Butler citizen. [volume] (Butler, Pa.) 1877-1922, 1881-03-23

! Never lived there a man more
throughlv entertained than was he 1t
came hard upon Him at first-thickset,
vigorous veteran that he was. He
would come to his dinner hungry but
what with the talk of his wife in addi-
tion thereto, the music and singing, the
prose or poetry read to him. be would
return to the engine with a bewilder-
ing sense of having partaken of abun-
dant fare, and yet of being weaker
upon lis legs than be could have
wished SO especially of his evenings
No wife could have done more to in
terest her husband, and, none the less,
when be got TO bed at last he was al
most too tired to sleep.
Not because of the incessant clatter
of his wife. Little she imagined it,
poor thing. but her empty noise was
merely as that Of the mountain stream,
the millwheel the Gathering stones,
while the grist which was the result of
it all was the invention going ON in the
mind Of her husband whereby be could
hold and harness that portion of the
force which had escaped him for SO
many years How many a model had
he tinkered together in the privacy of
his engine-room when his fireman had
gone home, or lay sleeping sweetly
with smutted face beside his heaps of
fuel! But he was growing old, if not
hopeless, and he could not keep awake
il it were not for his wife and her mu-
sic and poetry While she played, sung,
talked, read to him, his mind was
stimulated thereby to work steadily
along toward the invention, revising,
correcting, experimenting, contriving.
The force could be caught. Tons of
dollars as we'll as coal were wasted
over the world in creating steam, which
at last barely touching the piston with
the tips of its fingers as it shirked its
way through the machinery, to sneak
out of it at the end a gigantic yet dis
reputable ioafer, disgrace to its crea-
tors Some man would catch and con-
troll ''the darned thing and make it
pay back, to the last ounce of its
strength, every cent it cost to generate
and direct it. Millions would be made
by the patentee; but it was not the
money John looked at, any more than
it was the fame. He cared 40 more for
that than he did for the skin of the rab-
bit when, as a country lad, he went
through the snow to look at his traps
set overnight What he wanted then
was the rabbit itself; what he wanted,
would have, was the force itself-the
cunning force escaping otherwise like
wild thing into the clouds
And so the eager wife would read
some poem about wild banditti, forlorn
damsels, towering castles lifting pima
cles in the thin air of her imagination,
and her husband, smoking as steadily
as his own tall chimney, his eyes fast
1, ned upon her, would listen intently to
his own inward coDtrivings, stimu-
lated thereto precisely up to the meas
IRE of the force but by her into her per-
formancc. There is not a soul of us hut
must confess with shame to something
of the same kind in our own case.
When listening decorously to powerful
sermons we are building a ship or a
sonnet, driving bargain or a spirited
horse, securing verdict or managing
a bank, the gifted preacher little sup
posing the directions in which his
pathos, persuasion, logic, were really
compelling US. So when listening to
music, to conversation. Could our
friend but know how and whittier he or
she was impelling US when we seemed
to be hearkcning SO intently!
One day Mrs Detmold was possessed
of new and brilliant idea when she
arose in the morning. 1t was of a
story in which the hero was to do deeds
more daring than man ever conceived
of before. As he was to be the hand
soonest of men, the heroine was to sur
pass all women in loveliness, devotion,
desperate during. After John had gone
to the Power House, and she had hur-
ried through her housekeeping, the be-
loved of the MUSES. seized her pen, took
blotted old atlas upon her lap, spread
her paper thereon, and wrote with
greater vehemence than. ever before.
Her ideas poured upon her; the words
came fast-long words, strong words
When she had got hero and heroine
through whirlwinds of tribulation, and
married them at last. enormously rich,
universally beloved by their happy
peasantry, with strong likelihood OF
their ascending the throne of their own
land, the gifted writer was all of a
trembling so much so that she was
GLAD John had taken his dinner to the
Power House with him that day and
lying down, she slept almost the after
noon through, rising in time to get sup
per, greatly refreshed.
Her husband had never been as hope
less of accomplishing his eld as when
he came home 20 supper But he saw
something in the thin face Of his spare
and scrawnv wife which told him of
what was coming. She gave him his
slippers and pipe when supper was end
ed, cleared the things away, placed
the old lamp on hemantel.
why don't you sit down to it, Til
da ?" John asked, as she stood, manu-
script in hand, beside the mantle-piece.
Not tonight. You'll see why, john
she said, and began to read. As she
began, her husband took up his latest
scheme, and began to examine it over
once more. She became more interest
ed so did he in his contrivance. Her
tones grew deeper, more tragic, as she
went on; valves, pivots, pistons, work
ed more readily, too, in Johns mental
manipulation. The story deepened in
interest, became thrilling; John actual
ly took his pipe from his lips, his eye
frightened as it fastened itself appar
entity upon the pallid face of his inspir
ed wife-really upon his new device.
Mrs. Detmold, quivering with excite
ment, led her hero and heroine through
their last, most terrible trial, brought