The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1883-03-23
SHATTERED IDOLS.

chances, which few women failed to un-
derstand, which this woman recognized
and unconsciously welcomed, although
she dropped ever so little beneath its
light and warmth.
Aren't you going to say that you are
glad to see me this morning?" he asked,
after pause.
II am surprised" she replied.
"a fine evasion. You are surprised,
and perhaps disappointed.
perhaps 1 am. Don't you wish I
would confess?"
Eyes"
Il am glad you Came, for now have
something more entertaining than
Trollope's stupid novel"
"Did the novel cause the tears / saw
in your beautiful eyes?"
"There are no tears there"
clears are easily dried, especially a
woman's. You have been crying"
"Ha, ha! You mistake the mood.
was laughing. You know we sometimes
laugh until the tears come"
Eyes, but not over Trollope novels.
/ know" he answered, regarding her
curiously; but he did not say he under
stood the chemistry of tears, and could
distinguish one of the first water from
rata drop Those few wasted tears
seemed to obliterate for time selfish
scruples.
Louis Rodman was an idealist, a
worshiper. He admired the virtues
that fancy could picture and potent
thought could mold into form. You
are not interested sufficiently in the
casual acquaintance of such character
to care whether his nose is Roman or
Grecian, whether his complexion is dark
or light, whether his teeth are compli-
ment to nature or the art of dentistry.
He was psychologist, and handled
dexterous1y the sharp-edged AK of
thought He cut cold creeds TO pieces,
and when the trenchant AK would not
perform the work, the iconoclast's ham,
mer was used until its echo came back
from the hills
What cares the intelligent reader for
the mold of such man? The mind,
clothed with the beauty of thought, is
more enchanting than the form of god
crowned with roses.
Louis Rodman had dual nature, he
was an IDEALS and an iconoclast. His
nimble fancy created and his cold
thought CONCEALED the image until it
crumbled like the icicle that drops from
the cornice to the hard pavement, shat
tered in a thousand pieces. But up to
the present time the image of an ideal
woman, fair, wonderfully fair and mar
vellously beautiful, with eyes as bright
as the stars, but so very much nearer
to him than those distant luminaries,
was his idol.
AS the sun was over the hills, and
great shadows of giant shapes cast
themselves at their feet while the birds
shot rp a wild strophe to the approach
ing king of day as it gradually pro-
ceeded TO the zenith, and the COO morn
ing air, brought, as it seemed,,a messen-
ger from mountain haunts and bubbling
springs, Rodman caught the aroma of
the morning hour, AID, getting very
close to the side of Miss Ferris, he
placed his hand on her shoulder and
pointed in poetic admiration to the
ascending mist and fog that left the
mountain peaks uncovered by the matin
mantle.
While she listened he told her the
legend OF the Kings daughter who hid
herself in the recesses of a mountain to
avoid hated marriage, but a wicked
'enchanter, meeting her there, changed
her into a mountain torrent that leaped
down the mountain side in white fury
of despair; that raced and shrieked
among the purple crags and wooded
peaks, and tore itself into ragged shreds
and wreathcd itself in rainbows and
e a L.
venturer, till the huntsnan called it tho
mad torrent; how for miles away YOU
might hear this sound modulated by
distance ~ n dOlOrOus minor tone-an
accent full of sorrows, and when frosts
came and petrified all its tumbling
trouble and bound its wild strength,
one could detect its murmuring under
the dry feathers, sobbing to itself in q
frozen whisper, moaning and complain
ing in passion of signs, and the mount
ain shepherds would say: "The Mad
Torrent dreams over her woe and strug-
giles in her dream" But on the first
spring night, when the air was full of
earth-damps and the forgotten fragrance
of violets, they would awake with
chilly horror of impending avalanche
and listen to the mad torrent calling with
hundred fearful voices for its deliver
ance from the torment, For the legend
ran that when the true lover of the
Kings daughter set out with staff and
scrip to find his sweetheart he came at
last to q foaming cataract that fell in the
image of lady yelled; and, weeping,
he stopped to drink of it, and the cruel
enchanter stepped behind and pushed
him, and the cataract washed him down
in spite of itself, rending the air with
terrible cries, and throwing out dozen
powerless arms; bat he was never seen
again. The mad torrent had method
In its madness.
"I suppose" said Miss Ferris at this
point, "that a lesson is to be learned
from the legend"
eyes," replied Rodmsn. Love is an
irresistible impulse, love is the en-
chanter."
"Yes, but the lover stopped to quench
his thirst. It was not the longing of the
soul that led him to the cataract. Thus
IL is ever with lovers. 1t is self, not
self-abnegation, that leads them to our