Rensselaer Republican, Volume 15, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 December 1882 — Page 2

( IE TEXAN’S PERFECT WIFE by jqaquiv mttjjKß. Across the broad brown ex.** hills With blossoms to our broncho-*’ knees, With singing birds by broken rills, We rode through seas of drowsy bees. We talked. The topic? Ones . Wny, sir, Three-fonrths of a man's whole time he keeps To talk, to think, to be, of her, The other fourth he sleeps. 9 To learn what the mighty know of love, I laughed all constancy to scorn. “Behold yon happy, change ul novel Behold this day, all storm at morn. Tet now ’tis changed to calm and sun, Yea; all thin s change—the heart, the bead; Behold on earth ther- is not one That changeth not," said L He drew a glass, as if to scan The plain for stccrs.'raise it, and sighed. He cr ned his ne k, this < attle-man, Then drove the cork home and replied: "r or twenty years (forgive these tears)— For twenty years no word of strif •; I have no - known for twenty years One folly fr„m my wife." I looked that Texan in the face— That dark-browed, bearded cattle-man. He pnlled hi-* beard, th-n dropped in plaoe A broad right hand, all scarred and tan, And toyed with something, shining there From ont i is holster, keen and small. 1 was conv need. I did not care To argue It at aIL The sr lor of my speech grew still As we rode on that p- rfect day.* The brown birds piping from the hill, The crickets, had it their o*n way. I wondered, marveled, marveled mnch, Was she of Texas growth? Was she Of Saxon blood, that boasted such Eternal constancy? Well, we fell weary with the day. God’s bars of gold aeross the west Before ns drew and made ns stay Beside a blossomed rill and rest. Bnt rest I could not. Know I must The story of my Texan guide— His dauntless love, enduring trust; His blest, immortal bride. The camp-fire blazed, the bronchos grazed, And belly-deep in bloom and grass Would blink as by the bright flame dazed, Or sniff to smell the panther pass. The massive Texan stars stood out, Bright camp-fires ofpoor, weary souls Bound hea renward. While all about Couched Peace, with white patrols. I would not sleep until I knew. "Now, twenty years, my man,” said I, Ts a long time." He turned and drew A short pipe forth, also a sigh. “Tis twenty years or more," said he. “Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow I do not doubt that this may be; But tell, oh 1 tell me how. “Twould make a poem true and grand; All time should note it near and far; And thy fair, virgin, Texan land Should stand out like a winter star, America should heed. And then The doubtful French beyond the sea— Twould make them truer, nobler men To know how this may be.” “It’s twenty years or more,” urged he. “Nay, that I know, good friend of mine; But lead me where this wife may be, And I a pilgrim at the shrine, And kneeling, as a pilgrim true—" He scowling shouted in my ear: “I cannot show my wife to you; Hhe’s dead this twenty v ear -

AN OLD MAN'S DECEIT.

Among the several pictures hanging upon the walls of my little sitting-room there is a bedaubed piece of canvas I value above them all. Although I thoroughly understand and appreciate and venerate art, I love to sit opposite it in mv arm chair the whole day long. I brought this home from the National Gallery two summers ago, when the heat was very great, and I first began to feel that I was losing my strength and power, and that old age was gaining only too rapidly upon me. Regularly lor many years I had attended the public picture galleries. Having the reputation of being a good copyist, I had always a great many commissions to execute. Toward the latter end of this summer it happened,, however, that upon finishing my last order I found it difficult, because of an unusual dullness affecting general trade, to procure another. In consequence of this, I resolved to make a copy of Claude’s “Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba,” feeling sure that I should easily dispose of it, as the picture I knew to be a general favorite; and accordingly I at once set to work. For some time I was the only person in the gallery engaged in copying this painting; but one morning, when just about to commence my labor, I was accosted by a young girl—very slight and fragile-looking—carrying a so dingeasel, a piece of canvas partially done up in brown paper, and a large paintbox. _ “I beg your pardon,” she said, flushing, “but could you make room for me?” “Indeed, yes,” I answered promptly, looking at her sweet, plaintive face with great interest. “You can have this place; I will move. The light here is . excellent.” “Oh, no, I do not wish to take your place!” she replied, nervously.' “I can •ee anywhere—here will do very well.” “You are not taking my place,” I answered; “a little lower down will do equally 'well for me. Let me help you,” 1 added, removing my easel, and proceeding, without receiving anv further resistance from her, to install hers in the position mine had occupied. “I am sure you are very kind to do this for me,” she said, leaning against the iron railing which protected the pictures. “I have come all the way from Camden Town, and 1 feel rather tired.” “The heat is so great, too, ” I answered. *1 am afraid you will find it very trying here.” “Oh! I don’t mind that,” she replied, taking the brown paper off the canvas, which was about the same size as my •wn, and placing it upon the easel. “I am afraid you will laugh at this poor attempt of mine. I began it six years ago, when I was almost a child, when poor papa was alive, and I have brought it to finish, because”—she hesitated—“because I want to sell it.” I glanced at the canvas. I had seen a great many absurd and ridiculous attempts at art in my life, but I had never looked upon a. cruder or more lamentable performance than this. It was, in .fact, nothing but an absolute daub. It was altogether out of draw-

ing, the color of the sky was a deep Prussian bine, the clouds inky black, the sun represented by a mixture of dirty yellow and red —indeed, such a strange appearance it presented that it would have provoked a smile from me had I not been too conscious of the presence of the pale, anxious young girl by my side. “Do you think I shall ever sell it?” she asked, her large, wistful eyes fixed upon me. There was something so ineffably touching and sad in the tone of her voice that I felt I could not tell her the truth. “Possibly you may,” I answered, a little falteringly. “It’s not very far advanced ; perhaps I may be able to give you some slight assistance. I am an old man, and have had a great deal of experience.” She looked at me earnestly. “If, indeed, you would only help me,” she exclaimed, impulsively, “just a very •little, just to make it look more like yours. It’s ever so long since I painted, Nit people always like to buy pictures —rich people, I mean; and I thought if only could I finish this, I could take it to a shop and sell it.” * Poor girl! I saw the tears in her eyes as she spoke, and I wondered what sad story hers might be. But I did not wish her to think me curious, so I forebore ’asking any quostions while she opened her paint box and proceeded to set her palette with every imaginable color possible. “I must have forgotten how to paint, it is so long ago,” she said, advancing to her easel, the brushes trembling in her long, thin, delicate hand. “Would you like me to do a little for you just at first?” I suggested gently. “I should not like to ask you to do that, ”she answered, her face brightening; “but it would be very kind, because it is so very long since I painted.” I knew I could do absolutely nothing to redeem the work as it stood, but after a few necessary preliminaries I set the colors straight” and advised her to proceed with them, when at last I returned the brush and palette to her hand.

She seemed very grateful. Her eyes sparkled with hope. “I am indeed fortunate to meet with so kind a friend!” she exclaimed, seating herself in front of the easel. “I hope I shall soon finish it,” she added with a sigh, “for it is difficult to leave my little ones alone,” I looked at her in astonishment. Her little ones! Could it be possible that she was married? I glanced at her left hand involuntarily, and then for the first time observed that she wore a wed-ding-ring. I did not like to make any remark. I felt afraid of saying something that might cause her pain. So we both went on working in silence until 1 o’clock came, and I took out the lit*le packet of sandwiches and small .bottle of wine that my son’s wife always placed in my pocket every morning before I started for the gallery. Perceiving that she had evidently brought no refreshment, I as'-ed her to partake of mine. She smiled and thanked me, but declined. “I am too anxious," she said; “Icould not eat.” “But you are weak,” I remonstrated, gently. “A little of this wine would revive you.” “I am not weak,” she persisted; “only very, very anxious.” And so we fell into conversation once more, and by degrees she told me her story. It was very sad, but by no* means a remarkable one. She had been married six years, and was now 25. Her husband was a city clerk, and worked day and night for herself and their two children; but he had been taken suddenly ill with fever and was now in the hospital, and the proprietors o the bank where he was employed allowed her something a week and promised to keep his place vacant until lie was convalescent. She found it difficul*, indeed, to live; and lately, to add to her trouble, the landlord of their little home had threatened to turn them out and seize their possessions for the rent, which had been owing for a considerable length of time, and her poor husband was still very ill. It must be a long while before he would be able, the doctor said, to leave the hospital and resume his work; but if only she could sell this picture for £2o—£2o! poor girl!—she would be able to pay the rent and all would be well! I listened to this narration very sorrowfully. She seemed so young to have had such a sad experience of life, and my heart bled for her. Unfortunately, I could only give her words for comfort. Although I possessed enough to maintain myself just now, times had been rather hard for my son, and I had been obliged to help him with the little money I had saved. Every time I looked at the canvas it made me feel almost wretched. I had not sufficient strength of resolution to tell her the bitter truth. It was perhap? mistaken kindness; but I was a weak’ old man, and through ohildish timidity I shrank from dashing all her hopes to the ground by the utlerance of a few words. That night I could not sleep for, thinking of this poor girl struggling with poverty alone. I tried to devise some means of helping her, but in vain. I oould think of nothing. The next day she was at the gallery, and the following one continued to paint with the utmost zeal. “I think I shall soon finish it,” she often said to me. “Of course it is not like yours, but the man at the picture shop will not have seen that, and so will be satisfied with mine.” So she spoke, in her happy ignorance, and I smiled in acquiescence. I could not oonfute her. Lately she had

altered very much for the better. Her face had lost the worn, weary look. It was because she was so imbued with the idea that she would be able to sell the picture and pay the rent. “I have not told Henry,” she said once, “what I am doing. He would not like to think I had to leave the children and to work; but when he comes back to us I shall tell him how I saved our little home, and he will call me a brave girl, and I shall feel so happy and proud.” One day she left the gallery several hours earlier on account of her youngest child, who was suffering from a severe attack of cold, and I offered to put away her things that she might start at once, so anxious' she appeared to reach home. Directly after she had taken her departure I lifted the canvas off her easel, not because it offended my eye, but because when I thought of her high hopes regarding it, the sight of it made me feel quite broken-hearted. I had seareely done this before I perceived a gentleman standing near, examining, evidently with a critical eye and no small degree of pleasure, my copy, which only wanted a few more touches to render it perfect. Was this gentleman an intending purchaser ? As I watched him, a thought flashed suddenly across my mind, aad not more quickly than I had conceived did I resolve to act upon this new idea. The gentleman, after a few moments’ more silent examination of my work, turned toward where I stood, with thd brushes and palette of my poor young friend in hand, and inquired whether I was the artist of the picture, and if I had any intention of selling it. I bowed and answered both questions in the affirmative. He then proceeded to make me an offer of £3O for it. The sum was not large; indeed, considerably below what I was in the habit of receiving for my works; but I accepted this without hesitation, and promised to deliver the painting at his house in G — square the next morning. When he left me I commenced putting a few finishing touches to the picture. I felt in such excellent spirits. What I resolved upon doing seemed to make almost a young man of me again. Now I intended to purchase her picture with the £3O, and to tell her that, during her absence, J had had the good fortune to sell her painting to a gentleman. I would never let her know who the purchaser really was. I walked home from the gallery that night in a very happy frame of mind. I looked forward with such delight to meeting her again, with the money for her picture in my hand. The next day was not a student’s day, and consequently no work was to be done at the gallery. I did nothing but think of her; and when I had left my painting at the house of its purchaser and received the money the first thing I did upon my return was to hang her canvas upon these walls, where it has remained ever since.

I could scarcely eat my breakfast the following morning, so impatient I felt to reach the gallery. When I arrived there I hastened up the wide steps and through the several rooms, until I reached the picture of Claude. There was no necessity now to place the easels in readiness, our work was done; and I somehow thought, rather sadly, that, perhaps, I should never paint another picture. But it was very hot and close, although so early in the morning, and it was, perhaps, that that made me feel faint, for I was glad to take off my hat, and relieved to find I was the sole occupant of this part of the gallery. * I waited for nearly an hour before she appeared. I hurried forward to meet her. She looked paler than usual I thought, and her Step was slow and weary. She regarded me evidently with great surprise. “I expected to find you working,” she exclaimed; “but I am earlier than I thought. I never looked at the clock before I started. I seemed to forget everything; I felt so out of heart. I must tell you,” she added, striving, I could !*ee, with a great effort, to keep back the tears—“you will pity me, I know. Last night I had such a cruel letter from our landlord, saying that if the rent is not paid within a week we must turn out; and my youngest little one is so ill, and poor Henry—and perhaps after all my trouble, after being obliged to leave home the long day through, I shall not be able to sell my picture.” I saw her lip quiver and the tears gather in her eyes. “Don’t be afraid!” I said, gently. “Your picture is sold! I sold it yesterday for you while you were away!” “Sold!” she exclaimed, seizing my hand in her agitation. “Sold!—actually sold! But no! it cannot be! It is too good! It is not true!” “It is true!” I affirmed, positively. “1 have the money for you—here—£3o.” 1 took out a roll of bank notes as I spoke, from my pocket. She gazed at the money in blank surprise. Then she covered her face with her hand and sobbed convulsively. “There is nothing to make you unhappy in this,” I said, as soothingly as I knew how, half afraid that I had acquainted her of her good fortune too suddenly. “Take the money in your own hands,” I said, smiling; “perhaps that will make you feel it is really true.” She took the bank notes from me and turned them over one by one. Then she asked me who had bought the picture, and I told her the purchaser was a gentleman, which was no untruth, for, though I am very poor, I am still a gentleman.

“And I did not think I had even finished it,” she said. “I am sure I owe it all to you,” she added, suddenly; “because your picture is bo beautiful—so different from mine; and, if you had Asked the gentlemen, he would, of eourse, have bought yours.” “No, no; I’ll answer for it he would not have done that,” I interrupted quickly, watching, with an indescribable feeling of delight, the flush of pleasure deepen on her face. “I don’t suppose I shall ever paint again,” she said. “I might not be so fortunate another time. I cannot leave my children, and lam not strong; but I do feel so very, very happy. We shall not have to turn out now; thirty pounds will more than pay the rent, and when Henry comes back quite well, how proud I shall feel to be able to tell him that with my own hand I earned the money and kept our little home. Think of it! Won’t it be glorious! And I shall never forget you,” she added. “I shall come to the gallery and find you with Henry and my two little one* very soon, I hope.” I did not think when I told her that she would be certain to find me there that it was the last time I should ever enter the gallery. I did not think that I, too, had painted my last picture. In the street outside I parted from her. The look of supreme happiness upon her face I have never forgotten. It haunts me new and will haunt me to the end of my days 1 I have never seen her since, but so long as I live she will live in my recollection; and, though I am left very much alone, and am very weak and can no longer use my brush, lam happy when I sit and look upon her canvas, for it is not the painting I see, but her sweet young face smiling upon me as it smiled upon me then.

The Train Robber.

On the train the other dav the train boy laid a copy of the “Life of Frank and Jesse James” in my lap. I asked him if it was a sort of dime novel. “Oh, no,,’ said he. “It costs sixty cents.” “Then it is a sort of six dime novel?” I suggested, with rising inflection. “Well, yes,” he replied, apparently not knowing what I was driving at. After a moment’s silence, he said: “Some folks think Jesse James ought not to have been shot in the back. I think he ought to have been hung up and skinned.” “Yes,” I interposed; “you train boys are always in for skinning somebody.” Again he seemed to fail to see the point. Pretty soon he came along with some villainous cigars, such as dealers blush to charge five cents apiece for. I bought one for fifteen cents and lighted it. The train-boy sat on the arm of my seat and said: “No, sir, I don’t like Jesse Barnes.” “Sort of a competitor of your’s, eh ?” I asked. » “What?” “He was a competitor of your’s in business, wasn’t he ?” “Why, don’t you know who Jesse James was ? —He was the great train robber,” he said innocently. I puffed a volume of stifling smoke in his face and said, “Was he?” Presently my new acquaintance came along with some little boxes of figs—five figs for fifteen cents. “Jesse James was a train robber, w*as he?” I asked. “Yes, I thought everybody kuew that,” he replied and passed on, laughing at my ignorance. Then he brought some apples—little hard apples that grocers sell at eight cents a peck. ■‘How much?” “Three for ten cents.” “How did Jesse use to rob trains?” “Why, he put a pistol against a passenger’s head and made him shell out.” “Ah! carried a pistol, did he ?” “You bet he did,” said the train boy, and on he went, announcing choice eating apples. The next trip through the car was for the purpose of disposing of some oranges. “Sweet Florida oranges!” “How much?” “Three for a quarter.” “What train did Jesse run on?” “Any one that happened along. He most always picked his train when there were a good many passengers.” I looked around and saw there were few persons in our coach and I felt easier. Soon the train boy came in with some prize packages. “Are you sure Jesse James is dead?” I asked. “Of course he’s dead. Bob Ford fixed him. By the way, a life of the Ford brothers would sell by the million right now.” “And do you think the revolver will be discarded altogether in train robberies now ?” “Eh?” “Do you think your business will henceforth be conducted without the revolver ?” “I don’t know what you mean,” said the perplexed train-boy. “Well, I mean to ask if the good old days when a man like Jesse James used to come ip, place a revolver against a passenger’s head, take his money and valuables and go away leaving him to rfde in peace the rest of his journey—I say I mean to ask if those good old days* are gone?” “I reckon they’re about played out,” said the triumphant rival. I wept.— Aurora News. *■ Nothing annoys the keeper of a railroad restaurant more than to have one customer ask in a rather loud tone of another : “Have you ever tried plating war-ships with this kind of sandwiches?”

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