Frostburg mining journal. [volume] (Frostburg, Md.) 1871-1913, 1872-01-20
STORY OF AN INKSTAND,
WITH THE INKsTANp LErT our.

Win LIE lNhSIANp oOl
"That inkstand? Yes, it has a his
tory. l may as we'll tell it to you now
as any other time, | suppose. You
ought to be called the Great American
History Extractor, or Romance Ex-
tractor; for if there is a particle of ro-
nance in anything or anybody in a
place where you happen to be, you are
sure to scent it out"
"Of all days, this is the most glorious
'one for romance-the rain falling with
that steady. monotonous drip, drip,
drip; not a soul in the house but our
selves, and we so snug in this splendid
old library
Mag Hastings was indeed an indefati-
gable romance-hunter. She was always
looking for situations where the roman
tic predominated. She would have
succeeded as a dramatist, without
doubt. She was apparently as happy as
mortal could be on the morning in
question, nestled in the depths of my
scarlet lounge, perfectly certain that
she looked picturesque in her dark
green street suit, relieved by the dain-
tiest linen.
"Come here, pet! |" said she; and a
'uASh vi NIitC HOOly Will Il IlDDOn
tied at one end of it, marking spot
where in dog neck would be, trotted
mysteriously toward her. What pro
polling power there could be in the
shaggy thing was q wonder l never
could get over, but somehow it man.
aged to spring into Mag's arms, and
then the silence assured me that my
story was expected.
The surroundings were favorable for
storytelling, it is true. The room
heavily wainscoted with dark wood; the
cases of books of all times and of all
varieties; the long windows richly
draped with scarlet brocade, lined with
exquisite lace; the thick soft carpet of
mottled green; the Turkish lounges,
the quaint chairs, luxuriously uphol-
stored the bronzes on the mantle and
in inches and corners-bronzes that
told old stories of mythology; the en-
cravings on the wall; the little gems in
oil selected for their wonderful coloring
an autumn scene, a burning ship,
group OF German peasants; the glowing
fire of sea-coal, and the polished hearth
and fender-all appealed to the love of
the beautiful and the picturesque, while
the cold, unceasing rain, the bare,
gaunt trees, the dripping shrubbery,
and the blanched grass drove the
thoughts within for solace and amuse.
ment.
The inkstand that Mag Hastings re-
ferred to was pretty affair in Swiss
carving. 1t represented two little
peasants carrying water, the buckets
suspended from pole resting in hand
g. IL, h. H.. II
the ink receptacles, and the pole was
the pen-rack. 1t was poetic and real
istic at the same time, and as pretty a
trifle for a library table as one would
wish to see.
"The story is sad one, Mag" said l.
+" 1t will give you the blues for the rest
of the day."
$50 much the better" she answered,
with true dramatic love of the horri-
BILE" so much the better. I'd like to
be stirred up little. fear Pm too
comfortable. A little dash of imagina-
tive sorrow is needed to relieve this per-
feet enjoyment. A little shade throws
out the good points of anything, you
know. Isn't it so, pet ?'' and she
pinched the little appendage dignified
by the name of tail till a sharp yelp
came out of the soft white mass in her
arms. There, told you so, pet now
you'll know what true repose is"
" should scold you, Mag" said l, "if
it were the least use in the world. But
you are incorrigible; so l will go on.
Time will give you shadow enough,
without doubt"
"When | was in Venice" com.
menced.
In Venice |" exclaimed Mag, sitting
bolt upright, and giving the little dump,
ling of poodle push that brought
out a most spiteful yelp. "When were
you ever in Venice?'
"Why, you know, Mag, that l was
abroad more than two years. In fact, !
had Just returned when you and | be.
came acquainted" | replied, wondering
little at the unusual interest she ap.
peared to take in the commencement
of my story.
ooh, knew that" she replied. "But
never heard you say anything about
Venice;" again reclining and closing
her eyes, as much as to say, $50 on.
am at a loss to conceive what made me
so foolish as to disturb myself for SC
slight thing as the mention of for
eign and defunct CITY,"
Well, when was in Venice-I be
heve it was the second month of my
stay there-Charles came in one day
Charles is my husband) "from long
tramp about the Palazzo Loredan, the
Ca d. Oro-you know which l mean
the one built in the sixteenth century
in the oriental style, and restored by
Nile. Taglioni, the celebrated dancer