The Portland daily press., 1879-02-22


To watch the ways OF men"
= CornhiU Magazine.
fFrom Blaclwood's Magazne.l
Heather.
Julius. Hi, good dog! Here! Come out
of the sun, you four-legged idiot! Many
years in my company, and still so little wis
dom. EhP What2 "Only dogs and Eng
ilshmen walk in the sum-" have heard
something TO that effect before, but forgive
you. Sit here under my LETT arm. That is
better. You are much to be pitied in that
you cannot lean your back against the smooth
fore you. / too can lie on my stomach, if it
please me, but you cannot, for all your aspi.
ration, lean your back against tree in COM
fort. Nor, though you cock your ear like
critic, do you care jot for that faint signing
overhead, which even on this stillest of sum-
mer days Is sweet to hear. Nor do those
bright, intelligent eyes perceive the beauty OF
heather. See how my right arm, half sunk
en-, lies along this turf, which is springy as
the very finest smoking room sofa, and beau
tiful-yes, by the immortality of humbug!
more beautiful than the last creation of the
last aesthetic upholsterer! But heather is
healthy, irrepressible, and vulgar; it re-
bounds, 1t asserts itself; it is vulgar, vivid,
and healthy as those reapers out beyond the
wood, where the sun smites the wide field
golden. Heather is vulgar, and probably its
color Is uOyGnt to the well-ordered eye. In
truth this England has become strange
place, Aurelian, while you and l have been
knocking about the world. Here lie you in
the shade Of the old pine-wood, and wag your
Italian incurable Philstne. Here lie I
happy In the heather, and wag my Java
PhilistIne-but perchance TO be cured and be-
come 0blivious Of Ascalon. Aud the strange
thing Is that we were wont to value ourselves
on our taste. On this very spot have we re-
posed side by side, as now, and been well
pleased with ourselves. Were / as once
was, should hug myself with Joy of that
broad cortland, all Danae to the sun, of the
blue through the dark f1r-tops; should turn
an idle eye to the hard whiteness of the road
away on the right, where you delayed in the
glare and ran the risk of madness, and then
bless myself that could feel the entire charm
OF a bed of heather spread in the shade for
me. But now am beset by doubts. What
II heather be vulgar3 1t pushes, 1t rebounds,
it asserts Itself; 1t Is decked with purple bells.
1t Is not sunfower; it does not even wish
to be . sunfiower;it it is not wasted by one
passionate sweet desire to become sun
flower; 1t seems to be content with itself
content as thriving grocer. Has EIfrida
become sunfower? She used to be great
fun. She was once little girl, but now a
young lady. She would not agree with the
heather. Under the dark pine trees, her
dark-green gown would be but bit of the
shadow, and she unseen save for the sunshine
of her hair. o wheat, out in the happy field.
where the reaper is singing or ought to be!
oh-but rhapsody is out of date. Elfrida
has changed, o my dog, since the DAYS when
she was Ell, and rode the old horse bareback.
aud played cricket with the boys, princess
and witch of the schoolroom, elf of this wood
and utter fairy! She is beauty now and
her garments are as the dead leaves of the
forest for number and color, and her head is
little bowed on one side as the head of a
lily, and her face is a comely mystery. These
are brave words, Aurelian. Yet there is
none like her. What does she think Of me ?
Were lover, thus idle in the sweet shade,
would solve the question by some pretty
test, as thus: She loves me--she loves me
not; she loves-no; she-but perceive that
you do not like me to pluck hairs from your
tail; and yet have called you friend these
many years. Let the question remain unan-
swered. Or let us be wise, and know she
loves us not.
Sing little bird in the tree,
But not because my love loves me-
For she does no such thing;
Therefore for your good pleasure only, sing.
Thank you. And now for luncheon. Now
is the hour, when in eating-houses all the
change, clatter OF plates, and hum of talking
and eating. Here there is no bustling waiter
nor scent OF roast Joint, but only crust of
bread, an apple, and pure air. We're this
my last crust of bread you should share it.
I'll well, however. that you have no taste
for apples, he would have tempted you
with tea and chop: Steady! Don's bolt
your bread, and will find biscuit in my
pocket. Be dignified, as becomes traveller
and one who has had losses. Have 1 lost
something rareP cannot say. But if I
had not so longed to see the world, might
have gained something, when an Ell was
tenant of this old wood. What? Enough ?
Why these extravagant demonstrations, this
wagging of the tail, and, indeed, of the entire
bodyp What do you see? Who is it?
Elfridai I did not think you would come out
to-day.
Efrida. Is it not beautiful?
Jul. Yes
The valleys stand so thick with corn that they do
laugh and sing.
Elf-
Tears from the depth Of some divine despair.
Rise IN the heart and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields.
Jul. 1t Is scarce autumn yet. Let it be
summer still: and let us laugh with the VAL
leys. Consider that broad beauty IN the
sun.
ElG Is 1t not exquisite, pathstlcq
Jul. Is it?
ElE Oh yes.
Jul. Not too bright, too garish?
ELI Perhaps tits. did not think that
you would feel that.
Jal. Oh, not too bright for me. like to
sit in shadow and stare into the sun. But
for you? l thought that you would resent
the shining Of the blue, the cleaning of
the yellow corn, the cheerfulness OF all
things.
Ell Are you laughing az mes I never
know.
Jul. laugh because YOU are here. t.
brings back other days. oh. don't sigh.
They were jolly, but none so jolly as this
Jollyl Let me say jocund.
Ell. think it is all too bright, 1t hurts
the eyes little.
Jul. Are they weak, those eyes?
Elf / think not.
Jul. think not.
Ell. But 1 like soft coiors best; don't
Jul Jul. IT Tender 9ds grey skies, tender green
ElE Oh yes. That is good. That is
like Lacave. 1t is only by studying the
french painters that one can learn to love
our grey y-green English landscapes, to com.
prehend their infinite tenderness.
Jul. 1t is hard even for French painter
to comprehend the infinite.
Elf Is 1t so hard? 1 wish you could see
his pictures. know so little, and L can't
explain myself; but he is so clever, and il is
All so true. should like you to know him,
Julius.
Jul. Let it be so. don't hate French
man. What does he paint?
Ell. On, wonderful still things, all rest
; ana nroodlng calm; a level grey-green sea;
s,. ,o.s, ose,; svel sands all grey with wan sea
sky. ''' "D1 ~" SOY
Jul. Always that?
Ell Yes, think so: but with infinite va
rlety In the monotone. ""
Jul He must have merry heart to keen
himwarm,er an endless cold in the head. Is
he iocund, this painter?