addre
treated by the application of various Mrs. W. A. Southard, Buffalo, Mo., cancer of sons desiring to know more of thifl
Berms Of soothing oils. hreaat d ** of teacup, cortfl by home treatment. valuable treatment should write*
DR. BYE, 905 S. BROADWAY, KANSAS CITY, MO.
address
of the lady who said she wanted th<»
life of John Fiske, or other literature.
Will she please send it to me? As my
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The morning after the wreck of one
of the fast trains running between
New York and Chicago, an old farmer
was standing on the bank of the river
into which the train had plunged, in
tently watching the water, says Har
per’s Weekly.
A stranger approached, and natural
ly the conversation reverted to the
wreck and the fortunate escape of all
the passengers.
"It was the costliest train
world,” informed the stranger.
"Yes,” grunted the other, still watch
ing the stream.
“And also the best equipped,” the
new-comer continued.
"No doubt about it,” assented the old
farmer. "I've fished a dozen bottles out
of the water already.”
women of the city he had found one
who had caused him to forget his lit
tle mountain sweetheart' Well, she
would not intrude on his happiness,
she would write no more. Quiet and
uneventful was the life she spent here
among the orange groves of south
Florida, with no companion save her
Her heart turned to her
northern home. She longed to see
once again the .mist-crowned mountain
tops, and the snow-covered plains.
Years went by, bringing no change
to her until her old aunt died and
she found herself alone In the world.
After days of effort and of heart
sick waiting, she found work in an
other state. By careful economy she
managed to support herself on the
small Income accruing from her occu
pation. The work was hard, and as
time went on gray threads began’ to
appear in her dark brown hair. Lone
ly. unloved, she plodded on with weary
feet, longing for the rest beyond.
There came a day when she was un
able to go to work. It made her dizzy
to raise her head from the pillow; In
trying to get ua she fainted, and when
consciousness came to her a physician
wes bending over her. Gently as pos
sible the’ fateful knowledge was brok
en to her—she would never be able
to work again. Her disease was one
of the spine and her life depended on
her being quiet and comfortable. With
heaving bosom she turned her face to
tne wall and there fought out the hard
battle in her own soul.
Two weeks later, through the influ
ence of the phyalcian. she found her
self an inmate of the county poor
bouse. Bitter at flrst was the fate
to this high-strung, accomplished
woman, but, as the years passed she
became more and more resigned. She
the ! would bear her lot patiently here, hop-
' ing for rest and happiness on the
shore "where the surges ceased to
roll.”
Dr. Brooks was now fifty years old.
He had grown stout with the passing
of time, as well as famous. The pre
dictions of his Instructors had been
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US1 Fifth and Race Hta, Cincinnati, Ohio.