People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 February 1894 — Page 3

RESPONSIBILITY. SU4 tite window my bird doth fly, P»r beyond ranch of my Tiaton’s strata, Boldly he satis to the bright, blue sky. Tot will be come back to me again— Bn ok to my lowing and outstretched hand taaek t» my suture and my command Without a sigh I see him fly, Be win come to me by and byl Out from my bosom a thought doth fly, Over the ocean it sails afar, 'When blooming shores in sweet rapture lie, Through the wide heavens from star to star. Or, midst the shados of the silent land, Yet heeds my bidding and my command. I ask not why It seeks to fly, It will come back to me by and by! Out from the precious and scanty dole Time measnres me, golden moments fly. Swift they speed to their destined goal, Bearing each lost opportunity.. Flown are the winged and shining hand. Never to hearken to my command Shall I ask why? We must, for aye, Meet in eternity by and by! —Zltella Cocke, in Youth s Companion.

MATT A TALE OF A CARAVAN

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

CHAPTER 11.—Continued. “At the present moment I am encamped in a spot where, in all probability, I shall remain for days. I came upon it quite by accident about midday yesterday, when on my way to the market town of Pencroes; or, rather, when I imagined that I was going thither, while I had, in reality, after hesitating at three cross-roads, taken the road which led exactly in the opposite direction. The way was desolate and dreary beyond measure—stretches of morass and moorland on every side, occasionally rising into heathery knolls or hillocks, or strewed with huge pieces of stone like the moors of Cornwall. Presently the open moorland ended, and we entered a region of sandy hillocks, sparsely ornamented hero and there with long, harsh grass. If one could imagine the waves of the ocean, at some moment of wild agitation, suddenly frozen to stillness, and retaining intact these tempestuous forms, it would give some idea of the hillocks I am describing. They rose on every side of the road, completely shutting out the view, and their pale, livid yellowness, scarcely relieved with a glimpse of greenness, was wearisome and lonely in the extreme. As we advanced among them, the road we were pursuing grew worse and worse, till it became so choked and covered" with drift and sand as to be scarcely recognizable, and I need hardly say that it Was hard work for one horse to pull the caravan along; more than once, indeed, the wheels fairly stuck, and Tim ind I had to pull with might and main to get them free. ‘ We had proceeded in this manner tor some miles, and I was beginning to realize the fact that we were out of our reckoning, when, suddenly emerging from between two sand hills, I saw • wide stretch of green meadow land,

RATTHER EMBARRASSING.

and beyond it a glorified piece ®f water. The sun was shining brightly, the water sparkled like a mirror, calm as glass, and without a breath. As we appeared a large heron rose from the apot t>n the waterside where he had • been standing—- “ Still as a stone, without a sound, Above his dim blue shade—>nd sailed leisurely away. Around the lake, which was about a mile in circumference, the road ran winding till tt reached the further side, where more eand hills began; but between these 6and hills I caught a sparkling glimpse hf more water, and (guided to my conclusion by the red sail of a fishing smack just glimmering on the horizon line) I knew that further water was- - the sea. “The spot had all the attraction of complete desolation, combined with the charm which always, to my mind, pertains to lakes and lagoons. Eager as a boy or a loosened retriever I ran across the meadow and found the grass long and green, and sown with innumerable crowsfoot flowers; underneath the green was sand again, but here it glimmered like gold-dust. As I reached the sedges on the lake-side a teal rose, in full summer plumage, wheeled swiftly round the lake, then returning splashed down boldly and swam within a stone’s throw of the shore; when, peering through the rushes, I caught a glimpse of his mate, paddling anxiously along with eight little fluffs of down behind her. Then, just outside, the sedges, I saw the golden shield of water broken by the circle? of flsing trout. It was too much. I hastened back to the caravan and informed Tim that I had no intention of going any further -that day, at least. “So here we have been since yesterday and, up to this, have not set eyes upon a single soul. Such peace and quietness Is a foretaste of Paradise. As this is the most satisfactory day I have yet spent in my pilgrimage, although it bears, at. the same time, a family likeness to the other days of the past fortnight, I purpose setting down, verbatim seriatim, and chrono-

logically, the maimer in which X eooopied myself from dawn to sunset. “6 a. m.—Wake and see that Tim has already disappeared and folded up hie hammock. Observe the morning sun looking in with a fresh, cheery countenance at the window. Turn over again with a yawn, and go to sleep for another five minutes. “7:15 a. m.—Wake again, and discover, by looking at my watch, that, instead of five minutes, I have slept an hour and a quarter. Spring up at once and slip on shirt and trousers; then pass out, barefooted, into the open air. No sign of Tim, but a fire is lighted close to the caravan, which shadows it from the rays of the morning sun. Stroll down to the lake and, throwing off what garments I wear, prepare for a bath. Cannot get out for a swim on account of the reeds. The bath over, return and finish my toilet in the caravan. “8 a. m.—Tim has reappeared. He has been right down to the seashore, a walk of about two miles and a half. He informs me to my disgust that there is some sort of a human settlement a life-boat station. He has brought back in his baglet, as specimens of the local products, a dozen newlaid eggs, some milk and a loaf of bread. The last, I observe, is in a fossil state. I ask who sold it him. He answers, William Jones. “8:80 a. m.—We breakfast splendidly. Even the fossil loaf yields sustenance, after it is cut up and dissolved in hot tea. Between whiles Tim informs me that the settlement down yonder is, in his opinion, a poor sort of place. There are several whitewashed cottages and a large, roofless house, for all the world like a church. Devil the cow or pig did he see at all, barrin’ a few hens. Any boats, I ask? Yes, one, with the bottom knocked out, belonging to William Jones. “Tim has got this name so pat that ny curiosity begins to be aroused. ‘Who the deuce is William Jones?’ ‘Sure, thin,’ says Tim, ‘he’s the man that lives down beyant, by the sea.’ I demand, somewhat irritably, if the place contains only one inhabitant? Devil another did Tim see, h 6 explains —barrin’ William Jones. “9:80 a. m.—Start painting in the open air, under the shade of a large white cotton umbrella. Paint on till 1 p. m. “1 p. m. —Take a long walk among the sand hills, avoiding the settlement beyond the lake. Don’t want to meet any of the aboriginals, more particularly William Jones. Walking here is like running up and down Atlantic billows, assuming said billows to be solid; now I am lost in the trough of the sand, now I re-emerge on the crest of the solid wave. Amusing, but fatiguing. Suddenly a hare starts from under my feet and goes leisurely away. I remember an old amusement of mine in the west of Ireland, and I track Puss by her footprints—now clearly and beautifully printed in the soft sand of the hollows, now more faintly marked on the harder sides of the ridges. The sun blazes down* the refraction of the heat from the sand is overpowering, the air is quivering, sparkling and pulsating, as if full of innumerable sand crystals. A horrible croak from overhead startles me, and, looking up, I see an enormous raven, wheeling along in circles and searching the ground for mice or other prey. “Looking at my watch, I find I have been toiling in tlie sandy wilderness for quite two hours. Time to get back and dine. Climb the nearest hillock, and look round to dispover where I am. Can see nothing but the sandy billows on every side, and am entirely at a loss which way to go. At last, after half an hour’s blind wandering, stumble by accident on the road by the lakeside and see the caravan in the distance. “4 p. m.—Dinner, Boiled potatoes, boiled eggs, fried bacon. Tim’s cooking is primitive, but I could devour anything—even William Jones’ fossil bread. I asked if any human being has visited the camp. ‘Sorra one,’ Tim says, looking rather disappointed. He has got to feel himself a public character, and misses the homage of the vulgar. “Paint again till six p. m. “A beautiful sunset. The sand hills grow rosy in the light, the lake deep* ens from crimson to purple, the moon comes out like a silver sickle over the sandy sea. A thought seizes me as the shadows increase. Now is the time to entice the pink trout from their depths in the lake. I get out my fishing rod and line, and, stretching two or three flies which seem suitable, prepare foi* action. My rod is only a small, single-handed one, and is difficult to cast beyond the sedges, but the fish are rising thickly out in the tranquil pools, and, determined not to be beaten, I wade in to the knees. Half a dozen trout, each about the size of a small herring, reward my enterprize. When I have captured them, the moon ! is high up above the sand-hills, and it ! is quite dark. “Such is the chronicle of the past j day. By the light of my lamp inside ] the caravan I have written it down. ! It has been all very tranquil and un- | eventful, but very delightful, and a | day to be marked with a white stone, I in one respect—that from dawn to sunj set I have not set eyes on a human being, except my servant. “Stop, though! lam wrong. Just as j I was returning from my piscatorial ! excursion to the lake, I saw, passing j along the road in the direction of the j sea, a certain solitary horseman, who ! accosted me not too civilly on the roadI side the night before last. He scowled j at me in passing, and, of course, recog- | nized me by the aid of the caravan. ! His name is Monk, of Monkshurst, and ; he seems to be pretty well monarch of | all he surveys. I have an impression : that Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst, and : myself are destined to be better, or ; worse, acquainted.’ CHAPTER 111. ! MATT SUAfcS TIER FIRST APPEARANCE. | “Eureka! I have had an adventure at last; and yet, after all, what am I talking about? It is no adventure at all, but only a commonplace incident. This in how it happened*

*T wait seated this morning before my easel, out in open air, painting busily, when I thought I heard a movement behind me. “I should have premised, by the way, that Tim had gone off on another excursion into the Jones territory, on the quest for more eggs and milk. “I glanced over my shoulder and saw, peering round the corner of my white sun-shade a pair of large, eager eyes—fixed not upon me, but upon the canvas I was painting. in the least surprised, I thought to myself: ‘At last! The caravan has exercised its spell upon the district, and the usual audience is beginning to gather.’ So I went tranquilly on with my work and paid no more attention. “Presently, however, fatigued with my work, I indulged in a great yawn, and rose to stretch myself. I then perceived that my audience was more select than numerous, consisting of only one individual—a young person in a Welsh chimney-pot hat. Closer observation showed me that said hat was set on a bead of closely-cropped, curly black hair, beneath which there shone a brown, boyish face freckled with sun and wind, a pair of bright, black eyes and a laughing mouth, with two rows of the whitest of teeth. But the face, though boyish, did not belong to a boy. The young person was dressed in an old cotton gown, had a colored woolen shawl or scarf thrown over the shoulder;!, and wore

“MAY I ASK WHERE YOU CAME FROM?”

thick woolen stockings and rough shoes, the latter many sizes too large. The gown was too short for the wearer, who had evidently outgrown it; it reached only just below the knee, and, when the young person moved, one caught a glimpse of something very much resembling a delapidated garter. “The young person’s smile was so bright and good humored that I found myself answering it with a friendly nod. “ ‘How are you?’ I said, gallantly. ‘I hope you’re quite well.’ “She nodded in reply, and, stooping down, plucked a long blade of grass which she placed in her mouth and began to nibble—bashfully, I thought. “ ‘May I ask you where you came from?’ I said. ‘I mean, where do you live?’ “Without speaking, she stretched out her arm and pointed across the lake in the direction of the sea. I could not help noticing then, as an artist, that the sleeve of her gown was loose and torn, and that her arm was round and well formed, and her hand, though rough and sunburnt, quite genteelly small. “ ‘lf it is not inquisitive, may I ask your name?’ “ ‘Matt,’ was the reply. “ ‘ls that all? What is your other name?’ “ ‘l’ve got no other name. I’m Matt, I am.’ “ ‘lndeed! Do your parents live here?’ “ ‘Got no parents,’ was the reply. “ ‘Your relations, then. You belong to some one, I suppose?’ “ ‘Yes,’ she answered, nibbling rapidly. ‘I belong to William Jones.’ “ ‘Oh, to him,’ I said, feeling as familiar with the name as if I had known it all my life. ‘But he’s not your father?’ “She shook her head emphatically. “ ‘But of course he’s a relation?’ “Another shake of the head. “‘But you belong to him?” I said, considerably puzzled. ‘Where were you born?’ “‘I wasn’t born at all,’ answered Matt. ‘I come ashore.’ “This was what the immortal Dick Swiveller would have called a ‘staggerer.’ I looked at the girl again, inspecting her curiously from top to toe. Without taking her eyes from mine she stood on one leg bashfully and fidgeted with the other foot. She was certainly not bad looking, though evidently a very rough diamond. Even the extraordinary headgear became her well. “ ‘I know what you was doing there,’ she cried, suddenly, pointing to my easel. ‘You was painting!’ “The discovery not being a brilliant one, I took no trouble to confirm it; but Matt thereupon walked over to the canvas, and, stooping down, examined it with undisguised curiosity. Presently she glanced again at me. “‘I know what this is!’ she cried, pointing. ‘lt’s water. And that’s the sky. And that’s trees. And these litre’ —for a moment she seemed in doubt, but added, hastily—‘pigs.’ “Now, as the subject represented a flock of sheep huddling together close to a pond on a rainy common, this suggestion was not over complimentary ito my artistic skill. I was on the point of correcting my astute critic, when she added, after a moment’s further inspection “ ‘No, they’re sheep. Look ye now, I know! They’re sheep.’ “ ‘Pray don’t touch the paint,’ I suggested, approaching her in some alarm. ‘lt is wet and comes off.’ “She drew back cautiously; and then as a preliminary to further conversation sat down on the grass, giving me further occasion to remark her length and shapeliness of limb. There was a free-and-easiness, not tc say boldness, about tor manner, tampered though it

was with gnsta at hawhfnhaea ■, wfciat began to amuse me. ‘“Can you paint faces?’ she asked, dubiously. "• „ “I replied that I could even aspire te ' that accomplishment, by which I on derstood her to mean portrait-paint ing, if need were. She gave a quiet nod of satisfaction. “ ‘There was a painter chap who j came to Abcrglyn last summer, and be painted William Jones.’ “‘lndeed?’ I said, with an assumption of friendly interest. “ ‘Yes. I wanted him to paint me, but he wouldn’t. He painted William Jones’father, though, along o’William Jones.’ “This with an air of unmistakable disgust and recrimination. I looked at the girl more observantly. It had never occurred to me tiU that moment | that she would make a capital picture —just the sort of ‘study’ which would ! fetch a fair price in the market. I adopted her free-and-easy manner, | which was contagious, and sat down 1 i on the grass opposite to her. “ ‘l’ll teU you what it is, Matt,’ I | said, familiarly, ‘l’ll paint you, though the other painter chap won’t.’ “ ‘You will?’ she cried, blushing v?ith I delight. “ ‘Certainly; and a very nice portrait 1 I think you’ll make. Be good enough j to take off your hat, that I may have i a better look at you.’ | “She obeyed me at oneo and threw j the clumsy thing down on the grass | ' beside her. Then I saw that her head j i was covered with short black curls, j i clinging round a bold white brow un- i 1 freckled by the sun. She glanced at ! me sidelong, laughing, and showing her white teeth. Whatever her age ! was, she was quite old enough to be a ' coquette. “Promptly as possible I put the question: ‘You have not told mo how old you are?’ “ ‘Fifteen,’ she replied, without hesitation. N “‘I should have taken you to be at least a year older.' "She shook her head. “ ‘lt’s fifteen year come Whitsuntide,’ she explained, ‘since J. come ashore.’ ■ “Although I was not a little curious to know what this ‘coming ashore' meant, I felt that all my conversation had been categorical to monotony, and I determined, therefore, to reserve further inquiry until another occasion. I Observing that my new friend was now looking at the caravan with considerable interest, I asked her if she i knew what it was, and if she had ever seen anything liko it before. She replied in the negative, though I think she had a tolerably good guess as to the caravan’s uses. I thought this • good opportunity to show my natural politeness. Would she like to look at the interior? She said she would, i though without exhibiting much en- , thusiasm. [TO BE CONTINUED.]

Prize Liar of Angora.

Angora has the curious reputation of having gained a prize offered to the man who could show himself to be the greatest liar in the world. A former sultan —so runs the story—offered a golden ball for lying. Many lied to him, but tlie sultan replied that he could himself lie better. Finally an old man fromf Angora appeared before him with a large jar on his shoulders. “Your father,” he said, “borrowed a jar like this full of gold from my father, and said that you would repay the gold to his son.” “Impossible,” said the sultan. “If the story be ! true,” replied the pilgrim, “pay your i father’s debt; if impossible, I have : won the golden ball.” The sultan at | once awarded him the prize, and there | still lives at Angora a man who is sup- j posed to be a descendant of this inge* | nious liar, and who is known by the I name of Altcntopoghlon, the literal | rendering of which name is “Son of the golden ball.”—London Truth.

Poisons and Poisoners.

j Sixteen Chinese emperors are report ; ed to have cCed by poison. Nearly forty Turkish sultans and Arabian caliphs died by poison, j Until the English occupation, poison- ! ing was very common in India, i Hemlock poison was a Greek mode of execution. Socrates died thus, j Nero tried to poison himself to e»- j cape execution, but the dose was not sufficient. The Toffania poison was described I in a papal bull as “arsenic distilled in aquafortis.” ! Nearly two hundred Greek generals and statesmen are named who commit- j : ted suicide with poison. Charles 11., of England, is supposed by some historians to have been poisoned by a jealous mistress. | During the middle ages poisoning, especially in Italy, was regarded as an 1 entirely justifiable means of getting i rid of an enemy. —St. Louis GlobeI Democrat.

“A Loafer at Large."

A young business man, formerly of Cleveland, but now located in the west, has recently been east, says the Cleveland Plain Dealer, and in coming through West Virginia had a little spare time at one of the stations. As he promenaded up and down for exercise a tall, lank specimen of a native { sidled up to him with tJie remark: “How’d ye!” “How do you do, sir?” “Don’t live in this part uv th« kontry, j mebbe!” “No, sir.” “Travlin’ man?” “Yes, sir.” “Ever in this kentry before?" “Oh, yes!” “What line are ye in, stranger!” “I hold the position, sir, of loafer at ! large!” The stranger eyed him long and earn* j estly, then suddenly remarked; “Gosh! stranger, but I’d like to have your job!”—N. Y. World.

As It Sometimes Happens.

“Who was the best man at your wedding?” “The man I married. Now, who wa4 the best man at yours?” “Tha man I wanted to nutrrj. ,, —LilA

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