The Redwood gazette. [volume] (Redwood Falls, Minn.) 1873-1940, 1878-03-21

l
he bore no physical signs of being al
old man. He stood erect. lacking ever
the depression of chest that is charac
teristic of his craft; his eyes were full
clear and steady; and the slight toucl
Of silver in his whiskcrs made his face
stronger rather than weaker. HI
could not have been more thar
forty; he might easily have
passed for thirty-fivc. The oldest
thing about him was his costume
That was always and conspicuously ir
the pathetic second childhood of decay
and always, too, out of harmony with
the prevailing weather, thus appearing
to have been left over from the proceed.
ing season. The summer that saw SC
much of him he wore y heavy, dingy
beaver-cloth coat, usually buttoned to
the chin with clerical exactness-too
often. apprehcnd, only to hide the
want of II shirt: and he declared to me
with every indication of truth that a
pair of brown cotton Oyeralls had
served to temper the bitter Illinois
winds to his shuddering frame through
the previous winter.
1.-The peacock is a pretty bird" he
remarked to me once, casually dis
coursing upon this matter of apparel,
but it doesn't count; with all its
gaudy feathers, it can't sing worth a
cent. 1t looks well, but it's music is the
most abOminablc noise ever heard
and l have boarded in house where
they kept melodeon," he added, with
a conclusive toss of the head.
Like most printers, "Old Noah was
a good deal of cynic, though
his cynicism was so closely woofed
| with a subduing sincerity that it
was very difficult, frequently quite
impossible, to tell where the one left
off and the other began. AS l have
said, he looked upon life as play, and
he was fond of reciting Shakespeare
"Scven Ages" in support of this idea.
Its all right" he would argue, las
long as you don't care. That's the
whole secret. Ignorance is bliss, Oft
ener than we think; it's knowing too
much that bothers people, and if you're
bothered you can't enjoy the show,
don't you see? 1t isn't altogether un-
likely, let me tell you, that well-be-
haved dog, asleep in the sun and sure
of bone for his dinner, isn't better off
than we are, with all our wisdom, and
all our doubts And yet he rever-
enced wisdom, am sure, and respect
ed all honest opinions, and think that,
away down in his heart, lurked quiet
faith in the saving power of virtue; but
doubt if he believed very much in the
naked moral strength of human nature.
know he once sorely tried my patience
in that regard. Twas telling him how
George Insley, known to us both as a
hardened specimen of the printer-toper,
had taken the pledge and was manfully
keeping it; and after l had finished,
with the assurance that Insley had not
tasted liquor for nearly six months Che
subsequently shot himself, poor fell
lowD, he dropped his head moment,
and then looking up with an incredu-
lous smile, said quietly:
''There W0S some truth in those
Arabian Nights stories. then, after
all?''
Singularly enough, too, his skepti-
cism was confined to his own sex; sim
gularly, say, for he was man, you
that the snake had to charm and be-
tray" he was accustomed to put it;
4" Adam fell as matter of course"
This was little sophistic, to be sure,
as much of his logic was apt to be, but
the sentiment of it was so knightly
that it readily won him credit among
his critical fellow-printers, even at the
expense of some disloyalty to their
own personal sense of masculine supe-
riority.
He had been in love, once in his life,
this catered prodigal, and the venture
had not been what could be called q
complete success. He told me all
about it, of his own accord, one restful
night as we sat on the bridge at the
foot of Kansas avenue. listening to the
Iuiver of the cottonwood foliage, and
watching the river slowly gather the
shadows to its tawny bosom. He was
religiously sober that night, for a won
der, and felt that it must have been
some subtle witchcraft of the at
mospherc, rather than the few
$3.50 remarks We had just been
exchanging about Phil Rcade's mar
riage with the winsome little singer,
Minnie Beals, that 50 suddenly drew
his eyes away from the water and out
into the vague perspective beyond the
shore, and sent his thoughts
backward with bound, as it were, to
the rich days when every sky was blue
to him and every sound a rapture of
harmony.
"She was a good, solemn GIRL" he
began, "and l think her intentions
were honorable all the time. l know,
now, that she was not handsome, for
her eyes were crossed slightly, and her
cheek-bones were high, and her chin
had a retiring turn-the face didn't
hair inclined to redness; but she was as
beautiful to me, then. as q flower. and
loved her very dearly. was holding
the ad.' cases on the Quincy Herald,
in Illinois, at the time, and saving
some money every week. was ex-
pecting to be u man of family, you
know. had fixed in my own mind
what kind of house we would have,
where we would buy our groceries, how
the children would look and what we
would name them, and hundred other
things that I'm ashamed to think
of now. But it was all very
real to me then, l tell you.
Not that l ever spoke to Isabel
pretty name, wasn't it?-about such
matters. Oh, no. We were very
sensible pair of lovers, l can assure
you, and our courtship was painfully
correct. There was none of the yon
bright orb nonsense about us. We
weren't bit spooney. We didn't turn
the light down, nor hold each others
hands, nor say darling Not any.
Once, only once, put my arm around
her waist, and might have kissed her,
may be, but she looked squarely into
my face, and said, You forget and
that was all there was of it. l used
to wish, sometimes, that she would be
a little more demonstrative-onc gets
tired of mere words, you know, in takes
of that kind-but perhaps-perhaps it
was better as it was"
He paused and pressed his hands to
his forehead, as if he feared the sweet
memory would slip away from him in
his talk; and sat waiting for him to
nrOceed huavinr nveo1f p,oonvh;1o