Sharp County record., 1883-09-27
A COMMONPLACE HERO.

Morning at Erie. A faint breeze is
Blowing oft the land, that makes only
the lightesU rippleS on the surface of the
lake and bay. A mile or two out from
the shore few sails are outlined against
the horizon, and the course of a pro-
peller so far distant as not to be seen
may still be traced by light line of
smoke. The courthouse clock strikes
four long, lazy strokes, according to its
deliberate habit, and little later the
keeper of the Presqu' Isle lighthouse at
the entrance of the harbor puts out his
ight. He may well do so, for the flush
in the east has deepened into flame.
The slender shaft of the water-tower is
crimson at its summit, and the city
spires one after another are tipped with
fire. Upward comes the sun and down.
ward sinks the glow. The water-tower
is crimson pillar now, the ungainly
elevators at the waters edge look al
most beautiful in the fair light, the trees
on Presqu' Isle are bathed in it, and the
distant sails redden as it touches them.
Still upward comes the sun till the hori-
zon line can no longer conceal it, and
it seems as if it must in moment more
come rolling in fiery splendor along the
blazing path it has burned across the
water. A small boat from the life
saving station crosses the glowing track,
and red drops flash from the cleaning
oars. And now the whole broad lake
glistens as the sun climbs higher, but
the red glow has gone, the glory has
faded, and another commonplace day
. has begun.
A commonplace day to you or to me;
but never yet did there dawn a day that
was not ere its close consecrated by
some act of loyalty to the best emotions
of the human heart, You or | may
have watched the splendor of the dawn
inc day from Garrison Hill, and gone
home thrilled with its grandeur, only
to forget q few hours later the fine
feelings that have sprung up within us,
the vague aspirations that the sight has
evoked. For us, then, the Splendor has
been exchanged for the commonplace.
Frank Gaskell has had no time this
morning for seeing the sunrise from
Garrison Hill, had he wished to do so,
which is quite unlikely. A sewer con-
tractor with large force of laborers in
his employ is not usually a man to
whom sunrises appeal in any eSthetic
way, or one who INDUCES in vague talk
about the commonplace. And, looking
at Frank Gaskell, you will say he is the
last man of whom anything "vague"
can be predicated. A tall, well-built
fellow of thirty, only passably good
looking, but with firm mouth, and
eyes whose angry flash the workmen
under him do not care to encounter.
When he speaks it is in short, nervous
sentences that leave no doubt of his
meaning. Alert, keen and energetic,
he allows no idlers about him, and you
would call him merely pushing, COM
mon-place man, and seek to know no
more of him. At present he is con-
ducting the excavations in Poplar street
preparatory to constructing a sewer for
that locality, and very busy this occu-
patton keeps him. Through the middle
of the street for several squares the cut
ing extends, its course marked by two
long lines Of sand and gravel. A yawn-
ing chasm twenty or more feet deep it
is, its walls carefully boarded at inter-
walls. Down there in the half"darkness
some of Gaskell's men are laboriously
digging, while others are hosting
buckets of earth to the surface and add
ing thus to the height of the yellow
piles on each side of the cutting. 1t is
nine O'Clock when Gaskell, after care
ful directions to the laborers on the
surface, descends to the bottom of the
s hi; a esssl 4si ssf
of the work there. As he passes slowly
along his quick glance takes in every
feature of the work. Now he stops to
direct some clumsy workman to use his
spade in less awkward way, and now
he pauses to tap the boarding at various
places to see if it can sustain the pres