Greenfield Evening Republican, Greenfield, Hancock County, 16 May 1895 — Page 4

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And Still Another Invoice.

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This week, with the promise of more next week.

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ONE GIVES RELIEF.

SEPARATION.

Life in a lull and chill abeyance stands, Beloved, when thou urt {.'one. Frozen beneath the winter's Viands,

I watch the days creep oil.

Today, among the willows, cold and curlcd, A bird Sims of the springCome, for my heart waits, too, as all tlio world,

Breathless, it:? blossoming. —Dorothea Lriimmiss in Kate Field's Wabli.ny ton.

IX THE GIIEEXHOOJI.

Ono evening at the Odeon, when they were playing the "Depit Amoureux" as a curtain raiser, and tho beautiful Sophie Cherubin, who personated Marinette, was still on the stage, Fabrec— you know, perfectly well, Fabrec, tho deputy with the golden beard who has so young an air despito his 40 years— half opened the door of the dressing room without knocking and called out, "Cuckoo!"

Ho was not a little disappointed to find the dressing room empty. Then Constance, the old dresser, came out from behind the screen: "If monsieur will have the goodness to be seated, madame will return in five minutes."

Fabrec let himself drop into a tapestried armchair, crossed his legs, tapped his patent leather boots with tho tip of his cane and lost himself in reflections, while tho old woman arranged the little things on the dressing table.

After all, for what had he come here? Not from love. Hardly from desire. Ono day, when ho had urged his claims, she had said to him, with a show of reason: "Listen, Fabrec. You are very nice, but I have 40,000 francs of debts, and for you tho beautiful days of Panama are finished. Come here to gossip when you will, but we will never be other than good comrades." Frankly she was right. Nevertheless an attraction drew him always in that direction, content to obtain here and there little privileges. He amused himself near this woman of a profession so beautiful and gay and laughed heartily at her sallies of wit and cynicism, and then again it was necessary to kill time. While meditating Fabrec regardod mechanically the dresser and was brusquely dragged from his reverie by the face of the littlo old woman that he saw reflected in tho glass. What a ruin! What heart breaking ugliness! Dry as a stick, wrinkled as a winter apple, scanty hair tho color of ashes and eyes like the dead. To think she had been a woman, perhaps pretty, doubtless loved I

She ought to bo 65 years old, and Fabrec, who was kind hoartod, pitied this lamentable old woman working until the end. He felt also a disgust to see this sorceress in her shabby black touching tho laces, tho silver brushos, the blond tortoiso shell combs and all the delic.ate and perfumed objects de luxe which shone on the dressing table of the actress. Suddenly the door opened, and Sophie Cherubin appeared with a rose in her hair. The beautiful brune was as fresh a botiquet and sparkling with youth, beauty and the pretenso of effrontery. "Ah, Fabrec," cried she joyously, "you have come just in time. Wo are going to givo a littlo farce at a benefit at the Gaite. They will call for us soon, but in the meantime we will talk while Constance prepares my things. Sit down and bo good."

The dresser had already passed behind the screen. They joked, and, according to her wont, Sophie began to tease tho handsome deputy about the number of his successes in the theatrical world. Was it still true his devotion to the singer at the Nouveauto's? But Fabrec was discreet. The veritable lady's man is always so, because ho loves women for themselves and not from silly vanity. To Sophie's questions ho responded only by pleasantries, admitting nothing.

Sho became a littlo vexed. How suspicious he was! Truly? She had never been able to make him recount ono of his successcs behind tho scenes—not ono! "Eh bien, ma chere," responded Fabrec, smiling, "sinceyou aro so tenacious on this point I am going to tell you about my first passion." "For an actress?" "Yes, only I warn you it did not happen in tho Rue de Richelieu and the heroine was not a societaire. I was 19 years old, I had just begun my law studies, but I was naif and timid. Ono evening I went to tho little theater ot the Gobelins, where I was overcome with love for tho young premiere, Blanche Lilas, the moment she appeared on the stage. Was she young? Was she pretty? I ask myself today when I know that tho beauty of an actress may disappear with some cold cream and two towels, and that ingenues generally have a son who is a lieutenant of cavalry or a sous prefet. But then Mile. Blanche Lilas appeared to me th£ most fascinating of women. I no longer lived but to dream of her and then to admire her upon tho boards of the Gobelins, the Montparnasse or Grenelle—for the troop moved about. I sold all my old books to the stallkeoper in tho Rue Cujas, and thanks to Blanche Lilas I know all the plays of that day. Ah, she was charming in Polder! She is the only woman for whom I have ever made verses. They were execrable, but sincere, and I have never understood how I had tho audacity to send them to her. The vacation was spent with my family in the country. I passed it counting tho days, and when I returned to Paris I ran to the Gobelins, then to Montparnasse, then to Grenelle. Tho name of my idol did not figure upon one of the posters. The anxiety, the frightful anxiety, that I felt gave me tho courage to enter the theater and make inquiries, when I found that Mile. Blanche Lilas had not been re-en-gaged, and that they did not know what had become of her. Eh bien, ma chere amie, believe me, if you will, that that day I felt the most miserable, the most bitter grief of love, and for long months I was not consoled." "And is that all?" asked the comedienne.

"Without doubt." "Fabrec, you aro a hoaxer, and you nock 1110 with your souvenirs of your student days"—

Suddenly the comedienne's maid interrupted them, saying: "Madame, madame, the monsieurs and the ladies are getting into the carriages They are waiting only for you. And the voice of the manager was heard up the stairway: "Mile. Cherubin! Quick! Wo are late!"

In a moment the waiting woman had enveloped Sophie in her furs, taken the packages from the hands of the dresser, and the two women had flown away with an "An revoir, Fabrec," from the actress.

The deputy was about to start in his turn when old Constance approached him, and lifting her face full of misery murmured timidly: "Monsieur?" "Hein? What, my good woman?" "I have a request to make of you. Voila, I am ill. I no longer have my health, and it is with difficulty I do my work. I would like to bo admitted into a hospital for incurables." "Very well, tho next time I come you can give me a note," responded Fabrec absently.

But the dresser had not finished. "And then, monsieur, there is a thing which will perhaps interest you further. I havo heard everything when you were talking with madam. I am Blanche Lilas."

Fabrec made an involuntary exclamation and recoiled a step. Blanche Lilas! Blanche Lilas so horrible an old beggar, with the faco of a death mask, he cried nervously, almost fearfully: "How old aro you, then?"

Tho old woman smiled pitifully: "Not so old as 1 appear, it is true. I havo had so much misfortune," sho groaned. "I am now (2, and I was already 41 years old when you first saw me. One cannot judge of tho ago of an actress from tho stalls, as you said a moment ago, but that did not prevent my receiving my dismissal that very year because they found me too old. Misery followed immediate]}'. Three months after leaving the theater I was working in a kitchen. Not very long after that an old friend who plays the dolard hero got me this place of dresser. But I am at tho end of my strength. There is nothing but a hospital that will pleaso me now. My request is to the public assistance. You can ask in my real name, Constance Poireau. And since in tiie days, monsieur, you have paid me attention"—

Sho stopped, as though ashamed, as though fearing to displease in insisting upon this souvenir to the man whoso aid she solicited. Happily for her he was kind hearted. "I will go. I will go tomorrow," said he in a voice that trembled a little. "Rest assured I will strike the ofiicers of the hospitals and put fire under their stomachs. And if for tho moment"— his fingers were at his pocket hole—"I can be useful"—

She made a dignified gesture of refusal. "Thank you, monsieur, all that I desire is to enter the hospital. There with my little annuity from the Society of Artists I will be perfectly happy."

With a cordial movement beforo quitting her ho extended his hand. "\V hen Bho had put her own wrinkled and dry hand in his, ho could not repress a shudder to think that 20 years beforo he would have cried with joy if he had been able to depose upon that same hand his timid kiss of adolesconce.—Froiji the French of Francois Coppee

Reached tlie Point ftt Last.

It takes soiiio persons a long time to como to the point of a story. They are lacking in that quality which newspaper men term "news sense," or, in other words, they do not appreciate the valuo of giving prominence to the important factor of their information.

It was such a ono as this, a Pennsylvania Dutchman, by the way, who participated in a brief dialogue with a newspaper correspondent 0110 day last summer. Tho man had been sent on a long journey to obtain some information and eventually brought up at a house which proved to bo vacant.

Proceeding to the house of tho nearest neighbor, tho Dutchman, I10 asked: "Can you toll me wliero I can find Jano Smith? She's not at homo?" "Noin, Chano's nod ad home." "Well, wliero is sho?" "She's gone the cemetery down." "Can you tell mo wliero tho cemetery is? But novor mind. Perhaps you know when she'll como back?" "Oh, sho won't como back already anymore." "Why?" 'Causo she's gone to stay. She's detl"—Now York Herald.

Fooling tlie Busy Bee.

Mock bees and spiders! A writer shows that some flowers form a striking exception to the rule of cross fertilization. The boo ami fly orchids, for example, which would bo much luoro commonly seen 011 our English chalk downs but for the ravages of greedy collectors, fertilize themselves ami do not want to be bothered by buzzing boos and flies. So a cunning device has been rosorted to. No bee will onter a flower in which another bee is already at work. Therefore to protect tho entranco the lip is enlarged into a process exactly resembling tho hind quarters of a beo (in the fly orchid it resembles a largo fly). To tho spider orchids, anothor British spocies, it seems to havo occurred how a still more trying shock might bo administered to tho nerves of troublesome insects, so it displays in its orifico the likeness of a largo spider. London News.

Revenge.

Customer—Waiter, what is there for dinner today? Waiter (under notice to leave)—Oh, tbo 8.11110 as usual—tough steaks, leathory fowls, sinewy beef and flavorless mutton. —London Tit-Bits.

THE POETRY OF LABOR.

A Ficturrsque Side to the Operations of Iloilmeri ami ISricklayers.

Ono realizes the dignity and especially the poetry of labor and catches the meaning of some things that Walt Whitman has said by watching the workers of this town on a bright, cool March morning. The word blithe seems to convey the aspect of the scene, it is so full ot sunshine and motion and \vhol some activity. There is a great structure rising 011 a west side numbered street, and it is so situated that tho morning sun floods the whole plot soon to bo inclosed by the rising walls. That sunlit parallelogram presents a most delightful scene to the sympathetic eye. Only the front wall and tho side party walls have as yet risen above the foundations, so that the whole interior is visiblo from the rear. What one sees 011 the ground is mainly tho preparation for what is going on where the walls rise. There are men mixing mortar with long push and pull motions of tho arms and back. There aro hod carriers hastening in unordered scurry for bricks and mortar at tho center of tho inclosure and then moving in orderly file toward tho several walls. There aro men hero and there plying hammers to make ready ladders and scaffolding against the tie when tho walls shall havo risen too high for tho approaches already provided.

As the hod carriers laboriously climb the ladders one notes that they aro clad in blue jumpers, in overalls of fine color or another, in the rude reddish hats that men of their calling often wear. Now and then a stripe of red flannel shirt shows at the waist. Tho figures aro heavy and slow tin tho upward journey, but nimble enough on the way flown. You may recngni/.e anew hand by his caro and awkwardness. His muscles are not yet trained to mechanical certainty, and I10 moves with caution. One can almost guess the ago of those shabby figures as they move up and flown tin: ladders, never pausing, never shirking, always bearing upon calloused .-houldern tho full tale of bricks or the full weight of mortar. They fill their hods with al

most

incredible swiftness ami fairly fali over 0110 another to roach tho brick pile first. But the steadying effect of tho load is shown in tho orderly march of the upward moving hodmen. One realizes that hard times have disciplined tho men into giving a full and conscientious day's work for their pay.

Even iiOO feet away ono seems to note the differenco of dress, movement and manner between tho skilled workmon laying the bricks and the unskilled hod carriers. Tho former are neatly dressed for the most part in whole white overalls. They move about their work easily and gracefully with quick, deft hands. Almost no sound comes from the walls save tho metallic ring and scrape of the trowel and the tap of its handle upon the brick just set in its bed of dark brown mortar. Now and then an indistinguishable word of direction floats downward from the last course of bricks. The hodmen are equally silent. It is a pantomino of busy labor, almost rhythmic in its movements. The whoso scene is full of silent grace, and not without tho charm of color so often missing from human activities in America. In eloquent testimony to the effectiveness of the work rise tho so far finished walls, with clean right lines, horizontal and vertical, smooth plane surfaces and tho serried teeth of the brick arches, with tho charm of curvos never to be destroyed, 110 matter how rough the material of tho structure.—Now York Sun.

No More Slashing.

It is a noteworthy fact that tho rapidly increasing number of new books, not of poetry only, at the present hour is accompanied by a diminution, not an increase, of critical severity. Ono would have supposed that at such a period— when, to adapt the proverb of tho wood and the trees, ono can hardly seo literature for the books—tho critical standard would rise that tho critic would show himself more, not less, exacting and would bo more careful, in tlie interest of tho reader, to emphasize the distinction between tho excellent and tho mediocre.

Yet

110

Now, as I havo said, no one wishes for a return of the criticism called slashing, but what I do think the intelligent reader often sighs for is sonio criticism that may be called discriminating, and if the valuo of such in literature of whatevor kind is groat it is surely groatest where the literature in question is poetry, in which Horace has told us— and the cultivated sense of mankind haf ratified his words—"mediocrity is not admissible. "—Macniillan's Magazino.

The Stoiim Engine.

Tho steam engino is today tho mos« reliable prime mover available. Its design has been tho subject of years of study and experiment by the best engineers that tho world lias ever produced. Its manufacture has given employment to tho best artisans. Capital in almost unlimited quantities has united in providing facilities in the way of convenient buildings and well finished tools for its construction. No machino turned out by man has, in fact, received Iroator attontion in design, or higher skill iu producing, than the steam engine.—Cassier's Magazine.

DON'T

one can read r.uioh of tho cur

rent periodical critioism v. ithout noting that iC is rather the opposite tliat is happening. While it is an obvious and undeniable fact that tho manufacture of books, as distinguished from authorship, exists on an enormous scale, yet apparently tho average critic becomes moro easy to please, not less, than of old, as if ho cried in sheer despair to tho makers of books, "Well, if you can't rise to my standard, I must come flown to yours, and hardly six months pass without some prose romance appearing, by some fresh writer, and being received with such a chorus of welcome and such hecatombs of praise as (to borrow Macaulay's phrase) would require some modification if applied to tho masterpieces of Walter Scott—to "Old Mortality" or "Tho Heart of Midlothian."

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