Newspaper Page Text
The Atlanta constitution.
VOL. XXII
MATTJ
Cathleen Gray Nelson, in Southern Magazine.
The road was rough, the sun was hot,
and it was with a feeling with intense sat
isfaction that Gaston Williams saw before
him a rude house perched on the rocky hill
side so completely screened by the surround
ing trees that he had not seen it until a
sudden bend in the road brought him in
full view. He stopped his horse in front of
the. tall rail fence and uttered a loud “hel
lo!” For a moment all was silent save for
the echo of his own voice that still liu
gored in the hills around, then a girl in a
faded calico dress, a gingham sun bonnet
shading her face, appeared in the doorway.
She looked at the stranger suspiciously—
strangers were rare in that section of the
country—and nodded a careless "howdy.”
“I hate lost my way he said politely,
and I have stopped to ask if you could give
me lodging for the night.”
“I don’t know as we have any room.”
she answered cautiously, after a moment's
hesitation, "the men folks went to town
today an’ ain’t got back yit, an' you'd have
to see them 'bout it anyhow.”
“Is there any place near here where
they would take me?" he questioned.
“Oh, yes." she said quickly, "there’s
Ebernez.er Milligan’s, that’s lesser'n six miles
from here. 1 reckon you could git tltar
afore dark, an' J mos’ knows he’d take
you."
Tie- did not scent to notice her appa
rent eagerness to get rid of him, for, not
at all daunted, he commenced again in an
even more affable tone than he had hereto
employed:
"1 have had a long ride today and my
horse s about played out. 1 don’t think
he can go much further. You see.”
he added confidentially, "I'm
selling fruit trees through this'part of the
country .-in i I'd like to show you my cata
logue. as I have some very fine varieties.”
Ihe girl looked relieved at the mention
of his business and said more cordially:
“Mebbe pap 'nd like to see ’em. Can't you
light and come in awhile?" With that he
dismounted, tied his horse to the fence,
and taking his saddle bags on his arm he
entered the yard. lie was soon seatix! on
the porch busily explaining tin l merits of
various highly colored plates, showing trees
bearing fruit of such enormous size and
beauty as was never seen ou'side the gar
den of Eden. So quickly did the time liv
that the sun was almost gone when the
girl said abruptly:
“I reckon we kin keep yon fur the night
as it's gettin’ late now. Jes’ take your
boss to the barn, right down thare across
the road, and put 'im up," pointing to a roof
that could be seen in a clump of trees.
"Y>ii ll find fev'd a plenty in the crib."
■' • -•»,*. mned ,<. »hr ' hats an
h ur tfterwnrds he found the girl in earn
est conversation with two men. me a stur
dy mountaineer of some fifty years, the
other a tall, sullen looking youth, who ex
postulated:
“I. 'ok a heer, Matt, you must be mighty
keerful." and she looked apprehensively
at the older man. and said:
"I think he’s squar’, pap.”
That night Gaston Williams fell asleep
with a triumphant smile on his lips as he
muttered to himself: "Thanks to a slick
tongue, old boy. you are at last in the
cabin of Lou Higgins, moonshiner.” The
next morning he breakfasted alone with
Matt, and as soon as seated. she
announced:
“Ike says as how snnthin’s the matter
with your boss’s foot this tnornin,’ an’ he
ain’ able to travel."
“Indeed.” he replied. as if rather pleased
with the news. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have
to .ask you to let me stay here today, as
I see no way of continuing my journey."
"’Taint no trouble." she answered pleas
antly, “fur we don’ often have anybody
passin’ tip beer, an’ its kinder nice to see a
new face Vasionally.”
Something in her voice and a note of
loneliness, of feeling perhaps, caused him
to look at her with sudden interest. She
was not pretty: he had decided that Ihe
night before, and with a man’s disregard
for details, he had not noticed anything
further about her appearance. But now,
as he scrutinized her more closely, he de
cided there was something al tractive about
her face, with its heavy black hair coiled
low on her neck and her eyes brown and
appealing, a certain firmness about the
lines of her mouth, with its full sensitive
lips, a face that would have been full of
p.i-Mon and feeling had not its expression
been one of constant repression.
She did not seem communicative, and
finding that his efforts at conversation did
not with any encouragment. he also
relapse,! into silence, which lasted until
they had Completed the morning meal.
After he had gone out and examined his
horse he sat for a long time on the front
porch watching a daring red bird that ilH
ted iti and out among tile trees, turning to
k»ik at him with a coquettish turn ot the
h<ad, and then Hying far away until it
faded a crimson spark in the distance.
Finallv he thought of Matt, and the thought
of her brought with it a little thrill of sym
pathy, so perceptible that he soon found
himself .seated on the kitchen doorstep
watching her as she moved quickly about
in her preparations for dinner.
"Dou’t you get lonely hero?" he ven
tured, after he had watched her in silence
for some time as she dexterously peeled
potatoes, apparently unconscious of his
scrutiny.
‘‘Can’t say as I do, she replied.
“Guess I’m use to it. Ma’s been gone nigh
onto five year now. an 1 ve live beer look
in’ after pap an’ Ike with no women folks
’bout till 1 kinder like bein’ by myself.”
"It seems to me a terribly monotonous
life for you,” he persisted. "Just one
woman living up here in the mountains
apart from alt her sex.”
■ i )h I’m a Georgy cracker by perlessmn.
she said, with a slight touch of bit terne s
in her voice, "an’ 1 ain’t never knowed
anvthiiig outside o’ that. Don’t know how
]'d fee! of I'd been born in town whare folks
doll’ see nolle uv God’s makin's ’round
’em, nothin’ but what tbe’ve done them
selves. jes’ houses an’ sech like' 'tell yon
Bios' forgit God knows how to do anything.”
"You don’t like the city thru'.-" he ques
tioned, with some amusement!
“No” she replied, shaking her head
emphatically. “I wont down to Atlanty
once, ain’ never been thare senee, an
don' want to go no more. Folks wnz all
so busy thev didn’t seem to have no time io
keer fur nobody. an’ 1 never wnz s> glad
as when I got back heer whare thare wuz
pientv uv sky over me. an’ the hills an’
trees had’nt never looked so nice as they did
utter I got ’way from thal cramped up
citv whare thare did’nt seem hardly ’nough
breath fur all them folks. But mebbe yon
like it?" she said, looking at him inquiringly.
“Oh yixs,” he answered carelessly. “I’ve
alwavs lived there.’
“I "’spose you east git use to anything.’
she said philosophically, but it ’nd go
mighty hard with me to have to live thare
the rest of my days. Why, I loves ever’-
thing up heer jes' like it belonged to me;
them thare hills that alius looks like they
wuz wrapped up in a piece uv blue sky,
IIIE MOONSHINER'S
the trees with the leaves danc
ing like toy wuz so happy tliey
couldn’t keep still, an’ it mos’
looks like thy birds knows me
an’ tries to call to me some
times.” She came to the door
while she was speaking and
stood looking out upon the surrounding
country with a contented smile.
"Whenever I gits to feelin’ rebellious
like, ur ungrateful,” she continued, "ail
I has to do is jes’ git out o’ doors an
look ’round a. bit; then my heart gits light
tigin." _ ,
"You are a loyal daughter of the moun
tains.” he said, smilingly, "and your
thoughts are the voice of nature in your
heart.” She turned away quickly at this
remark, with a pleased blush, and he got
up and sauntered towards the spring feel
ing that it would hav-' been best had his
pretty speech remained unsaid. i‘rom thal
time forth his manner lowafd her was char
acterized by a patronized chivalry that
puzzled while it attracted her.
That afternoon he smiled quizzically as
h" found himself carrying the milk buckets
for Matt, as theytrudged along side by
side, but her eyes were fixed on tlio
golden sunset beyond. Presently she said
softly: "I reckon the wrong side uv the
cloud is jes' as pretty as this un, ’cause
that’s the one the angels looks at.”
"I suppose so,” he answered vaguely,
and she went on eonfid-•ntially:
"It don’t look like folks thinks ’nough
uv the lovely cover the Lord put over the
earth; mebbe its the floor of heaven an,
we jes’ set* the glory a shinin’ through."
She gave him a quick, appealing glance as
she continued: "I ain’ never got religion,
but they do say as how ever’l hing's jtow’r
ftil pretty in heaven. We’s all Baptists by
nature up heer. but one Sunday 1 heel’d a
T’iseapalian preacher wuz goin’ to exhort
down at I lick's cross road that s bout
I five miles from here an' somethin’ told
me to go to beer him, as we <1 never had
any o' his persuasion in these pails.
Folks didn't like 'im. He didn’t holler
but mebbe he could nt help that, tin *ie
looked like his lungs wuz weak, and he
didn't talk nothin’ bout the fiery pit an
sech like, as we wuz custom to, so his
preachin' warn’l ginrally edityin : but
somehow 1 felt like he wuz a talkin to
me. an’ it done me more good n any sermon
1 ever heel’d. ......
"Yes,” her listener said. with a sym
pathetic smile, as she hesitated, and thus
encouraged she went on.
"He wuz a tellin that day bout tin
jovs o' heaven—them clouds mad> me
think uv it an' he talked mos »ke he
| seed it right afore im. 1 guess hi wuz
I shore uv gittin' thare. That nigh. t m
1 1 got home 1 set a long, time a ll.unl in
•bom what he’d
| ever got thare es I woilldn t feel rnlgh i lone
some ’mong all them fine folks. He said
I -rwirz a beautiful city, an you know 1
ain’ us to city ways, an’ I w'm" I" '
j tered ’bout it al! that when pep ami Ike
come home roarin’ drunk I didn’t say a >Lim
to ’em. an’ es it hadn't been fur what he
said bein’ in my heart. I’d a tarnatiotially
went fur ’em.”
They had reached the lot gate some tune
before, Imt Matt Im 1 leaned against it,
pushing back her sunbonnet in her ea
gerness to tell some one llm thoughts of her
mind. She now pulled it back on her
head until her face was lost in its spa
cious depths and said humbly : “Meldie yon
can't understan’ my feelin s. fur 1 ve never
had noboilv to talk to since 1 growd up.
Tap an’ Ike ’ml never heer an’ you looks
so kind and knows so much I felt. like it nd
do me good to talk a bit; taint often I do.
She did not wait for him to reply, but
opened (he gate and went in quickly with
out looking at him.
As Gaston Willings lay awake that
night thinking over the ev< nts ot the day
he decided to leave on the morrow if pos
sible and he also muttered to himself that
for the sake of the girl he would never
return. Then he closed his eyes and tried
to sleep, but his dreams were haunted
by a woman with appealing eyes, who held
oiit her hands entreatingly to him and from
i wh<»ni hi* could not escape no matter wliere
i he turned. Then elie led him along a
I narrow, dangerous path until they came
' to a high cliff where the waters foamed
j beneath and in his anger he pushed her
j down into the angry waves beneath and
she looked at him ami smiled and smiling
sank. As daylight at last dispelled these
unpleasant visions he cursed himself for a
superstitious fool and felt an unwarranta
ble sense of irritation towards his unwel
come dream visitor.
Matt, all unconscious of her offense, toid
him while she fixed breakfast that “.I’ap
I says yore boss is wtisser” with a satisfied
smile lurking around the corners of her
mouth- a smile that changed to a sen
sitive quiver when he betrayed his impa
tience at the information. The work that
he had entered into with such zeal a week
ago was now distasteful to him and he
had but one thought -to get away from
this place as soon as possible. The mo
notony wearied him: be shuddered at the
thought of another day spent in this
dreary solitude ami he vented his ill humor
on the girl, whom he felt was in some
way responsible for his detention. When
she quietly withdrew and left him alone
with his breakfast and his wrath he became
more incensed than ever and vowed to
gel away from there if he had to walk.
After he had tried in vain to read, the
knowledge of liis own injustice made him
ashamed and he found himself again sealed
on the kitehen doorstep watching Matt
as she sat by the door knitting industri
ously on a coarse yarn sock.
"Isn't there something I can help you
do?" he inquire I meekly, but she declined
.his aid and apparently did not notice his
penitence, lie had in his hand a pocket
edition of Tennyson that he had found
on his desk the morning he left, and, notie
ing her surreptitious glances at it, ho de
termined to try and experiment, so ho
said carelessly:
"1 have been looking over a book of
poetry, would you like for me lo read some
thing to you?”
1 don t keer es you do," she replied,
rather embarrassed by the novelty of the
situation. He turned the leaves over
idly for a moment, wondering what would
best appefal to her understanding, and
Uien he decided to try the sweet story of
"Elaine. She listened intently, finally
letting her knitting drop unnoticed in her
lap as she became more interested, but
when he had finished she only said simply:
It wuz. the best thing she could adone
jes’ die,” ami she got up hastily and busied
herself with the pans on the table. He
closed the book with a feeling of disap
pointment and then he laughed at himself
for expecting appreciation from this igno
rant girl.
lie did not see her again until dinner
and then she seemed preoccupied ami
only replied to his remarks in monosyl
lables. Later, however, she brought her
knitting and sat down on the front porch,
where he was moodily gazing at the dis
tant hills and planning some means of re
turning to civilization.
"You’re gittin’ kinder tired bein’ up heer,
’way from evr’body, ain’t you?” she in
quired.
“Yes.” he replied, "I must find some
ATLANTA, GA., TUESDAY. AUGUST 15. 1893.
i Tir'IITTVII means of getting away
II I I I 111 rll from here tomorrow.”
1/Tl. v VJII 1 Lilt “You might come
back fur yore boss some
time,” she suggested
with a gle a m ot
hope in her eyes. ITe made no reply to this
remark except a negative shake of the
head, and she went on with a bitterness
in her tone that made him feel uncomfort
able:
"Es you ever come back agin I reckon
I’ll be married to Bill Watts, him what
lives down thare," with a jerk of her head,
down the road; “leastwise 1 will es pap an’
Ike has their way. They's bmh sot on it.
1 ain’ said what I'd do yit"—he was con
scious that she was watching him fur
tively—“fur 1 knowed pap nd’ be that all
tired mad es I went agin ’im that he’d be
shore to gil on a drunk. It seems a pity."
she said, as if talking to herself, "that'folks
like us has got hearts an' feelin's an’ sech
like, fur it don’ look like we had any par
ticular use fur ’em. We’s wtisser off than
them cows down yander in the lot. 'cause
they is content. It mos’ makes me wish
I’d been born a cow, but es I had I reckon
I'd still have this pure cussodness in my
marrer, an’ would alius been kickin’ the
milk bucket over, that bein’ 'bout the only
way 1 could a 'spressed my feelings.”
"I should never judge you to be con
trary." he said, lamely enough, not knowing
exactly what to say to this strange speech.,
but she did not seem to hear him.
"I’ve alius heerd some folks is born
kickin’ against providence,” she continued,
"an’ mebbe I'm one o' that kind. I guess
the Lord never intended me to be one o’
the Howers o’ the earth —jes one o'
the nettles, an’ He made me accordin’. We
all believes up heer that we’s what the
Lord wants us to be," she said, raising
her eyes suddenly to look at
Gaston as if just aware of his
presence. "It's kinder comfortin’, fur we'd
hate to think He wuz as dissatisfied with
what He'd make as we is. I've alius had
a notion that them what turns out failures
on earth He'll patch up a bit when tiny
git to heaven, leastwise I hope so, fur He
wouldn't want no critters up thare He wuz
ashamed of, an’ some uv us is mighty oii
ery. I've had so much corked up in my
heart 1 has to let it out sometimes," she
said apologetically, and be felt relieved
when she got up as if she did nor want
him to answer and started toward the
gale. *He watched her thin figure as it
disappearisl down a little mountain path,
ami he said softly, “poor girl." and sighed.
Matt had been gone probably an hour
when she came hurriedly around the cor
ner of the house, panting for breath, her
face as white as the rose she hud pinned
on her bosmn, and trembling in every limb
she dropped down on the steps.
"They're onto you down al the still," she
gasped. "I’ap an' Ike an' Bill Watts. 1
went, down thare jes' now. an' afore they
seed me 1 heerd ’em talkin' 'bout you an’ I
laid low. Don’ know how they found out
yore business, but they’s pow’ful riled, ami
Bill Watts wuz a snortin' wtisser 'n any
uv 'em." She stopped for breath, and placed
one hand over her heart'as if lo hush its
wild beating. .See’ug that h* ma !< no al
1< <npt at denial, she continued hurriedly,
mtense disappointment in face and voicej
"L see they wuz right; 1 couldn't hardly
believe it at fust, but then thare's some
fi'll.s we don't hate. I don't keer what,
they is." He was standing looking at her,
his teeth firmly closed, a defiant expression
on his face.
“It is true I am a revenue officer,” he
said quietly. She shuddered, and he was
conscious of a certain regretful twinge at
the knowhslge of how he had fallen in
this girl s estimation. With an effort she
regained her self-control and said:
"You'd, jes’ as well set down an' take
it easy. Sonic uv 'em is watchin’ the house,
but es you II slay quiet-like I'll git you
way from here yit. sec es J don't, spite uv
Bill Waits's smartness.”
“You had better leave me to my fate,
I do not your kindness, ' he com
menced, but she interrupted him.'
"It come to me nil uv a -udilint what
I’d do, an' 'taint no use to talk liout it.
1 reckon you thought you wuz a doin’
right, 'taint fur me to say. 'They feels
yon ain played exactly squar’ with im,
an'. they're pretty hard on yon. Spies
don' hav' much uv a showin’ op hear, spe
• •i.ill.v when we’ve missed ’em nnbek.nwnst.
\\ hat s ourn s ourn, an' nobody couldn’t
convince us ’twarent.”
\\ hi do you. try to help me,” ne com
menced bitterly, stung by the rtpioaeh of
her voice, but she again interrupted him.
"It's too late to be a talkin' 'bout that
now. What 1 want to tell yon is that
they'll be here a little alter dark, an' es
yon go over there to the barn yon kin hear
'em afore they git to (he hottS')—they’ll
be a ridm . As soon ;ts yon heer 'em stop
ion jes start off ;,s fast as you kin down
Unit road there, it’ll lake vou )o (lie load
that goes to Hiram Wilson’s, ,n’ then -mfll
knou where you’re at. It’s a 'ittle I men
Lie way. but you can't go ’toth’r road ’cans
the creeks up an' the- bridge h.-s wished
away. You oughter git to Johnson’s sta
tion tomorrow night. Nobody from beer’ll
follow you. 11l fix that." she sam with
a gum smile, i.aston seized ler h;.ml
impulsively.
“r-Jilnde ' V '’" tO sh<w
h ‘re cu t ~ .Vou away from
hme semi vm to s, j J|;iv . n ( ><s(
be one lo me. ami Jet me t, v m t - v < ■
lor what ion hate done for me” Iler
laee lighted up as he eomim m-cd sue.i) mg
but. she shook her head aa<l!v
"'l’he Lord put me whare He’ wanted me
an i am htten fur no other place " “I!,,) :
"I- »’H I k'il bm-k," she ndd' l qui.-klv. is
she ran into the house, in i m mient i>,o
was by Ins side ogam. ‘Here - pistol
"‘b’ «'h>se qum.ers’som’ers
el-e. 1 lows that nohodv <'rcm here will
git onto your trail, but if they v - f „. prom
ise me yon won’t use it > t p .j, j ’ t
feel like 1 oughter go bad. o n him' ft r
> Oil .
"I promise," he said sol minly. "Yon
have acted nobly by me, am, may G< d
.punish me accordingly if 1 betr.iv t >m- con
fidenee.”
" lon’d better be goin’ a iw," she S tic
nericnsly. as she started Jov t, the steps
by his side. "Don’t forgit io do >■■>' Ike
I I'd Joti, an git out o’ the ii.irn ", bin
they come to the house. ion n.iciit
leave your book uv fruit trees, as it'd be
unhandy to carry,” she addef, with t
wan smile. When they -na hed the
gate she stopped and held out iter hand
"Goydby, 1 shall never '’org.-r you,”
he said, as he stopped and railed it rev
erently to his lips, at which - t bmi.liig
blush stained her face and neck.
"Believe one thing.” he aiiuel ear
nestly. whatever may hive been my
motive in coming here, I decided last
night tor your sake to keep your father’s
secret.”
"i do believe yon.” she answered softly.
“Goodby. ’ He started hurri «dly across
the dusty road, and the girl stood ’war l ing
him until he went into the oarn. 'then
she wiped her eyes on the skirt of Imr sun
bonnet, and walked slowly oa k to the
house. She went first into" his room, and
when she saw on the table ”1 • 11 tie book
from wli.l eli he had read to her that morning
her lips twitched nervously.
"She didn’t do nothin' fur him,” she
muttered, “an’ yit folks writ 'but l.cr.
1 alius thought God made me fur some
thin’ special, an’ I'm glad 1 am’ cfeerd
when the times comes, but 1 wish he
could a knowed it.” She .vatked over to. the
little ■window and stood for a l ing time
motionless, her eyes fixed cn the far away
clouds. “He’ll never know," ;he m< lined,
"he’ll never know.”
It was quiet dark when three men rode
up in front of the house and dismounted
in silence. The girl, crouching in the far
thest corner of the porch, held her breath
to still the rapid beating of her heart as
she heard them enter the door. Then she
ran swiftly, noiselessly down the walk,
u.Hied the horse nearest to the gate, mount
ed it. and was off. There was the sound of
heavy footsteps, and oaths filled the air
as two men jumped on the remaining
horses ami started in swift pursuit. On
they went in the terrible darkness, over
mile after mile of the rough mountain
road, the horses’ feet striking tire from the
stones in their mad flight. At last they
w(>r<' gaining almost imperceptibly upon
that flying figure ahead, a Imllet whistled
past her. and then another so close that
its hot breath burned her cheek. The
horses were straining every nerte. and no
one noticed the sullen roar that fell upon
the quiet darkness, coming nearer and near
er every moment.. Suddenly there
was a splashing noise, and the sound
of one horse's steps had died away.
“The crock." one cried excitedly, “the
bridge has washed away."
‘He'll never git DUt o’ thare alive, the
o her answered with slow satisfaction, and
the pursuers turned their horses around
and slowly started back
The next night Gaston Williams boarded
the train at Johnson’s station, and heaved
a de<‘p sigh of relief as he felt himself be
ing rapidly whirled far away from the
scenes of the past three days—far away
from the moonshiner's lonely cabin.
And Matt was right—lie never know.
HE M AS HUNGIIY-
M’hv tho Parson Itoasted Ills Flock for Not
Payins: Ills Salary.
New Canann, Gt.. August 9.—The Rev.
F. A. Smith, of Silver Mine, has
caused a sensation in the town.
From his pulpit lie informed the congre
gation that fie and the members of his
family were starving, simply because his
salary was not forthcoming.
After preaching a good sermon and .giv
ing out the regular church notices, the Rev.
Mr. Smith startled his hearers by saying:
“I come to vou this morning with an emp
ty stomach. I have not bad a mouthful
to eat today, because 1 could not get it.
There is not even a crust, in the cupboard.
For over a week 1 and my family have
lived entirely upon blackberries and bread.
The reason my family is not here this
morning is because they have no shoes to
wear. Ido not ask charity, but only that
you pay me the salary that you tigreed to,
that 1 may not starve.”
This startling announcement, of course,
created a sensation in the little congrega
lim' at once. Deacon William Lane, the
«.1H male member present, at onee arose
a . ' ,<>l, die minister to task for bringing
. idal it ti tin 1 G’Hifeh by thus jnibli. i.v
ng hi- i . <ffai I'r ">■ m •
pulpit when he ought io li.-'.vc come to
him privately as the trustee, am. lie would
have helped him.
Mrs. Robert Gick, who is one of the
stewards of the church, s|ir:ing to her feet
also, and said she did not see how a man
confl ride around all the time with a fine
horse of his own and be in a starving con
dition.
The parson replied that not one penny
of his salary went towards the keeping of
his horse, 'as that was self-supporting,
but he failed to tell in what way.
The Rev. Mr. Smith has a wife and
daughter to support upon a s:iiM> sal
ary. and declares he cannot get even this
small sum.
Deacon Lane, when called upon by a
reporter, said: “We have hard work to
support a preacher here, but Mr. Smith
said he could stay here another year for
S3OO and house rent. 1 don't see how he
can be in a starving condition when he
has over a hundred chickens, which he
has to feed and rare for besides his horse.
At a special meeting the other night we
offered to pay him his salary and give
him a vacation until next October, when
his year run out, and he agreed to take
it. and we collected the money, lint the
next night he refused to take his salary in
advance or take a vacation, but said he
should stay here until October."
From the secretary of the church, Mrs.
Joseph Guthrie, it was learned that up to
August Ist the church owed the minister
just $2.44, after deducting $23.25 for a
grocery bill and $25 for repairs to the
parson’s carriage, which the church be
came responsible for.
The secretary handed the $2.44 to the
preacher on Wednesday and he accept
ed it.
"1 have been here two years next Oc
tober," said the Rev. Mr. Smith, “and
have labored hard to build up the church
ami instruct the people in the way ot
righteousness. What I said in the pul
pit was only the bare truth, and if it hurts
any one I can’t help it. Had I accepted
their invitation for a vacation and leave
the church. 1 would make myself liable
to church discipline, and says no preacher
shall drop his church without permission
of the president. 1 have preached here for
five months, ami only received sls in cash,
and two long months without receiving a
penny, so, of course, I had to get into
debt. 1 won't say they are trying to
starve me out, but it looks that way."
There are many persons in the church
who do not want Farson Smith to preach
to them, and are not slow about silting
their opinion to him. and say that if ho
insists upon feeding them with the bread
of life, lie will have to live upon bread and
blackberries, so far as they are con
cerned. _
Gone to the Land of Spirits.
From The I'etroit Free Press.
Colonel It., a xvell known gentleman, had
been sick in Washington for some days,
and the local reporters bad made daily in
quiries concerning him after the first an
nouncement. One day a reporter for an
evening paper called at the hotel to in
quire.
"How's Colonel IL?” he asked of the
clerk.
"The colonel has gone to the spirit land.”
was the reply.
The reporter made a note of it.
The next morning’s paper had an ac
count of his death at noon the day be
fore .
•■How’s tliis? said the city editor to the
reporter. "You didn’t got anything about
Colonel B. in yesterday evening's paper.”
"Yes, I did.” replied the innocent reporter
as he hunted up the item. "Here it is."
The city editor looked it over and swore.
The item read ns follows:
"Colonel It., who has been quite sick for
several days at the Blank lintel, has recov
ered sufficiently to go to Kentucky.”
A not her I>n ng«> r|! in pending.
From The I’ittsbnrg Dispatch.
While the poets’ convention is on In Chi
cago it will be about as good a time as the
country will over have to start a "poets’
corner” somewhere along the winding shores
of sad old Lake Michigan.
Very Stvonir C
From The Washington Star.
The young num of fashion may rail against
tlie slimmer r*rl for wearing his style of
necktie, but it' makes his heart sick to sec
how neatly she ties it.
IN THE LAST ACT.
BY ROBERT 1., ADAMSON.
Miss Raybourne’s able managers were
discussing matters relating to the welttire
of their pocketbooks. As the prosperity of
their purses depended upon the finttneial
success of Miss Raybourne and her com
pany, she and the company were under cis
cussion. As Charles Standard, Miss Kay
bourne's leading man. just now threatened
to affect their pocketbooks in away that
would cause sleepless nights to the two
able managers, they were talking about
him in very earnest ami business like
terms.
“He's been doing wretchedly of late,”
said Mr. Smilie. "lie hasn’t the life about
him he had when we first picked him tip.
In the love scenes with Miss Raybourne
he acts miserably. He's lame in all the
emotional parts. In the second s.mne where I
he meets Miss Raybonriie r >r rhe lost time I
after their angry parting, be acts like a
school boy. He seems to have no enthusi
asm and goes through the act just as if
suck occurrences made up his every day
life. He deliberately throws away a line
opportuirity for effective acting.
“Then, in the last act, the closing scene,
where the lovers happily terminate tlnir
troubles by becoming engaged and kissing
in the most approved fashion. Standard
acts like a stick. He is iwk.vard,< >tiff,
clumsy, embarrassed —he seems afraid. He
kisses Alias Raybourne like :t ma.i would
kiss his mother-in-law and puts his arms
around her as if she were labeled ‘handle
with can,’ or as if he thought she would
break. It's discouraging. The critics have
already picked him out as a mark ”
“That is true,” assented Mr. Crisp, slow
ly. He had discovered Standard, a young
student, full of ambition and, as he thought,
talent, and being always eager to bring out
embryotie stars, he had engaged him.
Standard's first work had caught the pub
lic. He worked with a freshness and energy
that were inspiring. He was quick to learn
and for the first few months gave .Mr.
Crisp ample reason to congratulate himself
upon his new protege. Mr. Crisp was slow
to admit that Standard was a failure, but
at last the truth beeam" too evident. I
Standard’s work menaced th<> success of the ,
play and the failure of the play meant
loss to Mr. Crisp. His interest in the young
actor ended when the latter ceased to be
successful, or no longer promised to suc
ceed. When lie was thus brought to view
the matter from a financial standpoint he
had to agree with Mr- Smilie. "You are
right. Smilie; Standard is off, badly off
-1 am disappointed in him. He lias not jus
tified the exi>e-ta I ions bis first work cre
ated. ' thought there wa ; somethint: in the '
{’■■liov. there mils Ting m b.m
he did so well at first. [ have never seen
a more promising beginner. He may im
prove.”
"No. I've lost faith in him. For a while
I thought like you. that he would get bet
ter, but all the time he steadily grew
worse."
“Has Miss Raybourne ever said any
thing?”
"No; not a word. I can’t see why, for she
never seemed to fancy Standard -treated
him indiffoi-iTiTIy from the start. She is I
never backward in kicking when the others
do badly, and 1 don’t understand why she
hasn’t given Standard a piece of her
mind
"Say, Smilie, it can’t be that Miss Ray
bourne is in love with Standard? It would
be very natural, yon know; both are young, i
Standard is handsome. Miss R.ibonrne lias .
never had a serious love affair; maybe :
Standard’s the man.”
"Fiddlesticks! Miss Raybourne is not I
Biich a simpleton as that. Standard isn’t I
the sort of man she would fancy, even if l
she were given to falling in love with every
handsome young man who happened to be j
acting in a play with her. The best thing j
we can do is to get rid of Standard.”
“He has certainly been a great disap- I
pointment." said Mr. Crisp, with the tone j
of a man who was giving VP something
from which he had expected great results. I
"tse your judgment.”
Fi7
The light over the stage entrance to the '
I'hnpire theater had just flared up on the
night after the two managers had their
talk about Standard, when the young ae- j
tor climbed the stairway and walked across ■
the stage to his dressing room. He wtys in !
a most unhappy frame of mind.
A tumult was raging within his
breast. His clean-cut face bore evidences
of his unhappy mental state. He nodded
to one or two men. who were busy about
the stage and stepped into his dressing
room. He noted the fact that he was among
the first to arrive, lie dropped into a ehair
to think. Os late, thinking in this unhappy
fashion had been his chief occupation.
II? was mentally accusing himself <>f all
sorts of shortcomings. Hr told himself o' l '
and over again that he was a fool, a sillier
fool than he thought himself capable ot
being. He fiercely charged himself with
failure, failure in tire work thal had been
the center of his loftiest aspirations and i
dreams. He had frittered away a golden ’
opportunity to get a permanent foothold
in his profession, and stood condemned by .
himself and the critics ami the public as a
rank failure. He had felt sure of succeed- :
ing on the stag": as he could ’
remember it had been his ambition to be
an actor. As he grew older this ambition ,
became a passion. He b-mt all his energies ;
to its accomplishment. He had spent his
years in study and after he reached Inc ,
p int when lie thought himself ready to be- I
gin he had experienced no end of trouble
in finding an opportunity. At last one
came. Manairer Crisp saw him in playing I
an insignificant part with a mediocre cmn
p.-tnv of players and offered him a place |
with Miss Raybourne’s He bail (
aeex'pted it eagiTly and gone about his [
work with enthusiasm.
It was his opportunity: he had los. it. (
He did not not attempt to hide the reason
from hints'lf, however, obscure .it migl.t
be .to others. He felt JUT as confident yl j
his ability now as he had exei felt- Jli ;
believed thal had lie been with any oth. .
companv his work would have been grain..-
ing to himself. He saw the cause of ms
undoing in Miss Raybourne. He had strug
gle! bravely to hide his secret from mt.
In her presence h" had constrained himself;
he had avoided her. On the stage
he was afraid to trust himsell. Ihe
r( . su lr of tliis was lus wretched
acting of which his managers had
plained. She had caused him to lose sight
of his passionate pursuit of his chosen pro
fession. Tonight ho felt that he bad lost
his profession and soured his whole lile.
He heard a light step erossing the stage,
which he instantly recognized as that of
Miss Ravbourne. He hastily rose and
stepped out. She camo toward him smil
ing. and holding something in her hand-
‘Good evening, Mr. Standard,” she said
pleasantly. “I am so tired—those stairs are
so dreadful. Am I late?”
She started into her dressing room, but
PRICE 5 CENT ; -
turned to show Standard some trifle she
had bought while out shopping. Wasn't it
cute.'’ She was sure he would like it. She
ui.s;i ppoared into her dressing room, leaving
Standaid standing like a man in a dream
He remembers- that he had not spoken a
half dozen words to her.
Stannard takes no note of the arrival of
the othei members of the company. He
watches the setting o f the scenery with a
blank jook. Presently Miss Ravbourne
comes out dressed for her part- In‘the ele
gant robes of the rich man’s daughter she
is remarkably lovely. She stands chatting
with Standard in a vivacious way. On the
other side of .the curtain they hear the
tramp of feet, the sound of ushers turning
down the seats, the cry of the fan, candv
and opera glass boys, the shrill whirr of
the violinist tuning his instrument and *h ■
confused murmur of conversation. Now
the orchestra bursts into a popular air and
there is a responsive murmur of approval
from the gallery. The bell rings and the
curtain swings up. Together Miss Ray
bourne and Standard watch the actors say
ing their parts for a few minutes, and then
Miss K.iyb.mriic ]etv..< Standard v.ith , t
smile and steps out upon the stage- Her
appearance is greeted by a clatter of ap
plause. From iiis place in the wing Stand
ard can see her, radiant and beautiful smil
ing ami bowing. She speaks her lines with
an ease and naturalness that instantly
captures her audience. Standard notices,
too. that actors who have much less imp.T
tant parts than he are receiving applause.
He turns away sick at the thought. What
must she think of him. A slrapge sort of
fire burns in his breast. Then' was not a
gleam of hope in his heat, but something
rose out of his wretchedness and despair
that spurred him to a mighty effort.
It is his turn to go on, and as he steps out
he notices with a pang that not a ripple of
applause greets him. The scene is an ele
gant palace of a wealthy man Miss Ray
b >t:;ne is pmying the part of the wealthy
mans daughter. Standard is a young law
yer attached to the firm which attends to
all of the affairs of the young lady’s father.
He .s there on a business errand. He has
met there often an.il has been captured by
her loveliness. The difference in their so
cial positions precludes any idea that he
might have of love making. He fancies
that she would scorn him if he should ev r
attempt it, which he does not dare to do.
Tn< re is something in the situation that
struck .Standard as bearing a remarkable
similarity to the real position of Miss Ray
bojtne and himself. The gulf existing be
tween himself and the young woman in
the play is one that he feels to exist in
reality, but of a sormwhat different char
acter. lie feels more in sympathy with
ms part than he has ever felt before: he
throws his whole soul info it, deriving a
strange sort of joy from the effect. He
feels that he has never done better, and as
he leaves the stage he is applauded for the
first time in weeks. He feels a savage sort
ot siTHacf.tn as he walks back- Miss
Haybourre passes him, but says nothing
"She can’t know the truth," ho tells liim
-BeL. He watches the progress of the plav
from lus place in the wing. The confused
soqrnls 'hat reach hiu* sound :t s if th'"?
u e.’e ot another woi'.'d. Every time he
goes on the stage he raises an approving
muimur of applause. His voic-e is impas
sioned, full ot feeling and his manner un
studied. Smilie and ( risp have come up
from the office and are watching the play
from behind. Their eyes are upon Stand
ard at times. When he does particularly
well, they nudge each other. They note
the change of his acting with wonder. And
.Miss Raybourne was getting more than hei
usual share of popular approval tonight.
Her acting, which is always excellent, is
much improved tonight. When the cur
tain was rung <lown at the end of the sec
ond act, Smilie said in a gratified tone;
"The play is going nicely tonight."
It was the last act. The play had car
ried the unhappy lover and the charming
maiden through varying fortunes, now sep
arating them irrevocably as it seemed, now
bringing them nearer together apparently,
until now in the scene the young lover
had brought himself to a confession of his
love. He had not the slightest, hope of jt
favorable result how could lie when there
was such a vide difference in their posi
tions, bur he felt a strange and indefinable
joy in laying bare his heart to her.
As Standard came upon the stage, his
cheeks were flushed and his eyes glowed
like coals of fire. Inside a furious conflict
was raging. The handsome young actor
looked the part he was acting. His over
wrought feelings, his mingled love and de
spair had combined to produce a climax.
He had lost his swiftness. His air of
consciousness had vanished. He seemed to
be unconscious of the presence of others
beside Miss Raybourne and himself. Ilia
words and manner were unstudied, passion
ate, dramatie. His words and manner was
but the mil tit al expression of a man iti his
slate cd' feeling.
“[know 1 have no right to speak in this
way to you." he was saying passionately,
“1 am keenly conscious of the difference
lietween ns. You have position, money—
everything -I have nothing. But I must
speak to you—-I cannot help it. 1 love yon,
love you. Laugh at me, scorn me if you
will, but I love!”
Miss Raybourne’s face was bent down
ward and she was nervously toying with a
fan. The bright blush on her cheek, the
heaving of her breast, the breath which
came in short pants, was tin’ perfection of
fine acting. Slowly she raised her eyes
until they rested upon Standard. A glor
ious light suffused her face. It was like
the bursting of the sun from a bank of
clouds. The great audience sat breathless,
spellbound.
"You do love me!” ho cried impulsively,
throwing himself forward. He eaught her
in his arms and kissed her passionately.'
Miss Ravbourne lay inertly in his arms.
To his confused senses came the ringing
of the curtain bell and then the curtain
dropped and shut, off the glare of the foot
lights.
The audience was wildly applauding.
Smilie and ('risp had forgotten themselves,
and from their [dace behind had joined m
the storm of applause. The orchestra start
ed up a stirring air.
Tin' two lovers stood together for an in
stant. and turning ran from the stage. In
the wing they met again, each of their
faces wearing a flushed and happy look
that had caught the audience by its na
turalness. Standard caught Miss Ray
bourne's outstretched hands in his own.
“And it is true —you do love me!” he cried
ecstatically and he kissed her again au<l
again.
Rising above the din of the orchestra Ih>
fury of continued handclapping reached
their oars.
ABOUT THE CONSTITUTION.
Brunswick Times-Advertlsor: Sunday’s
Constitution was another of those magnificent
issues Unit has made the watching for Its
coming as one learns to look for a new
book. But The Const it tiTTon is an every day
good thing to look for.
Albany Herald: The Constitution has In
terviewed the Georgia weekly editors about
the solution of the financial problem. The
answers to (lie question filled over a page in
The Constitution, ami the verdict was: “Be
Honest; or. Stick to the Pledges of the
I’arty.” This solves the whole business, and
is Just what may have been expected from
the democratic press of Georgia. The Con
stitution made a ten-stroke on this matter,
and it was in keeping with the enterprise of
that great southern daily.