People's Pilot, Volume 4, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 October 1894 — Page 7

THE WORK OF A MAN. Ter can never match His doin'* Wheresoever yer begin; But I say thet in this human, ■With its nonsense, clique an’ elan, Thar’s a mighty heap o’ power Harnessed up in little man. 'fipose it’s God as made the mountain* Carved th’ valleys an’ th’ trees. Made th’ dimpled hills an’ cloed-form* All th* spheres that roll with ease; But th’ mighty, whirlin’ “flyer," An’ th' "mogul” in its van, Thunderin’ thro’ th' hills an’ valleys. Is th’ will an* work o’ man. God Almighty lifts the water Into orful, threatenin’ cloud. Manufactures lurid llghtnin’, Dre’ful thunder roarin’ loud; But th* "click, click, click,” o’ sound*** Sendin’ newt, yer understand An’ th' ’lectrlc light so brilliant Is th' genius o* th’ man. 1 admit God made th’ ocean. Filled it full, up to th' brim, ■Orful wide an’ deep and mighty, Ohl tremenjus, jest like Him; But above its heavin' bosom, Ridin’ swift from lan’ to lan’, Splendid palace steamer races; Listen! thet’s th’ thought o' man. Any fool will know Fm grantin’ Thet a man with all his gift Never could accomplish nothin’, If th’ Eternal didn't lift; But He’s made us all fer somethin', Helped us on since time began, Bent this rollin’ ball a-whirlin’ Jest to satisfy th' man. Then our lovin' Heavenly Father Lifts th’ heavy end with ease, Shouts it down th’ flyin’ ages, Whispers softly in the breeze; Es. My son, yer’ll think an’ labor. Doin’ jest th’ best yer can, Yer may transform all creation, Tho’ yer are a little man.” • —Walter P. Stoddard, in Chicago Record.

THE TROUBLESOME LADY.

BY PATIENCE STAPLETON.

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CHAPTER I— Continued. ■“I am through,” said Oliver, uneasily. “It was very nice, indeed; but I am afraid I have made you trouble, will do you harm by being here. You must .know where Morris’ place is.” “Down the road here somewhere, but I don’t know just where. I never was there; it was not a fit place. Don’t you think,” she went on, feeding his dog scraps from the waiter while she spoke, “that it is funny of me to talk of my husband to strangers?” “I don’t want to be a stranger,” said Oliver, gently, “and you know one eould not live here without hearing something of—of—” “The crazy Frenchman.” Oliver put od his coat in silence. The big shepherd dog leaned his beautiful head against the girl’s knee while she fed him, and little Skye, quite contenj with a stray bite now and then, looked on in approval. Oliver thought he would like to take her in his arms, as if she were the child she looked. That pretty little yellow gown, the bright girl’s face, with its saddened look, touched him sorely. He was not wont to be interested much in women; those he met were of two classes, and this child was of n either elass —a different *eeing—a pathetic, haunting one; a child in years, and yet two years a wife, and of such a man. She glanced up and saw his grave face. Her lips quivered. “Don’t think me dreadful,” she said, piteously. “1 am so lonely, so forsaken, and you brought back the old days. You look so kind, the words just came; I could not help it. Suppose you were me shut up here, my father lost at sea, my mother dead two years ago, and my only friend, my only relation, say--Itwas my duty” (a sob) “to live here for ever and ever. I wish that you would try to like me, and that I could feel there was somewhere in the world a good man who would be a friend to ne and pity me.” He took her little hand in his bigone and looked down on her sunny head. “You are like a little child,” he said, softly. “I know your life nfust be nard; I cannot bear to think of it. I shall be proud and happy to be your friend; I haven’t many. When one has lived long in the world he has sorted the wheat from the chaff; and I tan count my friends on my fingers—on one hand, indeed.” “Then let me be the little finger,” she said, shyly. The sound of horses’ hoofs outside made her withdraw her hand suddenly, and a frightened look came over her face. Oliver picked up his riding whip, bit his lower lip, and waited. Mac, with a growl, slunk up to his master’s heels. The door was .flung rudely open, and a man stepped in the room, so overcome with anger he could »t first form no words—a little man, •with a dark evil face, sunken eyes, and long black beard. His corduroy suit was dripping, and the hat he flung on the table soaking wet. He had the air of one who had ridden fast in an nvil mood. “Are yon keeping a hotel, Madame de Restaud?” he hissed. “Truly this is a very pleasant surprise for a man.” “The gentleman asked shelter, Henri,” the girl said, trembling. “He lost his way, and Louis would not tell him how to find Lord Morris’ place.” “You can of course give me the direction,” Oliver said, courteously, •though his hand clinched the whiphandle tighter. ‘‘Lord Morris told me of your hunting exploits. I thought we should have met before this; but Doctor John and I are unsociable sort of men and don’t go about much.” “The road you came, straight down two miles, turn to the left,” said De Restaud, coldly. “My man has your mare ready.” “Thanks. Mrs. de Restaud, yon ■have shown true western’ hospitality. I shall always remember it. Good night” He could not took at that shrinking figure, with its frightened eyes. “Good-by,” shs said, sadly ‘I hope you will And your road." As be closed the door he heard her * cry of vain, a* If she had been

rudely seised, and he almost stopped, then went hastily down the steps. He wished one of the ruffians dismounting before the porch would speak to him; he would have liked to silenoe him. No one spoke, however. Even Louis led the mare up in silence. Oliver looked her over as he mounted* tossed the man a dollar, and said, as he cantered off: “I trust you and I will meet again, my civil friend.” The gate was open, so he went easily past aH pitfaUs and, the mare being rested, in a short time he saw the light from his own cabin, and with an odd sense of comfort, too. A lost, homeless man is a pitiful object the world over. Mike rushed out to take the mare; he was just going to look for him; the doctor had worried. But Oliver, without a word, went into the house. He went to his cigar box, lit a cigar, then stood before his own hearth with a queer air of possession. It was just as he thought. There sat Dr. John in that ridiculous flowered dressing-gown and embroidered cap, with his eternal pipe, as unconcerned as possible. “Back at last, old man?” said Dr. John, cheerily. “We were getting worried about you.” “Thanks,” growled Oliver. “We waited supper,” continued the other,, a little, elderly man, with bright blue eyes, close-cut gray hair and long gray beard. “Mike was bound to go for you.” “And you to prevent him,” sneered Oliver. “Well, I did think it nonsense. Where could he look? Let’s eat.” “1 am not hungry. I had supper.” “Where?” “At a house,” Oliver answered, briefly, aS Mika entered with the supper things. However, ha sat down and found himself eating heartily. Neither man spoke, Dr. John being used to Oliver’s moods. The meal over, they sat before the fire. Oliver took a cigar, while Dr. John lit his pipe. “I was at the summit of Sisty’s peak to-day,” said Oliver, after a long silence.

“Ah?” interrogatively from Dr. John. “I followed an antelope—a splendid shot, the best I’ve had; a big buck.” “Too bad you did not bring it We’re out of meat.” “But I did. I know you.” Oliver smiled. “The evidence is on my saddle.” “There’s a butcher-shop at Parkville.” said Dr. John, meditatively. “Is there?” said Oliver, indifferently. “I was not that way. I had supper at De Restaud’s.” “The crazy Frenchman’s? Honestly, Craig?” “I give you my word. His wife is a sweet little woman.” “They all are to you, my boy. Your weakness. You don’t say!—at De Restaud’s!” Dr. John smoked awhile over it. “Actually got in hln house! Why, they say he is the very devil. You were lucky you didn’t lose your life instead of your way.” Craig looked into the fire. Bethought of the little girl in the yellow gown. How plainly he remembered even the bangles, the Skye terrier, the dimple in her cheek! perhaps he bad lost his heart. CHAPTER 11. Though fifty miles from a railroad, the valley of the Troublesome was well settled by ranchmen, and the little village of Parkville, a few miles from Oliver’s cabin, was the meeting-place for a large section of country. Here gathered miners from the distant jaeaks, prospectors, cowboys and sheepherders from ranches, with the drift around such a place, gamblers and men

DE RESTAUD’S WIFE STAGGERED INTO THE ROOM.

with no visible means of support. In the rough mob that congregated in the two salooiis at Parkville Oliver often saw the Frenchman. He was generally intoxicated, always the wildest of the merrymakers. He met him and Louis riding late at night at a mad pace with other vagabonds invited from the town, and he heard of orgies at De Restaud’s home that reeked of city slums. Oliver himself never ventured towards De Restaud’s house; the road was a private one, and he had no wish to come in contact with the owner. Sometimes he pitied the young wife when he thought of her, but as the days wore on her image faded. He had never mentioned her but the once to Dr. John, yet he hoped before he went away from the Troublesome to see her again. He had promised to be her friend. Mike had told him the story in the valley was that she had come to Colorado Springs with a consumptive mother, and that the Frenchman, who was more careful then, and boarded at the hotel with them, wormed himself into the motner’s confidence to such an extent that on her deathbed she desired to leave her daughter in De Restaud’s care and prevailed upon her to be married then. A scaii mental little creature like the girl could not refuse; Oliver had an uncomfortable feeling that she would be too easily led. De Restaud had brought his wife to the lonely ranch after her mother’s death, and had kept her a prisoner. He was madly jealous of her. his crazed brain Imagining all sorts of things she never dreamed of doing Then *t fvas also

thought that, as he had entire control of her money, he kept her away from her friends for fear that they might question his guardianship ipF Oliver was thinking of Her one night two wqeks after his strange visit He was alone by the fire, for Dr. John had gone to see the sick wife of a ranchman. The doctor said he felt the errand hopeless, as the man had told the wife’s condition, but if they thought he might help he wouldgo. “He is a good old chap,” Oliver said, aloud. The shepherd dog, thinking the compliment intended for him, gently thumped his tail on the floor. “There’s his gown and cap; he’ll make a guy of himself because his old landlady made them for him. I wish I had told him more about the girl at that ranch; he might have suggested something. Perhaps she can’t get letters to her old aunt. If half the stories I hear are true, she ought never t»» stay there. The man is crazy.” Mac whined uneasily, and went to the door, standing listening, his head down. “Watching for the doctor, Mac? He won’t be back for hours yet. Hark!” The dog growled, then barked loudly. There was the sound of hurrying footsteps on the hard ground, and the door was opened without ceremony. In her yellow gown, bareheaded and dust stained, her little dog held to her breast, De Restaud’s wife staggered into the room, her face ghastly in its pallor, her eyes red with weeping, even the dog cowering with frigb t and pain. “My God!” cried Oliver, taping to his feet. “Is he out there?" “No, no; I am alone.” “Child, how could you come here? how could you coiqe?” he cried, vexedly. “Why, he would murder you if he knew.” “Don’t send me away!” she screamed; “oh! please, Mr. Oliver! I thought aH the way you were kind and would help me. Look »t the marks on my throat; he choked me; and there are welts on my arms, painip.g me dreadfully; and he—he kicked my dog. I thinj its leg f* broken. Don’t mind me. took at Skye; is he badly hurt?” Oliver took the shivering litf-le beast in his arms.

“Only bruised,” he said, gently; “but you—” He was sick with the horror of it! to strike that child! “You look so ill. Sit down in the big chair. Indeed you shall not go back; Dr. John and I will take care of that; and if he comes, you know,” with that sweet smile of his, “your husband is a little man.” “I don’t know what I did,” she said, dazedly. “Maybe because I rode my pony down past here, and Louis told him, or Annette. He was drunk xnd ugly when he struck me and kicked Skye out of the way. Skye tried to bite him, and I interfered. Then I think I fainted, for I woke od my bed all hurt and bewildered. Annette came creeping in, sort of scared, and said he was sorry anddiad gone off to the village, but I pushed her out and locked the door. When he came back and they were playing cards I climbed down over the roof and ran here across the fields, not in the road —a long, dreadful way. Now you seem as if you were sorry I came!*’ She reached down, lifted her dog to her lap, and hid her face in its coat. “I only cared for your sake,” he answered, softly. When she bent her head he could see the cruel marks on her throat, and she still sobbed as she spoke. Was ever man so placed? He almost wished the coward who had struck her would come, that he could meet him; then reason told him he had no right to settle this woman’s quarrel. He wished she were his sister; but did he in his heart? How girlish and fair she was in the fire!it room! For a moment a fierce desire to keep her there, to defend her, swept over him. Then he said, almost coldly: “Will they not miss you, Mrs. de Restaud?”

“Not that!” she cried, piteously. “Call me Minny. I don’t want to hear diis name! He never comes to my room when he has them there, you know, and he has told me never to open my door; so I am safe until morning. I prayed all the way you’d be here and alone. I knew you could tell •me how to get to the railroad. I saw away across the hills your light, and how I ran then! I knew your dog would not hurt me, but I was afraid of cows; there were some lying down, and they got up as I ran past, and I screamed right out, I was so scared. I watched you sitting here through the window, your dog at your feet. You looked so good and kind, I felt I could go right in and tell you; perhaps you had a sister who died, or some one you loved; you would hate to think they should go back to that dreadful place, and you would think of me alone and friendless, and help me.” She went to him and clung to his arm, trembling and sobbing. “You will not send me back? you wiH not send me back?”

“You know I will not; but what shall I do, if anyone should see you here? Don’t cry like that; I can’t think what to do. Try to be brave.” She lifted her tear-wet face. “If you knew my life for two years, Mr. Oliver, you would think I had been brave. It is not fear that makes me cry now, only that you are kind and there is some one in the wide world who will help me.” “Now sit down again,” he said, drawing the chair up for her. “Let us plan what to do. Where is your aunt now?” “In Newcastle, Me., my dear old home. She is my father’s sister, and lives there all alone. She was out to visit me, but she and Henri quarreled; she is a great big woman and she slapped him—oh, I was so glad!” vindictively—“and he just went into fits about it, the insult to the family honor. She thought, though, because I was married I must make the best of things; she’s a member of the orthodox church back there, and they are very particular. I thought you could take me to the railroad and lend me the money to pay my fare; he has all my money, yon know, and never gives me any—for fear, I suppose, 1 would run away. But Aunt Hannah will pay you; she’s awfully honest, but she wants her due

to th* last farthing; that** X*w Bugland, you know.” She half smiled, and leaned back in the chair comfortably. Tbe ridiculous dog was fast asleep after his trial*. Oliver thought it not unlikely Mr* de Restaud would take a nap too. He w<nt swiftly and woke up Mike and sent him for his horses and the buckboard. Mike looked out of the corner of his eye at the young woman; ha knew whoshe was,for he was an observing youth, and he whistled softly to himself while he harnessed the mettlesome horses. Oliver saw the look, and felt the first cold water of the world’s criticism. “Now, the money question need not bother you at aH,” he said, coming back to her side. ‘ “You see, I’m a well-to-do old bachelor, with no demands upon me. When you get to Maine you can send it back or not, just as you please. I owe you something for that supper, you know.” “That supper you had to gobble for fear of Henri? Wasn’t it funny?” “A case of boy and frogs; what was fun to you was death to me.” “You were not afraid a bit,” she said, looking up with admiring eye*

“NOW, SIT DOWN AGAIN,” HE SAID.

“I have thought of you so much since that day, and I always pictured you afraid of nothing and doing all sorts of brave acts.” Oliver had a very uncomfortable feeling that he was decidedly afraid this moment of what the world would say. He could even fancy Dr. John’s cool incredulous glance, and his “Craig, haven’t you had lessons enough in the past?” and “it’s a dangerous path, old boy.” “You are very kind to think of me at all,” he said, distantly. “And, now, haven’t you a hat?” “No, nor a shawl. I’ll be a queerlooking traveler.” “That Turkish dressing-gown of th* doctor’s—could that be used as an ulster?” “It might, by a lunatic; Perhaps I could play that,” she said, hopefully. “Leave that for me, Mrs. Minny,” laughed Oliver; “Dr. John will think after this, I need not play it. That cap of his —he don’t look human in it, but you might try—” “I have been looking at it. Does it do?” putting it coquettishly over her curls. “Very becoming. You could be eccentric, you know, and prefer to make your own hats; for that has a homemade look. There, I believe he has a shawl. Dr. John is a regular old maid, luckily for us.” [TO BE CONTINUED.]

A FIDDLER’S PRINCIPLES.

The Examination of a Violinist in the Days of the French Republic. The citizens of the French revolution were, in the early days of the republic, after the tragical overthrow of the monarchy, of a terribly serious nature. They took careful account of every man’s political views and intentions, and exacted not only agreement with their own revolutionary ideas, but a grand social purpose for the future. Among the suspected persons brought before one of the revolutionary tribunals was the violinist Peppo, who had been a favorite in the salons of the rich. The story of his examination is told by Mme. de Bassanville in a work entitled “The Salons of Other Days.” “What is your name?” the violinist was asked by the court. “Peppo,” he answered. “What do you do?” “Play the fiddle.” “What are your political opinions?” “I have none; I play the fiddle.” “What did you do during th* reign of the tyrant?” “I played the fiddle.” “What do you propose to do In the future?” “Play the fiddle.” “But what service do you intend to perform for the republic?” “Why, play the fiddle!” Peppo retorted, as though perplexed at being put through such a questioning. The remarkable thing about the trial was that Peppo was set free. Perhaps his republican inquisitor* thought that even the most tragical of social systems might have occasion*! use for a cheerful tune.—Youth’s Companion.

Compensation.

It is said that Roger, the celebrated French tenor, was exceedingly loyal to his profession and was apt to take of fenne at any slight, whether or not it was intended. On one occasion he was engaged for the sum of sixty pounds to sing at the house of a rich financier. Roger sang his first song magnificent ly, but no one paid him the slightest attention, and the guests talked their loudest. Presently the host thought the time had come for another song, and sent for Roger. He could not be found, and that evening was seen no more. Next day a note came from him, accompanied by the sum of eighty pounds. The note ran thus: “I have the honor to return the sixty pounds which I received for singing at your party; and I beg leave to add twenty pounds more for having sc greatly disturbed the conversation of your guests.”—Youth’* Companion. If all the people of the United States were placed in Kansas, California and Nebraska, those states would not ba •o thickly Rettlcd a* Knglaad <a aw

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