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THE JACKSON ECONOMIST. - . IVGL. VII. the man and the wind. THE MAN. Wind on the hilltopl Wind in the tree! Is there anglit in earth or heavmi That bindeth thee and me? 1 through the long hours Feebly creep and crawl O’er the green smooth shoulders Of the huge mountain wall. Whilst thou in a moment With roaring skirts outspread Lea pest from the valley To the black mountain head. THE WIND. Little puny brother, Why question thus of mo T There is need of me: I doubt not There is need of thee. I would smite thee were I bidden Without pity, without wrath, As I smite the gauzy May fly On the rain swept path I I envy not, nor question, As I play my eager part, But I think that thou art nearer To the Father’s heart! —A. C. Benson in Spectator. HIS TOP NOTE. I Miss Mary Emerson was acknowl edged to be the prettiest girl in Brad lord. I Among the many who sighed for her ■cere two who seemed so far advanced In the conrt they paid that they might |>e called suitors. One, Charley Norton, was toward the front because he de lervefl to he there, for he was a good lellow, bright and earnest, albeit guilty If harmless vanities, not to say the self Jronceii with which some people charged lim. His one dangerous rival was the concert master of the Bradford orches tra, Theodore Schreiner. Schreiner’s ap parent lead in the race for Miss Emer son’s affections was due wholly to his bonndless assurance. The proof of this came to him With unpleasant clearness on the day when he proposed, only to be rejected. Mary let him understand dis tinctly that she was promised to Char ley Norton and that her accepted lover had her entire affection and trust. For a day or two Schreiner was mo rose and inclined, so he said, to suicide. Then came the annual charity concert, for which a long programme had been arranged. Norton, who was a popular fellow and a good singer, whs down for a song, and the piece he had chosen was'one of his own compositions. As manager of the enterprise I had encour aged him to sing the thing. I hadn’t heard it and, to tell the truth, cared very little whether or not it was meri torious. It struck me simply as a good feature to advertise a song by a popular local composer, “written for the occa sion, “as I unblushingly announced in big type on the billboards. The fact was that Charley had ham mered out the music in the ecstasy fol lowing his acceptance by Miss Emerson, and the piece was privately dedicated to her. The accompaniment was ar ranged for the string hand, and as it was a simple thing there was no neces sity for a conductor. Schreiner, as first violin, marked the time from his desk as well as played his part in it. At the rehearsal the song went well. The violinists read their parts without an error, and Charley sailed up to the climax, a very high note, in the most effective style. We were all sure that it would be the hit of the evening and that Charley would score a brilliant success with that fetching top note. “I hope so,” he said good naturedly, “for if they want a higher note than that they will be disappointed. It’s my limit. I couldn’t sing a half tone high er to save my life. ’ ’ Evening came and there was a crowd ed house. Miss Emerson was in a con spicuous box with the members of the family. There were an overture, two or three arias by important talent, and a violin solo by Schreiner before it came Norton’s turn. Norton was in the green room while Schreiner’s solo was in Pi ogress, and then he was approached by Gustave Mollenhauer, the first clar inet of the orchestra. Mollenhauer looked worried. “Charley,” said he, “did you mean it when you said you couldn’t sing higher than that top note in your song ?” “Fact,” replied Norton composedly. ‘lt is B flat. Why do you ask?” “Because those fool violinists, led on by that ill tempered coxcomb Schreiner, won t let you sing B flat. ” “What the mischief do you mean, Gust” “Non may well use the word mis chief, Charley. Schreiner has put up a lob on you. When it comes your turn, every stringed instrument in the band " be tuned up a whole note. Schrei ner tells em that you want it that way in order to make a more brilliant cli max. He wants you to break”— Mollenhauer stopped abruptly, for Charley was pale as a ghost. He had n> ful Visions of the break in his voice, joe ridiculous squeak that would occur he tried his top note at the high WINDER, JACKSON COUNTY, OEOROIA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1899. pitch set by Schreiner, the laughter "of the audience, the mortification, but, above all, the exhibition of himself be fore pretty Mary Emerson in the pro- box. “Can’t it be stopped?” he gasped. Mollenhauer shook his head. “I tried to say something,” he answered, “hut the conductor called me down tor mak ing a noise. The thing wasn’t cooked up till after the men got on the stage You’ll have to sing some other note. ” “And ruin the climax? It won’t do! It would spoil the song! But, confound it, what can 1 do?” For a moment Mollenhauer was in as great despair as Charley was. Then his face lightened. “Have you another copy of the song?” he asked. Charley shook his head gloomily. “How many measures is it from the beginning to the top note?” The composer singer counted his manuscript and answered. “Sixty - seven. ” “All right, then, ” said the clarinet ist, “you go ahead and sing your song for 67 measures; then open your mouth as if you were going to lift the roof and keep still. I'll do the rest. Here, let me see your copy. ” Feverish with excitement, Mollen hauer examined the song, committing its final measures to memory. Charley saw what he intended to do, and, though the singer was somewhat cheered, he was yet very nervous. What if Mollen hauer should count wrong ? What if he should come in a half measure too soon or a measure too late? What if every body should tumble — He was urging those doubts on the clarinetist when I sent a callboy to tell him that it was his turn. I wonder ed when he passed me on his way to the stage why he looked so frightened, and I wondered, too, why Gns Mollenhauer went to his place just hack of the violas. Gus was never known to sit on the stage when he had nothing to do, and there was no part for him in Norton’s song. Nevertheless I saw Gns take up his B ! flat clarinet and test the tune of it te ;the A that Schreiner was scraping on his fiddle. Knowing nothing about pitch I didn’t dream that Schreiner was tun ing his instruments unearthly high, and supposingkGus knew Ms business I paid no attention to him, hut watched Char ley, for I “‘•anticipated his success and was eager tb enjoy it. The first port of the song was splen didly done.v 'Charley's nervousness seem ed to disappear after he had taken a glance at the box where Miss Emerson sat. In truth, -as he told me afterward, he was moved and steadied by despera tion. Just before the climax I saw him turn suddenly toward Miss Emerson’s box. and I saw her smile encouragingly upon him. I happened also to glance at Schreiner, who was sawing away de corously, looking out of the corners of his eyes at his fellow performers. There was a smile on Schreiner’s face, too, but I thought nothing of it till it changed to an expression of amaze ment and unmistakable chagrin. Char ley’s lips were parted wide, his face was overspread with rosy color, his eyes were fixed on the chandelier, all just as it should be for a tenor climax, and the top note of the song was sounding beautifully clear and sweet, without a suspicion of that forced quality that sometimes injures such effect. I thought I had never heard Charley give such a pure tone, and I was de lighted, but following Schreiner’s glance, for his keen ear had detected the fraud instantly. I was just in time to see Mollenhauer taking his clarinet from his lips. Then I understood. The clarinetist was but five or six feet behind the sin : t, and there was not one person o the audience who failed to believe that the top note came from Charley’s throat A couple of chords from the strings to close the piece were inaudible on acount of the tumultuous applause. Charley went out to bow again and again, but nothing could induce him to give an “encore.” He knew that the trick would not suc ceed twice. The ugly Schreiner would have done something to spoil it a second time. And up in the box Miss Mary sat smiling, enjoying her lover’s triumph, and when, months after they were mar ried and she taxed him for the reason why he never could he persuaded to sing the charity concert song, even in private, he told her it was because he never could produce again that silver top note. Then he confessed how it was done, and, like the true woman that she was, she kissed him and told him it wouldn’t have made the least differ ence to her if his voice had broken in a thousand pieces. “I know that now,” said Charley, “but it would have tickled Schreiner. The trick was worth the fun for his discomfiture. ” —Frederick It. Burton in Chicago News. IN A CROWDED STREET. I walk the city square with thee. The night is loml; the pavements roar. Their eddying mirth and misery Encircle thee and me. The street is full of lights and cries. The crowd but brings thee close to me. I only hear thy low replies, I only see thine eyes. —Charles G. D. Roberts in Lippinoott’a. THE OLI) CLOCK. “All the world loves a lover!” The words were ringing in my ears as I sat on the cushioned seat in the deep square window. The world was all white and beautiful, snow covered the fields and meadows far into the horizon, where the sun was sinking in his crimson glory. It was twilight, everything was soft and dreamy, and the tick of the old clock seemed to my girlish mind to re peat the words I had heard my mother say laughingly to my father after some tender jest of his. “Loves a lover —tick —tock—loves a lover!” I was in a big old fashioned hall, • there were the broad low stairs leading { to the rooms above, the tall mahogany clock with its dear old face that was like a friend to me. What a deal it could tell of all that had come and gone since it stood in its dim recess. Tales of the first kiss beneath the mistletoe, of the sweet words whispered on the stairs, of the stories told around the blazing Yule logs, all memories of other days—when grandmother was young like me. “Tick-tock, loves a lover, tick-tockl” I turned toward the clock; the red glow from the outer world lighted up ite face. Surely I was not dreaming! The face seemed to be smiling at me, and the words changed into “little girl— tittle girl,” as if half pitying me be cause I was left alone. I heaved a sigh, and before it had well passed my lips the old clock seemed to say: “I’ve seen many things, and if little girls would keep their ears open they could learn from almost everything about them. We don’t say much, ’’ with a half point of hand toward the big old bookcase, which gave a groan in an swer. “But we watch and learn a great deal more thfita people give us credit for. I can tell you' about your grandmother* aud how I, by what you would stupid ly call an accident, changed her whole life.’’ It gave me a strange feeling to hear the clock which I had loved and listened to from babyhood speak so plainly to me. Before this I had always known it could tell me so much if I could only understand, and now, quite suddenly, I understood just as if the old clock, with its slow and steady “tick-tock, tick-tock, ’ ’ spoke in my own language. I was just a little nervous and did not like to answer, but I guess the clock saw the half smile on my face, for it went on after a few moments. “Yes, it is many years ago when your grand mother was young; a sweeter lassie never breathed. I dream sometimes in the night, when I alone of all the house am awake, of seeing her come gliding down the stairs, in her light gray dress, with its many yarded skirt, the dainty lace collar fashioned with the big brooch, her hair, with the tresses that would not quite straighten out, drawn down and over the ears„-like curtains of gold to set off her flowerlike face. “She would always heed xne. I my self was young then,” the old clock sighed. “I told her when to rise so as to surprise the flowers when fresh with and wdrop diamonds when she must study and read so as to be able to hold her own with the best. These things she did not mind, but she would look at me quite wistfully when I would tick out, ‘Tick, took, 9 o'clock — ( J o’clock,’ but up the stairs she would disappear and dark would bo the house till the little lady appeared in the bright sunshine the next morning. “One day there was a stir and an ex citement all preparations for your grandmother’s hrst ball. Silks and laces were everywhere, and the flowers that filled the little window yonder heard all her hopes and dreams as she bent above them in her daily care. “As evening drew on the sleigh bells were heard coming across the country to the door, there was a crowd of serv ants in the hall, each one peering eager ly over-another’s shoulder to see the lit tle mistress in her white silk, which rustled as she moved and set off so well her shining eyes. “Ah, me. that was the beginning of it all, for it was not the same little girl who looked into my face next day, and I listened with all my strength as she whispered fresh hopes and fears to the sympathetic flowers. “Many gentlemen now came to call, and most frequently an older and a graver one, who said little, but seemed to bide his time. There was a younger one f>n whom my little mistress, seemed to smile, and wlib whispered aTI sorts of pretty nothings in her ear; a handsome lad, but somehow I liked not t.. 0 shift ing of his eyes. “Many is the night I kept my old frame creaking with anxiety. Some times I would try to put in n word to the little one as she sat where yon are, only she never seemed to hear me. A smile was on her lips and her heart was far away. “Things went on that wry for some time, till one day I heard her father’s voice raised in a sterner L ne than he had ever used to the little mistress. The heavy library door was opened hastily by her, and as she pushed past me up the stairs I saw how flushed and hot her cheeks were burning. “Then came a time when she sat and brooded in the window. The young man came no more, and the elder man was kinder than ever, hut all to no pur pose; the young girl did not seem to know that he was near. Afterward she seemed to turn to me for sympathy and would watch my face so anxiously I did not quite like it, for often it would end in her taking her scarf and shyly slip- ping ont, and it would he near an honr before she would return with a strange light in those eyes I knew so well, and many’s the time it all ended with a night of tears. “1 know—l listened to the murmur ings of the flowers, and flowers are not safe confidants, though women folks think they are. They rustle and tell each other all they know. One has but to listen and the secret is out, carried far and wide by the birds, their lovers. “It was a dreary, bitter night, and the little one knelt before the fire with her Rlender hands, that trembled so they stirred the lace about the wrists, out stretched before the blaze. She seemed to see a face in th 6 red ashes. “ ‘Now,’ she murmured, ‘if that does not fade for one whole minute I shall take it as a good omen and go. ’ I heard the words and trembled. Oh, how I was torn in two t The one pride of my life had been to tell the truth to every one, and here was my mistress making that a burden for the first time. It was a struggle, and somehow habit won. The minutes passed, and I announced it in a choked old voice, but she did not seem to know that; only a sigh of pleas ure and a tear of regret mingled, and with it pathetic gesture ahe threw her hands in the air, as if throwing all care to the winds and accepting fate. Then she came and stood before me, as she had done so often as a tiny one. and looked up at me. “ ‘At half past 10, old friend, don’t fail to tell me. I shall be listening with all my heart. You need not strike vary loudly. I shall hear —I shall be sure to hear!’ And she had gone slowly up the stairs. Time felt a weight upon me as I tolled the minutes out. I am only the servant of time, just to speak the words he tells me, to keep a straight, fair rec ord of how he flies. “Tick tock, tick tock! I felt as if I should smother. At 10 I struck the number out. Never before had I known i how loud was my voice. We are all of us what we are made. Each one in this world has so much to do, no more, no less. Tick took ! The very heaviness of my trouble was making me dim and uncertain. “I heard the master of the house and his friend and guest —the man I liked, the elder, quiet man—close their doors, and everything was still except my voice. Would that I could crush it out : “They say that things like myself can neither feel nor suffer, but the bur den of my thought was. Could I save my mistress? The wish was so great that it overpowered everything. It was near the half hour, when suddenly everything seemed to come to a stand still. All power of movement was taken from me. I could go no longer. “For the first time in my existence I failed to tell the time. “My little mistress was above, wait ing, waiting, but did not dare to stir until the appointed hour. “I don’t know how lute it was when I found her standing in the hall, pale as the ghosts that are said to haunt the woods at midnight. “ ‘You have failed me—failed me!’ was all she said. And her slender fin gers worked at the big bolt that barred the door. It was at length forced back to its rest, and the maiden, all muffled in a heavy cloak, had drawn it and was gone. “What I tell you now I heard from the whispering flowers. The guest was a learned man who thought a great deal, then gathered the best of these heaven sent gifts and, setting his hand to paper, told them to the world. On that night ho had opened the window of his room and was watching the clouds as they chased each other in the old moorFs light, and somehow the noise of the hill door closing aroused him. He looked and saw a slender figure hurry ing across the lawn. “In a moment he was out. In the sweet scented garden where the high wall rises against the banks of the river, and where a little boat rock* and upon the tide, he found the maiden cn the grass with the young lover’s head upon her knee. The young man had waited for her to come with the key to unlock the door, which was half hidden by the vines which covered all the wall. Im patiently he had paced to and fro; then tried to climb in order to hasten to his lady’s window and give a signal. He had slipped and fallen and In some way turned his foot. “At a glance the elder man took in. all the scene, and a touch of pain tight ened the firm mouth as he said: ‘You heard a cry of distress and came to find the cause. So did I. Let me help yon, my child, for this is no place for you. ’ And the young man was as brave in that moment as the elder and replied: ‘lt is my fault. I was going home late and tried to shorten my road across the garden. ’ “ ‘Trespassing,’ said his senior, ‘i* not the worst of sins. Sir, I will help you, ’ and being very strong he lifted up the young man and made him lean all his weight npon his shoulder, and, half carrying him, drew him from the garden. “The young man left the village in a few days alone. The boat drifted out toward the ocean and was lost. The story was never known. “Folks wondered the next day t<* find me silent. I had no power to tick for many days, but when I was myself again I saw with joy iny little mistress* had been awakened from an illusion, and, though for a time she seemed shy and afraid to look the good man in the face, it passed, and the next year, with the coming of the roses, he won her. It was the proudest day of my life when I struck the hour of their weddrng. “No doubt you have guessed, little one, the good man was the grandfather y©u loved so well. ’ * I sat silent in the window, the shad ows had deepened and dusk filled all the hall. Had I dreamed or* really heard all. my old friend said ? I can never tell. Only as I up stairs I smiled at the old chick who had known and saved my grandain 70 years ago.—Ethel Bar rington in Philadelphia Press. lVcnliarlt !■ of LaNMUaxci. The Hindoos have do word fot “ftriend. V v- The Italians have no equivalent for “humility. ” The Russian dictionary gives a word the definition of which is “not to have enough buttons on your footman’s coat,’’ a second means “to kill over again,” a third “earn by dancing,’" while the word “knout,” which we haver all learned to consider as of exclusively Russian meaning and application, proves upon investigation to be their word “knot, ” and to mean only a “whip of any kind.” The Germans call a thimble a “finger hat, ” which it certainly is, and a grass hopper a “hay horse. ” A glove with them is a “hand shoe, ” showing evi dently that they wor shoes before gloves. Poultry is “feather cattle,” while the names for the well knownr substances “oxygen” and “hydrogen” are in their language “sour stuff'' and.. * ‘ water stuff. The French, strange to say, have no verb “to stand,” nor can a Frenchman speak of “kicking” any one. The near est approach in his politeness he makes to it is “to threaten to give a blow with his foot,” the same thing probably to the recipient in either case, but it seems to want the directness and the energy of our “kick. ” Neither has he any word for “home” nor “comfort. ” The terms “up stairs” and “down, stairs” are also unknown in French. Their Star*. Rev. Charles Edward Locke, a bright and shining ornament of Methodism, was being shown through Glace church by an Episcopalian admirer. Gazing interestedly at the stars painted on the ceiling, the visitor inquired if they had any special significance. “Oh,” was the reply, “you know what the Bible says. ‘He made the stars also.’ “Ah!” commented the Methodist parson. “Do you know the difference between your church and ours?” “Oh, I don’t know!” said the Epis copal adherent doubtfully. “What is it?” “You put your stars in the ceiling. We put ours in the pulpit,” was the answer. —San Francisco News Letter. France. The English lash away at us, Russia abandons us, Germany scorns us, Italy bates us, and the pigdog of a Siamese, to whom we scarcely gave dogs’ food at the Elysee, barks at our heels. In a little time, thanks to the republic, ono will blush to be a Frenchman. —Paris 1/Autorite. NO. 6