Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 302, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 December 1910 — Page 2

Rosemary-thats for Remembranre

HE Morris-Moores had just had their first —no, not quarrel—tiff. Harry was now in his study pulling down books he did not want and piling them up on his table. He selected a row of notebooks bearing title, "The Grisons and the Italiafi Valleys." He got out extensive white- - blotched —Swiss —survey maps, and files of the little "Ladin” paper printed at Samaaden. He had got all this up thoroughly

■Qn his last Journey, and now was the time to <iip deep into the pile of printed and annotated “stuff.'’ It would help him to forget anything so absolutely silly as a little wife upstairs in her room, the tears of temper still wet on her cheeks, and employing her small white teeth in reducing to tattered "waste” a soaked lace pocket handkerchief. Henry Morris-Moore felt himself very superior. He was calm, cold, judicial, and above what he called “infantile tempers." —Upstairs Clara wept and fretted. To think, only to think —scarcely ten months married, and it had come to this! Ah. ff only she had known! Were all men So cruel, so bitter? Did nobody care for her? She would go to her mother —No (Clara’s reflection °came refreshingly cool, like a splash of cold water), no-o-o—well, not quite that! For one thing, she knew her mother; and Mrs. Mur ray-Linklater would “pack her back to her husband." Clara heard her mother speak these very words. But—H was over. So much w’as fixed. Never, never would it be “glad, confident morning again.” Henry had settled that when he spoke those words —those cruel dividing words. Hfi had said —had said —well, Clara could not

•quite remember what. But, at any rate, it was over. She could never forgive him—for saying that—yes, about dear Aunt Laetitia. Oh, yes, she remembered, “that he could never get her a single night to himself without some stalking old ahe-patriarch with a reticule coming in to 3 poll everything.” Clara would not have her family spoken against—not by a score of Henry Moores. She had been educated carefully in thq MurrayLinklater cult, and no Vere de Vere could be prouder of her name. Clara, in her bolted bedroom, was getting out her blotting book and pad to write to her poor wronged aunt. She was going to ask a refuge for the few remaining days of a blasted life. Yes, that was the adjective she was using, and (strange coincidence!) the villain below stairs was also using it, though perhaps in a more colloquial sense. He had just knocked over a whole pile of the neat notebooks in which he stored away his literary material, and was passing off his own clumsiness in invective against Inanimate things. This was his man’s way of biting his handkerchief. But the strong arm of coincidence reached yet further. Stumbling and grumbling, Harry gathered tip the fruit of ids travel experiences and began re-storing them In the -little three-cornered shelves where he kept such things for reference. Work would not “go” to-night, somehow. One remained in his hand—a small pocket notebook with rounded corners, which served to carry about him for the shostest personal jottings. Usually it lay among his keys on the dressing table, and when he shaved he was in the habit of putting down -a word or two—oh, ■as brief and bald as possible. But this particular stubby volume happened to be hiß diary of two years ago, and he stood there with one hand mechanically pushing the notebooks Into their places, while his eyes, entangled by what he read, transported him to the ragged carpet, the peremptorily furaished lodgings, the solitary walks, hands deep in pockets, overcoat collar up, cap pulled low — of the days when first— But stay, what was Clara doing? , __ ;-* —* _ * She had got out, her blotting book from under "The Songs of the North'” The new maidvery hard on the-.temper of young wives are new maids, as a class—had'jammed it into the rack, bending the corners shamefully. And so, when at last Clara had released the folio, lo! a cascade of solidly built,volumes in red basil —clattered to the ground. She had Just time to spring back ;'Tor the volumes had solid brass locks, all opened-with thp same little gold key. She wore it about her neck, and no one in the

cu risfmevs S^ory by

by S. R. .Crockett

world, not even Harry, had ever been allowed to peep within. Indeed, since she was married she had not often done so herself. • But now—now that the happiness of her life had foundered beneath her, she would go back—it might be all the pleasure (sob) that was left her—thus to live over a happy past. (A time.) Watkins, the Moores’ new maid, experienced some surprise (and not unnaturally) when, in the exercise of her vocation, she was carrying a copper jug of hot water to Mrs. Moore’s dressing room before sounding the first gong, she observed her master and mistress approach each other from opposite ends of the corridor, both intently reading, like people on a stage—he in a small black book, she in one large, fat and red. A still poorer opinion had Sarah Watkins of her new place when she saw the readers look up simultaneously, suddenly and guiltily close their books, turn on their several heels, and so exeunt. "And them sez as what they has only been married ten months!” she meditated. “Well—we’ll see what’s to come of this!" The family dinner that night was distinguished by extreme correctitude of demeanor, ana an etiquette almost Spanish in its stateliness. They were nothing if not polite—that is, when Watkins was in the room. But Watkins knew, and stayed a moment on the mat, listening to the silence that dropped like a pall. She entered, smiling to herself, knowing (oh, experienced Watkins) that she would find Clara looking sideways at the pattern of the carpet as though she had never seen it before, while at his end of the table Harry was molding bread pellets as if for a wager. These things do not vary. But ev6n " Watkins the wise did not know everyth tag* Penny fiction does hot inform its readers what real people do. So as soon as Clara had escaped out of the dining room, before he. .-had time to open the door for her, Harry sulkily sat down and felt for his cigarette case. He was sure he had left it in the drawing room. Yet he would not go for it. He- could hear Clara playing a noisy jig, the wriggle and stamp of which he particularly loathed. “The little wretch,” he said, laughing In spite of himself, “she knows quite well.” “Good evening, Mr. Moore/’ said his wife, and he rose and went. “Your cigarette case is in the smoking room.” ” But this time Harry had it all his own way. Six feet of blonde colossus made short work of mere pinpricks of the tongue. Clara found

herself swept off the piano stool and installed where, on the rounded arm df a big easy chair, she had liberty of movement than that of swinging her feet naughtily and rebelllouslv. while her husband questioned her. “What- book were you reading so intently this afternoon when I came upon you in the corridor? Let me see it?” “Shan’t!” (A time). “Oh, you coward! Because you are strong! I stall go-to—to—” “Where? To whom?” srid Harry, easily. “To my—to Aunt Laetitia.” “She wouldn’t have you, child,” laughed her husband, “and besides, she would charge you board —which I should have to pay!” “Well, I would pay it out of my own money—there!” “What own money?” “My house money!” "You forget, Mrs. Morris-Moore,” said her husband, gravely, “if you run away ydu wouldn’t have any house money!” Then in a burst, as he shook her, “Oh’ you great baby,” he cried, “make up. Bring the book! It was a volume of your diary. I knew by the lock. I’ll show you mine. Fair exchange! Off with you!” “Well, come with me, then,” said Clara, holding out her hand, “but don’t you think I’m giving in. It’s only yielding to brute force. My spirit is unconquered." “Never mind your spirit,” said her lord, “fetch the book!” And In these books, the greater and the lesser, they read late into the night. And this was what they found. — “ ‘Christmas eve’ ” said Clara, “begin there!” And she paused, waiting, with her finger in its place. “Oh,” said her husband, ‘T don’t think there is “And you call yourself a writer!” “Well, shall I begin?” Clara was all on pins and needles now. She could hardly keep still. The quarrel was forgotten.“‘Christmas eve* (she read). ‘A dull day— Paid calls in the lane —Went to Margaret’s. Baby is adorable and Tom begins to love me and calls me Aunty dee-ar. Came home by Grant’s and brought back fruit for dinner. There is a man coming, a friend of father’s. It Is a horrid nuisance.’ ” Here Clara Moore broke oft suddenly. “Oh, I wrote everything fresh, you see. I wanted to remember. You’ve no idea how bad my memory used to be in those days. Being married helps. One has to remember one’s husband’s iniquities.” “ ‘Set in a notebook, learned and conned by rote,’ murmured Harry. His wife stopped and looked severely at him. “Well,” she said, “I did write a lot, I know, and yours is no fair exchange. I did It partly as an exercise, you see, for I was considered very good at composition at school, whatever you may think. Besides, I don’t believe you have, anything la that book at all." “Oh, yes—l have!” and he flourished a closely written page of memoranda before her eyes. “Well,” she said, with a sigh (and her eyes were dim and distant), “I will read —though I never thought to let anyone see—not even you. But since you have been so horrid to me, I will.” It seemed an odd reason, but Harry wisely nodded. Clara fluttered some leaves thoughtfully. “Where shall I. go on ?” she asked, knitting her brows. 1 _j “You did begin from this’ beginning,” he smiled as he spoke, “why not continue?” She glanced up with sudden shyness, almost as he spoke, “why not continue?” $ She glanced up with sudden shyness, almost like a surprised Eve. “You were saying that it was a horrid nuisance, having me come to dinner,” said Harry Moore, “did you change your mind?” “Here it is,” said his wife, running her eye down the columns of close-knit writing. “ ‘IX: 00 p. m. He is gone. It was not so horrid after all. But I think he likes Edith best, fre is big and- badly dressed. Why can’t writers and artistic people dress humanly? He had on the funniest tie I ever saw, and a beard, and he came in a big gray cloak like one of Millet’s shepherds. But he talked—yes, it was worth

while hearing him talk. Not much to me, though, but he looked at me a lot, and somehow seemed to be conscious of everything I was doing. Dr. Stonor came in after, and wanted me to look out music for him. We went into the corner together and got out the folios, and though he was talking to father, I '' knew very well he was watching us.' That’s all,” Clara concluded. She had been reading very rapidly, as if anxious to get to the end. —for — - ■ ■ - Mine! oh, mine's no great thing,” said Harry, opening his little black pocketbook, “jottings merely.” “Go on, please,”' cried Clara, stamping her foot, “and mind, don’t alter a word or put in “more: I shall know!” ~ ~T~~ “‘Christmas eve’” (began Harry) “‘worked at Guardian article, took it round, saw proof of yesterday’s. Chief wants me to go to Armenia about the atrocities. Shan’t! To club in afternoon —Clifton, McCosh, Moxon and several of the fellows there, who wanted me to stop. Told them I couldn't. Had to go out to old Linklater’s to dinner —girls, music, bore — but I should look in- laterAf - “Oh!” interjected Clara, with her head suddealy haughty,_ “a bore—was, it?’L. “You said a horrid nuisance!” remarked her husband, and continued his reading without troubling to defend himself further. “ ‘I got there early—long way out of town — several false trails. At last found the place—a big house under trees. From the doorway I could see in the hall a girl standing on steps, putting up holly and green stuff. Presently old Linklater came and introduced me. “This is Clara!” I became conscious l of two great, dark, steady, grayish-hazel eyes. The dinner went all right after that. Pretty—well, I don’t know: a fascinating and glamorous person certainly. There was also a sister.’ ” "Nonsense!” said Clara. “You are making as yotr go along. —l know you:” — - Her husband silently handed her the book. Decidedly it was so written. Clara did not apologize for her unbelief. She only remarked, “Oh, but you are a dear.” And, rubbing her cheek against his coat sleeve, she purred. “Go on!” she said. “ ‘Dinner quite informal,’ Harry continued. “ ‘Talked too much, but got led on somehow. Everything , went. well.. Doctor -fellow there, who put on a lot of friend-of-the-family side—sat in a corner and talked to the girl with the eyes.’ ” “Ah, ha! Ypu see —you were jealous already!” cried Clara, clapping her hands joyously. “Nonsense!” said Harry Moore. “Of little Stonor? t think I see myself!" “Read the next day—go on—go on! No, the day you came to Elton again!” “ ‘Went to make my “digestion” call. Took some flowers up to Elton, and talked to the old lady. Think I made a conquest. But the Lady of the Eyes did not show up. Waited an hour and a half, but don’t think I wasted my .time entirely. Dear old lady!” “Harry, you are a cold-blooded wretch!” “Very much the contrary, Mrs. Moore!” “Now shall I read?” And without giving him time to answer, Clara opened the solid basil boards and continued, “‘Dec. 28th: Went out all the afternoon with Miss Grierson. Down the lane —soup kitchen, girls’ club, and went home with her to tea. When I got home I saw mother had a secret. You always knew by the satisfied way she has of looking mysterious. She would be disappointed if you didn’t ask her at once. So I teamed her to tell. “ ‘Do you know whom I’ve been entertaining aHafternoon ?’ she said, her shoulders shaking with repressed laughter, I understood well enough. “ ‘Oh, the curate,’ I said, as carelessly as I could. ‘I saw him going down the lane like a pair of compasses let loose.’ “ ‘Do you think the curate would bring me those?’ said mother, triumphantly. And she showed me a lovely bunch of roses, a wagonload nearly, which she had set well back In the dusk of the piano, so that I should not see them before mother had her little triumph. My! they must have cost heaps of money this time of year. ‘They are all mine,’ said mother, ‘but if you are. good you can have Just one bud for yourself. You see what one gets by staying quietly at home!’ “ ‘She was teasing me, of course, this dear old sweet-hearted mother. “ ’You see what one gets for doing works of charity and mercy!’ I said. ‘He would have given them to me if I’d been here. I’ll never do a good action again! ’ ” “Now turn on to ‘Four Seas Cottage,’ and read about that,” cried Clara. Her eyes were not gray now, nor yet hazel. The dark pupils had swallowed up all the rest, overflowing everything with the soft blackness of a misty night of few stars. "Let’s see. Easter, wasn’t it?” said her husband. “But why skip? Much water had flowed under bridges during these months of spring.” —Qh< —l want—to—get to the end—the end!” Clara whispered, excitedly. "Quick, quick—l can’t wait!” “Well, here it is: ‘April Bth.« We went a walk along the beach, she and I. We talked. I told her that unless something was going to come of this, I must go away. “'What,' she said, ‘for altogether?’ And I said ‘Yes.’ Then she walked a good while silent, and when I looked, I could see’ —” No, you dldn t said Clara. “I could never have been so silly!” Tear after big tear rolling slowly down her cheek,’ ” Harry continued, imperturbably. “ ‘I needed no more than that—who would? “ ‘You don’t want me to go?’ I cried. “ ‘She shook her head, 6till weeping, and not caring now whether I saw or not. ‘“So I They sat long silent that night in their own home, near each other, andk happy Harry’s heart was softened. He was In the mood for concessions. “Dear," he said, “if you would like Aunt Laetitia to and stay with us a month—” "Oh, bother AUnT Laetßla!" Mrs. Henry Moore, “I only want you!” And thus did Clara Murray-Linklater deny her father's house and cleave to her husband.

iiiss U yby WILBUR D NLPEfIT T^he. OJCMV ffoiMte Sleep comes to weary fingers first of all, Though o’er the drowsy eyes the lashes fall And soothing peace sweeps in upon the soul As though the vast eternal ocean wide Came in a silent, heart-enthralling tide Upon whose breast no crashing billows roll. Sometimes it seems that sleep creeps in and stands -And pityingly holds us by the While day’s hard tasks stiil linger in the mind— But softly lie the fingers wan and worn With all the heavy burdens they have borne. For sleep is ever sweet and ever kind. ■How gently fall the fingers that are tired— Aweary of the quest of things desired, Aweary of the labors of the day They clutch at sleep insensibly; and rest Comes to them in a portion doubly blest, And toil and task are half a world away] O, weary hands all over all the earth— The hands that do the work that is of worth. Or calloused hands, or hands both white and small— When night sends us her mystic lullabies That whisper In the murmur of the breeze. Sleep comes to weary fingers first of all.

Conundrum Man at Home.

The man with the chenille whiskers sat at his library table in his home, casting up his accounts and endeavoring to ascertain how much money he would have left after they were paid. Across the table sat his fond wife, who had just announced the completion of her plans for a trip to tjie seaside. With a long-drawn sigh the man with the chenille whiskers looked up and asked his wife: What is the difference between you and me?” “Why—of course, we are one, but, then, you will acknowledge that my family ” “You are going away for the sum. mer and I am summing a way for the goer,” interrupted the husband. With pale face and set lips the fond wife wrote to her mother that she fearejj John’s constant work was affecting his mind.

Unchanged.

‘Yes,” says the advanced farmer, who really should be called an agriculturist, “there has been a vast change In the methods of those who till the soil. As an Instance, nowadays we have machines that cut,] thrash and sack the wheat, whereas ini other years we cradled it.” The visitor nods but says: “Yet I believe there has not been! such great progress in other branches of agriculture. Am I not right in my opinion that you still put corn in a crib?” -fn-*’" ’

Deceitful Men.

“My dear child, you cannot believei what the men say. Why, when I was your age five men told me that if I would not marry them they would drown themselves.” “And did they?” "Not one of them. They all got married—and the only one of them that ever told me he meant the threat 1 was my husband. He said he wished he had carried it out.”

Looking Forward.

Sound a tattooo on the drum, Bring the cracker and the bomb— Show how much you love your land. And you soon may have a hand Shy two fingers and a thumb.

Speed Is Necessary.

"I tell you,” sighs the returned tourist, “money goeß mighty fast in New York.” ‘lt has to,” responds the man’ with the iridescent whiskers. “Jt has to, if it goes any distance. There’s a million people grabbing for It as Mon as it start*.”