Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 15 August 1897 — Page 15

THE OLD LADY. This was a quiet street. Having just seven cocks and only one music teacher, it was amazingly peaceable. The milkman shouted along it softly and the green grocers durst not yell; tnere were no bad little boys in the gutter,, and the omnibusses skirted the corner only. At 9 a. in. a clock panic spread from house to house, and clerks who had been lazy bounced up suddenly, slammed the door and flew madly tralnward. After which all was calm. There were several cards up in the street. No. 16 had “Board and Residence’’ elegantly in the window, and its lady was putting on her evening blouse. No. IS, next door, said merely “Board and Bodging,” and its tenant was in the kitchen grilling the high tea chops. The table was set for eight in No. 16, with napkins cocked mitrewise and a maidenhair in the middle, whose longest fronds shone greasy after dipping into yesterday's soup; for ten In its humbkr neighbor, with ablue and gilt cruet stand placed in the center. Over the way, in No. 15, the table was laid for one. The sun slanted a little lower and stared in the weak eyee of returning clerks. No. 16 had pinned her blouse suitably and was rustling down the stair. No. 14, red in ike face, was shaking the pepper castor, but No. 15 sat up in her bedroom in front of a looking glass. ****** “Do you flourish, Frances?” The visitor had come from much grander regions, and had just said she had met with fewer difficulties in getting to Jerusalem last year than In finding this little street. She looked much too big for the small room that she sat in, and her voice, though hearty, held a little doubt. Frances O’Rell sat on the floor and looked up at her caller. “I have no boarders to see this impropriety,” she said; “and it is so comfortable.” Then, “Oh, Kathie, business is very bad.” “How is that? Do you starve your people, or do you let them wax fat and kick? Or do you not get any? Your neighbors do very well.” She was looking out over the top of the window fern, and remarking the clash of the opposite gates, and the heads bobbing up the steps. Then she turned, put her hands squarely on her knees, and looked down upon Frances sitting on the rug. “You dear little Irish soul, you have al| the courage in the world, and none of the luck. Give in, now, won’t you, and come back sensibly to your brother and the rest of us?” But Frances shook her head. "I can’t get on with his third wife,” she said. "I bore with the first, and I just endured the second, but this one I cannot stand. So I have gone into business, and I will never strike my colors.” “You are a plucky goose,” said the visitor. “But I will tell you why you don’t succeed. Oh, I have seen your neighbors at their windows. One is a jolly old thing of fifty, who could quite well tuck up her boarders In their beds. The other is skinny and impressive. Both look responsible, and both wear caps. You aren't motherly, my Frances, and you are much too young.” "I am as old as the hills,” said Miss O'Kell, getting up from the tloor and seeking dignity, “and 1 only take in ladies.” Her visitor laughed. "Oh,” she *id; "then you don't look your age. Honestly, Frances, your wild black hair is terribly against you. People require gray hairs, I know they do; and have no confidence in any color. Didn’t the old woman in Ireland call your hair a 'devil’s glory,’ and do you expect to see paying f uests crowd round such an aureole? Well, suppose I must be trotting. Believe me, my dear, you won’t succeed with those crazy raven locks.” She departed, looking oddly up and down at the queer snug houses. And when she was quite gone Frances O'Rell went solemnly upstairs and sat down in front of her looking glass. “It is true,” she said, “it frightens them all away. They want an elderly person, and 1 am very elderly, but my hair deceives them. I am old, old, old, and my heart is fray with trouble, but my hair keeps black, t is a fraud!” She pressed her face closer to the glass. It was a small, thin face that looked pinched indeed as the color faded; but the wild rim of hair was as dark as it had ever beon when cheeks were red and pulses had gone quicker. There was no single gray hair to be found in those black meshes. Any old maid having such hair might be triumphant. But Frances had taken a great dislike to the dark hair she had been proud of long ago. “I am thirty-eight,” she said. “My mother had coal-black hair at sixty. Nobody sees my poor face, and the wrinkles that must be there, because of this hair of mine. When my heart was broken with sorrow, when the long months and the years that came after found me crushed and miserable could they not blanch my hair? Why can’t I look as old and as trouble-worn as 1 feel?” She twisted her hands nervously In and out. It was maddening. She haa departed proudly from her brother’s house and the third new wife. She had gone witn her head In the air, proof against the unlikelihood of business prospering, and determined, in herself, never to go meekly back. Three answers had come to her last advertisement. The applicants came in person, and envious glances had been shot through the curtains opposite. But when they looked her over—ostensibly the rooms, but she saw the corners of their eyes—she had felt disapproval in their looks. The air was unsuitable, they said—relaxing. And one was 6een later knocking across the way. “Oh. what a mockery it is!” cried Frances. “There is no chance for me. Powder? What powder would stick on this hair of mine? Oh I wish 1 were bald entirely!” She went off on a sad walk around the premises. There were no hot-water jugs outside the doors and no paying guests inside them. The three old ladies she had started with could no longer be heard disputing shrilly; there were marks on tne stairs and in the passage where their boxes had bumped in being taken down. For the whole first day after their departure Frances had rejoiced in unusual peace. Now she had begun to feel desperate. Opposite, the two neighbors were presiding at their tables; one at dinner and one at high tea. The staid, capped heads were clearly visible, and the many other profitable heads. Frances sat down at her solitary table and looked out of the window’. She could not eat, but her mind was busy. Oh, that horrid black hair of hers! It had never brought her luck.

• •*••* The morning post brought hopeful letters; but when the writers saw her they would change their minds. She knew it. She looked out. It was raining fast, and the city men were putting on waterproofs. The water dripped on the small iron gates, vetting the rust upon them. Those clerks who had their gloves on looked disgust'd as they let the gates slam and saw their fingers. Umbrellas blew about and mackintoshes flapped aeainst wearers’ tegs. It was a miserable morning. Over the way this weather did not matter; only it was unnecessary to do the steps. No. 16 was settling about the dinner. No. 14 was helping to make the beds. But Frances O’Bell had nothing whatever to do. The house smelt empty. Every little sound, even the footfall of the cat going sadly up and down, was quite distinct. Doors creaked and windows tattled, and the stair rail felt ciammy. The householder could not bear it any longer. She put. on a waterproof and boots and a shabby little hat, and took her lonely umbrella from the stand. Then she went out into the rain. At the street corner she found an omnibus splashing round for a st;y:t. The inside was not full, but there were babies, stormy baiiles in it, so she climbed upon the top, holding on to the dripping rail, and very sorry for her skirts. The tarpaulins had not been properly looped, and the seats were wet and slippery; but she sat down, tilted her umbrella and stared in front of her. There Is nothing like rain for washing out unhappiness. Sunshine never truly helps heartache, only making the reddened eyes xche too and laughing mockery in one’s face. Rain does not jar. ami stings one quickly into a oraver mood. The big drops that are not salt bring a freshness that beats off despondency. When Frances had sat ten minutes in the rain on the om-nibus-top her eyes were brighter and her cheeks were red. while wet diamonds glistened in her hair. She liked rain, and slanted her umbrella to let It come smartly in her face; looking like a girl revelling, as girls are wont, in what older people shun. There was a block in the Strand, and she sat forward, seeing it gloriously from her high seat. Wet strands of her hair blew about her face and bothered her, getting in her eys. That only made her cheeks the ruddier, giving her a more girlish look. A good many hansoms were blocked in near the ’bus. One elderly gentleman, with square soldler-shouklera and a graj mustache. leaned out of a hansom suddenly. His look was eager, fixed on a little figure perched on high. He seemed on the point of getting out and making a boyish rush among the horses’ heads and wheels. But a hasty glimpse of himself In the narrow looking-glasses stopped him. He sat back and followed that figure with his eyes only, there was despair in them. The block broke up. and with a slow caution in their moving the big omnibuses

struggled on. The soldier spoke gruffly through the roof, and tiff? hansom turned. He had been going to look up old friends. He would not now. Frances reached her ride's end and scrambled down to the mud. She left the fresh rain, and couragv. too, behind, and went soberly into an agent’s moldy office. There was cold comfort for her there. The agent, a “madame.” who was very stout—possibly that there might be a great deal of her for people to rely on—looked up dubiously and smoothed her sleek hair away flatly from the parting. Frances sat down anxiously, and listened to some speeches. "Are you doing your best for me?” she askv and. The agent was offended. “Mesdames” are touchy. “So much so. Miss O’Rell, that I have had several complaints from ladies whom I have recommended to call on you. They have Reproached me with sending them to — to —to so obviously unsuitable a person.” “Oh!” said Frances. “Unfortunately your appearance 1s that—is not—such as people generally ” said madame, floundering more because of her client's excited face than because she was speaking plainly. “I understand,” said Frances bitterly. She got up as she spoke, and her black hair looked wilder than usual. "I am not venerable.” Then she departed and stood blankly In the street for a moment. People do generally pause on doorsteps to put up th’eir umbrellas, but she forgot to open hers. “It is no good,” she said, catching sight of herself in a shop window, rain Hushed, disorderly. She, thirty-eight. She took one or two objectless, hopeless steps to nowhere. Then a sudden idea seized her. With the Impetuousness of her hasty nation she made up her mind, turned, opened her umbrella and hurried up the street. She did not think, she certainly did not pause to consider what she was about to do. Proceeding along the pavement rapidly, with some disregard for other people, and her mind eagerly full of her own affairs and that bright idea, she charged through the rain. Half down the Strand the spikes of her umbrella dabbed Into somebody, and she raised it hastily. Not even looking to see if the big person she had collided with was damaged, she passed quickly on, a vision of black, untidy hair, bright cheeks and shining eyes; then only a short blue skirt and an umbrella. The person she had run into stood still and looked after her till the last glimpse of her was sw r allowed up. He tugged at his grizzled mustache and sighed, then stalked sadly on his way. Frances shot on, unheeding. She stopped at last, and went into an unpretentious little shop, smelling like a hairdresser’s, hut not ostensibly such. She bent over the counter and spoke a few incoherent words. But the man seemeifkto understand; there was no need to put her desire more clearly. ****** “Golden or auburn. Miss?” he said. “I am a fool,” eriel Colonel Williamson. The night had closed in and hidden the rain, but no blinds could shut out the drip ami patter. It was a melancholy sound, and it fitted in with the colonel's thoughts. He was not at his club, not having fallen into home ways yet. He was sitting at his hotel thinking. Poor colonel; his story w’as not a happy one, apart from the regiment, its fights and glories. It was a common story, often told in novels and perpetually available by penny novelettes. A young subaltern packed off to India; a girl at home—and writing on either side forbidden. The passing—hopeful eiiough—of a year or two. Then a wedding in the papers, and headlong forgetfulness by one breathless reader of the unimportant she-eousin whose name resembled one. The usual story-helping misunderstanding, the usual lapse of years, and then—discovery. Colonel Williamson was gray when he sailed for home. India and—circumstances, age a man. But a leap of romantic expectation came to him when he heard of somebody still single. He dared sometimes to dream of a graver, sadder face than had visited his dreams once, and then left a nightmare gap through years—of somebody whose wild spirits were gone by this, and in whose subdued affections he might awaken love. That dream lasted out the voyage and brought him to town. And then—“l am a fool ” he said grimly. “I might have known she could never grow old as I did. Would she not laugh in my face if I dared to show myself, claiming recollection for—a lover? I am old now, and she is as young as ever. I dare not go to her with this bitterness of difference between us. Let mo stick to a dream that may brighten my lonely life, but never shatter it by trying to prove it true. Oh, Frances, after all theso years the same; while I—” Colonel Williamson dropped his head upon his hands. It grew very dark.

11. “She Is a dear old lady, Phyllis!” “I think the nicest thing possible is an old lady who is Irish!” “Oh, girls, she is a duck!” They were art students, and there w r ere seven of them; but as they all spoke at once you .could only hear the loudest. The seventh and latest comer was being helped in the disposal of her belongings, and having her photographs stuck up and talked about. Just then the bed was creaking under the six, who were giving her informatioji. “She is delightful—and never preaches.” "But looks so venerable. Papa was charmed with her." “She isn’t prim, you know.” “One wants to hug her.” “We all do, badly.” “Need you shout?” said the latest comer. •They all dropped their voices and got gradually off the bed, when some of them smoothed the sheet and the others subsided on the floor. The old lady they were praising happened to be down stairs entertaining a visitor. It the noise had not been so great the girls might have heard a shriek as that visitor stepped in. “Oh, what have you done to yourself?” she had screamed. The old lady shut the door, leaning against it, and began to laugh. She had a neat little figure and a nice pale sac of those faces in which people see a history jnd at which they like to look. Her hair was as white as snow. “I have done all that in me lay,” she said. The visitor seemed horror-struck. Her eyes were round and her mouth wdde open. Sne threw up her hands and backed against the piano. "Your beautiful hair,” she said. “Oh, Frances, Frances—is it powder?” The oid lady shook her head and no white cloud followed. "It was a ‘devil's glory,’ ” said she. “It brought me bad luck. I have had it bleached, and now I prosper.” The caller sank into a chair and groaned. From overhead came a gust of young women's voices, all together. “Listen to them,” said Frances O’Rell, pointing solemnly to the ceiling. "You know quite well that they would not be under my roof and wing if I looked as I used to do. And you know that my black wisps were a detestable fraud. It is only because I am Irish tfiat there is a bubble on the top, and nobody understands that my heart is drowned. And I might be sixty; 1 am so old. so old at heart, Kathie; it is only on top that I laugh a little. My hair should have turned gray long ago. It is a fraud no longer.” “Has your brother seen it?” asked the visitor, who could not get over the shock so soon. Frances was right about the bubble. A spot of color came to her pale face, and she struck her hands together, laughing like one of the girls upstairs. "Oh, no!” she cried. “How he w’ould stare. He would be terribly shocked. Oh, thank you, Kathie, for the idea, i will go to-morrow and show myself.” She saw her still gasping caller to the door, and then rang her small family dow’r. to tea. They treated her with adoring deference as a dear old thing, while she sat, ail dignity, behind the teapot. Then she went upstairs to see that the newcomer's room was all in order. She glanced at the pinned and propped-up photographs, and smiled upon seeing one that had been pushed behind something, most likely escaping notice from the mqpers, who had sat on the still rumpled h’ed and Inspected the rest. Frances looked at the half-hidden photograph and sighed. Then she patted the pillow with a kind little touch, smoothed the countvrpane and went away. But she did not go downstairs; instead, she turned into her own small room. She hid a photograph, too, one that she had kept out of sight and tried to forget entirely. Lately she had bevn forgetting it; at least, she thought so. She took it out now. softly, as one touches a dead thing. Tied up with it ware two little twists of hair, one brown, one very black. Pulling loos’e a white strand of her own, she laid the end beside these others, as site bent over them, and sighed again, as any old lady might at a relic of the past. “1 aiu another jterson now, ’ she said. “I am old. and th’ose things are dim and distant. it is easier to feel that then it used to be. 1 have only to look in the glass and see things plainly, instead of just thinking them. It is harder to be placid when only the heart is gray. I am old, old, old; thVy believe me now; and. 1 believe myself. And—to-morrow I shall astonish Tom!” ****** The omnibus conductor put out his hand—an old lady could not jump in while the 'bus was going. He stood with his back against the stair, and pushed ner thoughtfully inside; then waited for a little, be-

THE US 1)1 AMAUOLiS JOURNAL, SUNDAY, AUGUST 15, 1897.

cause old ladles are nervous and fumble about, for th‘ ir purses—u.-uilly. She dress* and In an antiquated style, and her hair was snowy w hite. But a ripple'went around her mouth as she sat down. “Some old folks keep their ’arts green.” said the conductor to himseif. He helped her out at the proper time, and saw that she reached the pavement. Her walk was quicker than one would have thought as she started along the street. She was laughing to herself. The idea of her brother's horrified countenance, of his wife's shrill consternation was very funny. It was a great street she was in; far down it she could see the pillars sticking out pompously from her brother’s door. His house was the stiffest and most pretentious, and he resembled it himself. Frances slackened her pace, and enjoyed the anticipation of what would take place when she reached that door. She was close to the first broad pillar now and she looked comically up and down before passing under it. There were a great many people walking by. But one, much taller, making them look midgets, was slowly going past, gazing curiously up at tho house windows. Frances noticed him, standing below the pillar; looked closer—and then started, with a short cry that made the stranger glance down from these high windows. Then he. too, started. They stood facing each other for a moment. Colonel Williamson looked as if he had seen a ghost; and she—she was gasping piteously. “Is it you? Is it you. indeed? ” he cried. His astonished look struck her bitterly. She put out her hands, but not to take his — w’hich he was too amazed to offer—only to keep him off. “I am In a hurry. Please”—she said incoherently; and as he still stood blankly, she darted into the passing crowd and disappeared. ' He did not follow her; he was too stupefied. Frances rushed out on to the curb and waved her umbrella. An omnibus stopped, and the conductor got out to help in the old lady. She seemed very feeble. When she was safely in she looked out of the window. Colonel Williamson was still standing there. Then the ’bus drove off. * * * * * * The seven art students had come in when Frances got back. They saw her from the window, and opened the door tumultuously and anxiously. Being nice girls they noticed things quickly, and saw she was upset. “Were you run over, poor old thing?’’ “Did you hurrv after a tram?” “Did anybody”— “I am tired," said Frances, and went quietly upstairs. They sat together on the sofa, and talked about the poor, dear old lady. But Frances locked her door, and flung herself down in a storm of sobbing. Once she rose up and looked at herself in the glass. “Oh, my poor hair! Oh. I was mad!” she said. “I have made an old woman of myself. and still—after all the years and the sorrow—my heart is young!” Then she flung herself down again, and long, white clouds of hair came loose and fell over her. She pushed them away with sudden horror and sobbed on into the dusk.

111. There was no awakening for Frances in the morning. She had never slept. The smooth black gown of yesterday layon a chair. She could not bear to put it on, but pushed through the old-maidish garments hanging up till she reached a rough blue serge that she had not worn since—the change in her looks. For it was not a suitable frock for an old lady. She put it on now and looked around helplessly; she had forgotten to do her hair. As the glass brought her face to face with the lusterless white strands she shuddered. Her fingers trembled as she twisted it all into a tight knot at the back, leaving as little as she could to frame her poor miserable face. There w r as an old portrait of herself upon the wall; it was reflected in the glass beside her —as she was. She shuddered again and turned away; she was an old woman. She had never truly understood what that was—till notv. ****** The art students hurried off. nodding gayly to her and whispering that the old lady was looking funny, as is she were going cracked. Frances tried to begin dusting the drawing room, but in when, lifting the vases on the ehimneypiece, she saw herself in the glass. She dropped the vase and the duster and wrung her hands. It was no good. She could think of nothing, nothing but yesterday’s awful meeting, the colonel’s sacred look and her own dismay. It was terrible how young she felt after that sudden shattering of forgetfulness. And oh. the bitter pain of feeling young, and seeing- one’s self—thus! Taking up her duster, she tried to go on calmly. She rubbed tl. , , r legs industriously and put the cushions cornerwise. Then she arrived at the window, and a table with many little birthday books and pen wipers. Dusting them slowly, she stared blankly further out into the empty street. Somebody was marching by with a quick, soldierly step. Frances could not get any breath. She clasped her nands and leaned forward to the window. Could it be? The knocker fell. ****** As it was early the one servant was not presentable. She squinted sideways up the area and saw a pair of superfine trousers; so she would not go as she was. It took a long time to get off some smuts and tie on a cleaner apron; then her cap fluttered into the fender while she took another glimpse through the area railings, and she had to seek another. All this time Frances stood still with clasped hands and waited. Her heart might beat steadier. It was very kind of him. After the first shock, tho first—“ls it possible?—that had made him speechless, he had probably called on Tom. And then, remembering how uncourteously thunderstruck he had been, he had inquired her address and was come to apologize and talk calmly about that past which would seem so very distant and safe to talk of when he looked on her. Perhaps he would explain those bitter years when she had waited vainly by some airy phrase as “Out of sight, out of mind.” “You remember our young days, Miss O’Rell,” he would likely say, and talk it all over as a good, half-forgotten joke. That would be natural. But could she bear it?” The knocker fell again, louder and imperatively. Oh, if she could escape; she, poor old woman, with a girl’s aching heart. Could she not run upstairs—there was barely time —and say she was ill? Then he would leave his card and go, and feel that he had done duty amply by his old love. Was she too weak to fly? Tho door was opened then, and there was no fleeing across the passage. He came in and she put out her hand. She had to do that, of course. There was a bright color in her cheek, not of hope, but of agitation. The soft white hair beyond looking quaint not unbecoming. But the Irish eyes were as dark as ever. Colonel Williamson held that hand tightly In both his own. He was changed, too. But in her *yes so little. Gray, thin, perhaps, but himself always. While she . Now for the bitter pain of obsolete recollections. "Frances!” ****** “Do you know- I saw som’e one I took to be you when I first came home,” said the colonel by and by. “But it was you just as I left you. half a life ago. and \ dared not show myself, a broken-down old soldier. I w-as afraid. So I said 1 would, go abroad, and I took my passage somewhere. I said I would w-alk past your old home once more, just for good-bye. And then I saw you, Frances, you yourself, and I thought it was a ghost.” “And then?” said Frances eagerly. “Then,” said tire colonel, “I thanked God that you and I had grown old together, and that I dared come to you.” “But,” began Frances with a quiver in her voice, while their hands Lightened on each other, “would you never have come to me If you had still thought—if you had not seen me yesterday?” “I should not have dared,” answered Colonel Williamson. Then Frances stood up and looked in tire glass at the cloud-white hair framing lar bright face. Her eyes were dancing. She smoothed it quite tenderly ind she told its story, clasping her old lover’s hand. It had brought her luck. —Temple Bar. American ns Slie Is Spoke. Illustrated American. The indifferent English that prevails among persons of education is deeply deplorable. Conversation is slipshod and trips lightly over grammatical mistakes. Perhaps a musical voice or a convincing delhery makes faults less apparent, but those same solecisms put into print are laughable. A fault which is not confined to 1.•cality nor to persons of indifferent breeding is to say “Ha don’t” for "He doesn't.” or the plural negative of “do” in place of the singular. “He don't want to," “She don’t like him.” “It don't matter,” are phrases heard too often from lips that know- better. While on the subject of singular and plural verbs it might be well to jog the elbows of those who say “If I was” (subjunctive) instead of “If I were.” The Englishman notices almost immediately our careless eliding of ‘ h" when it is the initial of a pronoun which follows a word ending with a consonant sound, as In “Let Mm take Ms nan.” The person who earofully and consistently avoids this fault adds much to the elegance of his speech, but is so -.eldom found that his correctness is regarded ilmost as an individual peculiarity. “Tin-re were several there" is a redundancy which is common both in print and In conversation. It would be far simpler to say, “Several were there.”

INVULNERABLE. A Story of n Hero of Battles. Told hj an Old Russian Soldier. Let me conjure his image before my mind once more. Let me recall him as he was when a child rolling in the sand with me; as he looked when a gun was placed in his hand and the command “Forward!” was given, ur.d as he appeared when he grew old with me and left me far behind him. He was a general and Ia private soldier. Never had the Russian army possessed so brave a man. and it will never have his Ike again. Long w-ill he be praised ere another comes who will make his name forgotten. Surely you can think of it. We were both youths when Muraviefs attack was repelled. But hush! I’ve said nothing. Children, don’t ask who this Muravief was. You need not know. Enough that he lived, died, and was forgotten. At that time a pestilence was raging throughout the vast kingdom of the Czar, more destructive than the cholera, more ccntagious than typhus fever, but fortunately easier to cure, much easier. We, too, were attacked by the disease; we, too, were easily, very easily, cured of it. The s!ckness begins with a strange condition of the mind; the blood seems heated and the breathing becomes oppressed; everytl ing appears in a different light; one is dissatisfied with the existing order of things, longs for impossibilities and has singular notions. Just think of it; our disease consisted in being discontented with the course of affairs in the Holy Russian empire, and wanting all men to be equal, the master no better than his servant! Heaven protect you from such a malady! When it began to appear in the country it spread through all the provinces in less than a month, for it flies more swiftly than any other pestilence, and had not the wise rulers of the country taken it in time, it would have swept the whole empire away. But they opposed it with power and w isdom. Whoever was too much affected by the disease was cured by fire and steel; others in whom the malady was less deeply seated were placed behind solid walls that they might not infect otners, and those in whom the sickness had not yet broken out, but— Nihilism is the disease 1 mean—merely showed symptoms ot it, were formed into special regiments and sent to Oran, to Astrachan, even to the icy coasts of Abi, and to cold Kamschatka. Alter they were transferred to these cold regions their pulses were felt to see if they yet throbbed regularly. In most cases the cure was effected. But who can understand such disease? After years, or even decades, it is liable to break out again; just as hydrophobia may appear after nine day 4 s, nine weeks or nine years, so this disease is hard to get rid of. I know this of my own experience. My Paul and 1 were both assigned to the same battalion, and often guarded the lead mines, and when, in the cold, or in the furious snowstorms, the others complained how chilled they were, we whispered to each other: “What can it be that burns so in our hearts?” Os course, this w-as a, long time ago, and I feel no return of tfie malady. , it was very hard for the country to have a regiment infected by so dangerous an ailment. Wherever we went we could not remain in a village or city, but were obliged to encamp in the open fields beyond them. There barricades were placed around our camp, which no stranger was allowed to pass. We were never permitted to write to our relatives or to receive letters from them. All our noncommissioned officers were assigned to us from other regiments, and they were compelled to report faithfully every morning and evening our conduct, words and looks to their captains, the captains to the colonel, the colonel to the governor, who sent them directly to St. Petersburg, w-here they were read aloud. If I swore and my Paul sighed, they read in St. Petersburg, “Peter swears, Paul sighed.” _ But it is time to speak of my Paul. He belonged to highly respected parents; his father was patriarch, and his mother was the daughter of a Greek bishop, who possessed all sorts of secrets hidden from other mortals. She knew how to cure without medicines, to predict fair or four weather, to destroy harmful creatures, and so on. When this son Paul was born—she never had any other—she took the wine which is left in the sacrament cup and washed the child’s whole body with it. This made it impossible for any hostile weapon to wound Paul. He was always first in the battles and skirmishes, and never received a scratch. But you all know him; w-hy should I say more? After w-e had served a long time together in the exiled regiment news came one day that the Oran Regiment—that was our name—must prepare to march. We were to move southward from the far north, and it w-as doubly hot there from the rays of the sun and from the cannon. War was being waged against the heathen Turks. We rejoiced in the prospect of fighting; it was far better than the cold. Perhaps the destiny of many a man might change there to his advantage—and it did Weeks and months elapsed before we reached the south. Once we halted on the top of a hill from which we could see a great river. We were told that it was the Danube. We exulted, without knowing why. /On the shore of the Danube was a fortress, with massive walls and huge red towers, whence rows of cannon looked peacefully down at. us. Dear, beloved cannon. Here, opposite the citadel, we stopped, and a stately, aristocratic man rode In front of us, doubtless a personage of exalted rank, for he had three stars on his breast. Pausing before us he surveyed our ranks. It was a great honor to have him inspect us, but the speech he addressed to us was a still greater one. “Children!” Yes, he called us despised, forsaken orphans, “children.” “My children: The mighty Czar bestows his favor upon you. The path to return is now open to those who have strayed into the ways of error. Y'ou whose names might not be spoken, whose memory was consigned to oblivion—you will receive back name and fame upon the field of glory and honor.” I remember every word of his speech as if I heard it this very moment. “Do you see those walls? They are the first gates through which to enter the domain of the enemy of the Czar. The Czar grants to you the first laurels of fame. You will be’the first to march against those ramparts, and to-morrow your names will be recorded as glorious heroes; the first lady in the land will fasten the consecrated image upon your banner. Long live the Czar!” We joined in the cheer with Indescribable delight. Then, to the sound of inspiring music, we w-ere marched, in the presence of all the regiments, to a large open space where an altar was erected, at which the Bishop of Moscow officiated, gave us his blessing and administered the sacrament of communion with his own hands. Then the picture of th’e Archangel George was fastened upon our banner and twelve standard bearers were chosen from our number, that if one fell another might raise th’e flag aloft. Then all the strange officers, from corporals to captains, were summoned from our regiment and replaced by our own men; in this way some of our comrades suddenly became officers. My Paul was mad'e major, because he was thoroughly educated and belonged to a good family. I remained a private, because 1 can neither read nor command, I can only obey. Then the order came: “Forward!” in a close column We marched toward the wall of the fortress, amid deep, ominous silence. Not one of us would have wished to remain behind; all resolutely pressed forward. The cannon looked gloomily down from th’e ramparts, as if amazed and uncertain what to say to us. We had reached a point where the walls foimed two projecting angles, and were wondering that no shot had yet been fired. Now a rocket hissed from one of the red towers, and at the same instant cannon thundered on the right, the left, and In front of us, and, like a whirlw-ind sweeping over neatly arranged haystacks, shells and grape shot beat upon us from three sides at once. At the first discharge a twenty-four-pound ball felled my comrades in th’e rank in front of me to the ground, and buried me under their corpses. 1 could not move. A fragment of shell had torn my shoulder. I carry the scar to this day. For that reason 1 witnessed the spectacle. One siiot followed another, the balls from the cannon directed upon us from all directions at first raised a dense cloud of dust over the whole battlefield, amid which I could see nothing but our banner. Twelve times it fell, but twelve times it was raised again. When it floated aloft for the thirteenth time the fire of the hostile cannon seemed to be turned exclusively upon it; the missiles rent it to tatters, but it did not fall. Gradually the cloud of dust dispersed, the blood-soaked earth sent up no more, the cannon were silent, and, as 1 looked around me, I saw- the whole Oran Regiment lying upon the battlefield in exactly the same order in which it had marched. It was like an uprooted forest, where one trunk lay on the right, the next on the left, but no two far apart. Here and there a dying man was still writhing, but most had been killed so quickly that they no longer moved. Arms and heads which had been torn front file dead bodies lay scattered around me. The banner was still standing in the midst of the battle array, and among the

standard bearers who had fallen at his right and left sat a hero holding it in his hand. The dust and blood with which the balls had covered him almost concealed his face, nevertheless I recognized him. He was my Paul, holding the liag there alone in the midst of the dead. As I could not drag myself to him I shouted: “Is it you. Paul; my dear Paul?” Paul looked back, and when he saw me he waved tht banner, shouting: “Long live the Czar." At the same moment two balls whizzed over his head; he did not even vouchsafe them a glance. “Paul, dearest Paul, are you wounded?" I asked. “1 believe so,” he replied. “A grape shot tore off both my feet, and now I am standing with my knees in the sand, just as I fell.” I was surprised. His mother had bathed him in consecrated wine so that no hostile bullet should harm him. But he boldly waved his banner. I looked back to see whether the rest of the troops were hastening to our relief, and perceived that the regiments had all been recalled and no one was approaching us. Os course this was all right; a private soldier must never criticise the acts of his superiors. Our commanders sounded the recall, but the Turks dared not leave their bastions, but when they saw my Paul sitting on the ground with his banner they began to lire at him as if he were a target. But there he sat listening to the whistling and buzzing of the bullets, telling me whence each one came and where it would go. One struck the staff, another pierced his hat. a third tore his overcoat and remained in his pocket. Paul took it out and showed it to me. "Do you see that the bullets cannot harm you?” I said to him. ”1 can't understand how your feet were torn off.” In the evening, when the fog and darkness began to gather, the sharpshooters on Even in Siberia the nights are not so long Even in Siberia the nights are not as long as that one. The stars moved through the sky at a snail's pace. At first the new moon was visible, then it disappeared. We had expected to be carried to the camp when darkness closed in. but no one came. Doubtless they had more important things to do. I lay there a long, long time, half awake, half asleep, tortured by thousands of horrible visions, until the horizon gradually began to grow lighter, and morning dawned. My Paul was still sitting among the corpses, and when he saw that I could no longer raise myself, he turned toward me, saying: “The enemy has put o.ut a white flag.” The Turks granted our people an armistice to bury their dead. The bearers appeared with their biers, accompanied by several otficers and a surgeon, whom the solders dreaded more than the hostile canpen. He inspected the bodies in turn, and sa id: “This man is dead; this one is dead, too.” They were buried. We were the only ones who gave any sign of life. I did not tell the surgeon that I was wounded, or he would have had my arm amputated at once; I pretended that it was only the weight of the corpses which had kept me prostrate, and as soon as they were removed I rushed to Paul. With the utmost caution we took him by the arms and lifted him from the earth, and behold! neither of his feet was injured: they were both as sound as mine or any of the others’. Yet he had told me himself that a bullet had carried them away. The surgeon explained this by saying that the ball had undoubtedly passed close beneath his feet and excavated the earth under them, so that he supposed his feet were torn away because he had sunk into the pit so suddenly made and could rot discover his mistake. The incident created the greatest astonishment. The soldiers carried my Paul on their shoulders back to the camp with the standard he had saved, and the officers examined in amazement his clothing, which was riddled with holes, while there was not even a scratch on his body. The great general reported to St. Petersburg that the Oran Regiment had done its duty. Paul was made a colonel, and afterward he pressed steadily on in the pathway of fame and the favor of the Czar. No matter how high he rose he never forgot me, but always managed to have me ordered wherever he went. Whenever he rode along the front he always s*>oke to me. When I was among th'e sentinels he often came to me, drank from my canteen and kept me supplied with money. Every one knew by this time that he was invulnerable and that no hostile weapon could harm him. He moved through the bloodiest battle just as a man with leather gloves thrusts his hand into a beehive. All good soldiers loved and honored him; only cowards and traitors bore him a grudge. To them he could be inexorable, and he never forgave any one a neglect of duty— not even me. Once I lost the bayonet from my gun and be ordered fifty lashes to be given me. But 1 deserved the punishment. When he was sent to Sebastopol, where visions of fame allured every soldier, the enemy quickly discovered his presence, for the intrencliments which he defended could not be approached by the foe, but were constantly pushed forward toward them. He always led the attacking parties himself; he directed the work of constructing the fortifications and cared no more for bullets than I did for flies. Sometimes he left his bed at midnight to inspect the cannon. During one of these rounds he found a young marine sleeping beside a mortar intrusted to his care. Paul furiously seized his pistol and shouted to the man to rise. He started up and his face blanched with terror at the sight of tne dreaded commander. "You have been asleep at your post,” said the general. “I haven t slept any for four nights,” stammered the youth. “I could not keep my eyes open." This wretched excuse enraged my Paul, and he dealt the fellow such a blow in the face with the butt of his pistol that he knocked out one of his eyes. "There, you scoundrel. Now your eyes won’t shut again.” Then he did not vouchsafe him another glance or he would have seen that the youth staggered to an old seaman, who caught him in his arms and wiped the blood from his face with his handkerchief. It was the young marine's father. One night the enemy opened a tremendous fire upon the Kornilolf redoubt. I was at my post, covered by my gabion, which was already half shattered by the buliet. Hailstones do not fall so thickly as the projectiles sent by the foe. Every moment three or four shells exploded near me, and my comrades fell like flies. A shriek, and another man died. In the midst of this terrific fire I saw the general walking over the bastions. When his plumes were seen by the light of the rockets, hundreds of bullets whizzed past him at the same moment. But he moved on smiling. Just as he passed by me a hissing rocket shot by us. ‘‘Take care, general,” I shouted. “You here, Peter?” he said, turning, and beckoned me to follow him. He led the way to a corner of the bastion, where all but two of the cannon in a battery had been silenced. “Why are you not firing here?” he asked, when he reached the spot. An old marine answered from the darkness: "Our canr.on are shattered.” “Then more must be had.” said Paul, and sent me at once to the bottom of the walls, whence, by means of ropes and pull'eys, new cannon could be brought through the covered passages in five minutes. “They must be placed in position,” cried Paul, and twenty men sprang forward to push thvm to the loopholes. Before one could count ten, not a man remained alive. Twenty others leaped into their places; the guns moved forward. The enemy poured a shower of grap'eshot upon them. The gabions were adjusted, sacks were heaped upon the breastwork. Os the second twenty, only four men returned—but the cannon wtre in position. “Who is the gunner here?” asked the general. "I,” replied the old marine. “Look carefully in thv- direction from which you see the enemy firing.” said Paul. "Notice the point and aim for it.” “Very well,” replied the man, throwing himself down beside the cannon to b'e able to get a better signt over the breastwork. Th'e, enemy were now firing without lightballs; so we were in such darkness that no one could see any other person’s movementp. . , -Do vou know where you are to shoot? asked the general. “Vos,” said the gunner. “Have you aimed?” “Yes.” “Then fire.” „ , The order , was executed. It was not a cannon but a pistol shot. Paul fell back against me as if the earth had opened under his feet, and, clutching my arm, gasped: . , “Peter, 1 am mortally wounded. ‘•lmpossible'.'’ I cried in terror. “Yes,” ho answered faintly. “That was no enemy’s bullet, so it struck me. ’ 1 “Yes ” cried the old marine with delight, “it was mv bullet—for my son’s eye.” The soldiers threw themselves iuriously upon the assassin, but ere they could seize him he had vanished. Leaping over the parapet, he was impaled upon the palisades below. He had chosen the shortest way to h My Paul breathed out his life in my arms. Hostile weapons could not harm him. Had he not fallen by the hand of a Russian assassin he would be alive now. May God guard every nation from the weapons of its own sons. —Translation from the Original of Moritz Jokai, in New York Sun. Won by the Haltbl. New Haven Palladium. Jones was on his last legs. In fact. It was a matter of but a few days for him, so ho sent for three ministers, a Presbyterian. a Methodist and a Jewish rabbi,

THE 20$ j State Fair, Sept. 13 to 18, 1897 > A larger d’splay than has ever before been exhibited in this State is $ c in-ured for this year by the great increase in money offered in premiums ) \ and purses. Great improvt ments have been made in the Fair Grounds, \ ) and neither time nor money Las been spared to make the ’B7 fair a grand > ( success t ) Monday, Sept. I.3th, Opening Day. > Tuesday, Sent. 14th, Old Soldiers’ and Children’s Day. Wednesday, 5-'pc. 18th, Indianapolis Day. 1 hursdoy. Sept. 16th, Governor’s Day. ? ( Friday, Sept. 17th, Military Day. ? \ Saturday, Sep. 18th, Removal Duy. ( SIO.OCO Offered in Purses as a Guarantee of Good Races, j ( $25,000 Offered In Premiums. / All Entries Close Sept. 6, 1897 .... > < . CHARLES B. HARRIS. President ) - . v \’> CHAS. F. KENNEDY. Secretary f I * oom 14 ’ sta ‘ ehouse

THE JOURNALS Business iDIRECTORY.: I hnn r~Li~k_i~i_r~i_i~t_rLr~>_r~uj~i i —i r~M~> i- L j 1 C. S. l'liltKY (nave your ItooLn luljiw(ed). . .Tel. 1525. Room t. Journal Bids. ARCHITECTS. W. SCOTT MOOItE it 50N..12 BlarLfortl 'Hock, 'VaahlDKtoii and Meridian St*. ~~ART GLASS EDW. SCHURMASN Tel. 1070. 241 S. Pennsylvania. St. AUCTION AND COMMISSION. HOME AUCTION CO. (Advance* Made on louaigniucut*.) 11l Mass. Ave. CARPET CLEANING. Howard Steam Carpet Cleaning, anti Renovating Work* Tel. (ill. DIA MO NDS- W HOLESALE~AND~RETAIL. J. C. SIl'E (Importer Fine DiamoutU) . . . . Room 4, IS 1-2 North Meridian ss it. FLORISTS. IIERTEItMANN FLORAL CO.. .New .No. 241 Maas. Arc., 220 N. Del. St. Tel. S4G. FURNITURE ~~ FRANK M. WILLETT (*nccc**or to J. \\ . Gray).. 140 North Delaware atreet. GENERAL TRANSFER-HOUSEHOLD MOVING. HECK’S TRANSFER COMPANY., I*hone 4{4>5 7 Circle Street. HOGAN TRANSFER STORAGE CO., Tel. 075... .ZZ-JI-lIU West Georgia Street. HAIR SXORtf~ MISS J. A. TURNER.... The Danar. Over Huerle’ai. HARNESS, SADDLES AND HORSE CLOTHING. STRAWMYEIt MUts (Repairing Neatly Dune) 17 Monument l’laca ICE C REAM -- W HOLESALE A RET AIL. PUTNA2I COUNTY' Mli.lv CO.lit*AN V 12 to Hi North Enat Street. JEWELRY-WHOLESALE. FRF.D H. SCHMIDT ;>2 Jackson Place, opp. Union Station. LAUNDRIES. UNION CO-OPERATIVE LAUNDRY. . RJS-144 Virginia Ave. Call Phone 12UU. LIVERY, BOARD hND HACK STABLES. THE CLUU STABLE* (.Roth Jk Voung) t 2 West Market. Tel. 1001. LOANS ON DIAMONDS, WATCHES, ETC. , CONLEN’S CITY LOAN OFFICE ft 7 West Washington Street. ‘ mantels and grates. P. M. PI’USELL (Nautel*, Furnaces, Wholesale Prices), JO Mass. ave. THE M. S. HUEY CO. MEGS (Mantels, Grilles and Tiles), ftftl Muss Ave. PAPER BOXES. BEE HIVE PAPER BOX CO. (Plain and Folding Boxes). .20-22 S. Capitol ave. PATENT ATTORNEYS. E. T. SILVIUS & CO . Rooms 17 mid IS, Talbott Block. PATENT LAWYERS. CHESTER BRADFORD, 1255 to 12410 Stevenson lildg, 15 E. Washington St. (X. F, HOOD tk SON -...20-50 Wright Block, OS 1-2 East Market St, y ’ g, LUCivW OOD Lemcke Building. PATENT SOuiCiIORS. UEBEIt S. PARAMORE 25 West Washington Street. PLUMBING AND STEAM HEATING. J. S. FARRELL & CO., Contractors S4 North Illinois Street. OFFICE AND BANK FIXTURES. 11. LAUTER, W. Washington and Harding Sts., Contractor and Manufacturer oi interior Wood Work, Olliee and Store Fixtures und Special Furniture. SALE AN*D LIVERY STABLES. HORACE WOOD (Carriages, Traps, uockhoards, etc.)..25 Circle. Tel. 1007. “ ~ SEEDS, bULbS, ETC.—WHOLESALE AND RETAIL. HUNTINGTON <1 PAGE (Send for Catalogue) 7S E. Market St. Tel. 12if. VAIL SEED CO. (New Firm.) Get Cata logue. . . .IMi N. Delaware St. Tel. 140. SHOW CASES. WILLIAM WIEGEL 0 West Louisiana Street. STEEL CEUANGS, FIRE SHUTTERS, STEEL CABINET LETTER FILES. W. Me WORKMAN , 030 West Washington Street. STENOGRAPHERS AND NOTARIES. HARDY HANSON. Private Shorthand School. ’Phone 000. .501 Lemcke Bldg. STOCKS AND BONDS. W. H. DYE * CO 401 Lemcke Bnlldinc. ~~ UMBRELLAS, PARASOLS AND CANES. C. W. GUNTHEIt, Manufacturer 21 Pembroke Arcade and 50 Muss. Ave. VAULT CLEANERS. CITIZENS’ ODORLESS CO Vaults and Sinks Cleuned.. IN Baldwin Blk wallTpapers. H. C. STEVENS. New Styles of Wall Paper. Low Prices 400 N. Senate Ave. WINES. JULIUS A. SCHULLER nn*l 112 North Meridian Street.

I'IH CAT lO>Al,. 48th YEAR BEGINS SEPT. 1. B Indianapolis W USIMESS UNIVERSIT a When Bldg. Mugniflccnt quarters. Hear, systcms. Only school made permanent and reliable here. Particulars free, Enter now E. J. JTEEB, Pres. Girls’ Classical School Sixteenth Year. Open* Sept. -1, IMP 7. Prepares for ail colleges admitting .women. Eighteen Instructors. Special courses for students not preparing for college. Excellent courses in music, art, voice and physical culture. Gymnasium Handsome accommodations for boarding pupils. Theodore L. Sew all, founder. MAY ./RIGHT SEW ALL, .rlncipnl, 633 North Pennsylvania Street, Indianapolis, lad. Send for catalogue. IuSIN^STcOLLLGr tel. INDIANAPOLIS ias. l&fSB Tta Largest Business ."school in the state, yr* 3 PB Open all year. Actual Business from B SMu/y start. Employment bureau, fief term*. KAA' Hervcy D.Vories,Ex-State bupt.,Fres. SAi’K m.I'OSITS. S. A. FLETCHER Ac CO.’S SAFE DEPOSIT VAULT 3d Kune AV a Hiring ton St. Absolute safety against lire and burglar. Policeman day and night on guard. .Designed lor safe keeping ol Money, Ponds, Wills, Deeds. Abstracts, Silver Plate, Jewels and valuable Trunks. Packages, etcContains 2.100 boxes. Rent Sjtri to SMS per year. JO HA S. TAItKJXJTOS Manager. iwni remiimi and told them that if they each put sluo in his coffin ho would leave them $5,000 each in nls will. Ho died shortly after, and the day after he was buried the Methodist minister met the Presbyterian and asked him if he had put his SIOO in the cask t '••j dir} ” said the Presbyterian minister. “In what form did you put it in?” asked the Methodist minister. • Tn five twenty-dollar gold pieces. “Well, you’ll get your $5,006.” “How did you put yours in?” “I put in a crisp new SIOO bill. “Well, you’ll get your $5,000. too. Just then they saw the rabbi across the street, and they called him over and asked him in what form he had put his SIOO In the casket. „ . “I put n my check for S3OO and took out the change.”

SAWS ANj) MILL SUPPLIES. A'*i|/n%T(T* K. (J. A CO.. Manufacturer ant I K I \ Nrepairerof CIKOULAK.OBOiid ■ IVIIID 0 IT, BAND and *ll otn r BELTING. EMERY WHEELS AND MILL SUPBLIkS, r 1 ll7’£ Illinois street, ono square south Ota W w Union Station. rj \ li/r* BELTING ond &AYVk3 EMERY WHEELS SPECIALTIES OF W. B. Barry Saw and Supply Cos 122 6. PENN. ST. All kinds of Saws repaired. PHYSICIANS. SUTCLIFFE, SURGEON. OFFICE—SS East Market street. Hour*-* to 10 a. m.; 2 U> 3 p. m.; Sundays excepted. Telephone, ML DR. C. I. FLETCHER, H ESII >ENCE —585 North Pennsylvania street OFFICE—36B South Meridian street. Office Hours —9 to 10 a. m.; 2t04 p. m. ; 7to I p. m. Telephones—Office. 907; residence. 427. Dr. W. B. Fletcher’s SANATORIUM Mental and Nervon* Diseases. 124 NORTH ALABAMA STDr Sarah Stockton* 22 i NORTH DELAWARE STREET. Office Hours: 9 to U a. m.: 2 to 4 p. m. Tel. 14k OPTICIANS. J r ITT ED \ /PRESCRIPTIONS^ ( Vr^p \\iiiP-0. J V * S3N.PLWN.ST. CEMISON HOWE. J INDIANAPOLIS-INfi. ■ ■" —J TTTLKib^^^ THEODORE STEIN, ABSTRACTER OE TITLES, Corner Market and Pennsylvania streets, Indianapolis. Suite 229. First Office Floor. “The Lemcke." Telephone 1769. m: m.* . stem n.s, > i v'irs. Pirn T MASER* seals 77^] STENCILS,STAMPS,] CATALOGUE FHC RAC OPT.. CHECKS AC @kylßLpa&. .15 SJMERIDIAN ST. Grouhd (loan. The Sunday Journal, by Mail, $2 a Year

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