The Jackson economist. (Winder, Ga.) 18??-19??, February 16, 1899, Image 1
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