Clarksville weekly chronicle. (Clarksville, Tenn.) 1873-1890, 1880-12-25
For the CHRONICLE.
THE MISSION OF THE WIND.
DE- EvA.

f, One night in the early spring
time there arose a great sighini
r from the reeds which grew beside
silent river.
: At last from their pain was bori
/ little breeze, and as he resteC
lightly on their yellow bosoms, they
bent their slender heads down anC
kissed him. ''Dear child of oul
love-" they gently whispered, "we
have given you life in obedience tc
our masters will, but you must in
the twelfth hour of this night GO
from us. To you it is ordained tc
perform an holy mission, and we
we emust let you out of our arms. You
will spread your tiny wings and
float over the silent river to the
restless sea which lies beyond. Yon
flowing tide goes into it, and thus
you will find it. Turn westward
then and fly over towards the sun
set until you reach a strange Vene-
tian city built upon the ever-surging
waves. Once there, your mission
will be found" The masical voices
died away in broken murmurs, and
the reeds opened their arms.
The little Wind spread his soft,
gauzy wings and flew out over the
darkly-moving river. For days and
days he followed its course until one
evening at twilight a mass OF blush
water flashed into view. The sight
filled him with rapture, and his
wings grow suddenly strong. He
has reached the sea. With an ex-
ultant shout he widens them and
flies away and away. At last lights
of white-walled city are beneath
him, and he reaches the spires of a
great cathedral and hangs lowering
there. Then he swiftly descends,
reaching its arched doorway, and
watches with quivering sighs the
scene within.
The church is dimly lighted by
waxen tapers, and sweet music is
sweeping through its aisles, sweeter
far than even the song of his be-
loved reeds. At the marble altar a
girl is kneeling whose golden hair
makes an aureole about her, and
falls in silky lengths down her.
shoulders. Her fair face is raised
in prayer, and from beneath the
tender eyelids tears drop upon the
pearly cheeks. 81 wonder what
makes her weeD and look so sad,"
the Wind thinks, and he softly
steals through the church and waits
near her side. As he gets thus close
to her, he hears her praying. "Lord,
dear Lord, send us cooling breezes
for our plague-stricken poor. The
fever burns them up, dear Christ,
and we cannot help them. Oh,
send us a cooling wind" The Wind |
is filed with a tender joy. 81 can
help thee, sweet one," breathes he
in her ear; "only show me the
stricken quarter" AS his voice |
touches her hair, the girl, with a
glad cry, lifts her face, now dropped |
upon her arms, and cries: "The |
dear Christ has heard me, for the |
breeze has come" She hastens to
the sick and suffering ones, and the
Wind follows her gladly. All night |
long he fans their fevered brows
and parched lips, and at early sun
rise catches the red death floating
then over the city, into his strong
young arms; he hurries out over
the angry sea and casts him into its
resistless fury.
When at eventide he goes back
once more and sails by the dim old |
palaces, a face looks out Of an upper
so full of pain and despair
that he involuntarily stops to see it.
AS he looks at its WEAKNESS the |
voice says: "Oh, God, have toiled
all these years in vain? Must this
conception be always dead
because | cannot catch the divine
given by light and shad-
ows? Must my picture live only
in my heart because / cannot do
this-cannot make it speak to men
from lack of this one subtle touch ?''
The Wind in his great pity comes
nearer, and glancing through the
sees upon the opposite
wall wonderful painting. A thorn
crowned Christ hangs bleeding to
the heavy cross, and the cruel, jag
ged nails are in his hands. At his
feet stand the jeering soldiers and
rabble, and a laughing
devil is holding the sponge so filled
with bitterness. But upon that
beautiful face, with its broad, white
brow, there is a lack of something.
Even the Wind is aware of this, and
he wonders what it is. AS he gets
closer and closer to its loveliness,
his wings are lightly stirring the
heated air, and it causes the canvass
to sway back and forth. Sadly the
artist turns his face towards it, this
thing which is the joy and yet the
sorrow of his life. He has toiled so
long upon it; he has spent time and
love and all the genius of bis soul,
only to be baffied in the end. As
his eyes fall upon it, he cries wildly:
81 have it at last, thank God! /
have caught at last that divine ex-
preston of perfect patience and love
which has haunted me always" and
up his colors, he rapidly
touches the face here and there.
Then fiinging them down, he falls
upon his knees, while great sobs
shake his slender frame. "Dear
Christ" he says at last, "to the
Wind of the night do l owe that
heavenly look. AS it swayed you
by its breath in this fleeting light,
there fell upon your face that perfect
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