Cheyenne transporter. [volume] (Darlington, Indian Terr.) 1879-1886, 1885-05-25

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When evening came, | would 90 to
our house, could not call it home
and sit under the vines, the vines
which Maud had trained with such
tender care. My little angel His
face was ever before me. found one
of his shoes in closet. kissed it.
Weary months crert along in tresome
stretch. l had written many letters
to many distant friends, yet no one
could tell me where could find my
wife. Critics said that my work had
become melancholy. Is not the leaf
melancholy when the frost falls upon
it? The precious essence of life had
been squeezed from my soul. Time
and again l prayed that might die.
! Once | heard a man. who did not think
that was near, say that | was losing
my mind. He was wrong. | had
too much of my mind. i wrote n
book. IL was sad cry, rather than
voice of sentiment, but the people
bought it. How surprised l WAS.
Why do gay people like to read lines
of Sadness why does the gilded but
tertly light upon the withered flower?
don't know.
When friend asked me to take
drink, said "no." didn't say Il be-
lieve not" said "no." Sometimes
the "hoofed" tempter would whisper
in my ear, but when | turned upon
him, he would apologize and retire.
The scoundrel! The world is full of
news, but there was no news of Maud.
She must have heard of my book, and
knowing that such book could have
only been written by a sober man,
why did she not come back to me L
wandered aimlessly; | strolled with
out pupose. | took no delight in the
attentions which literary people paid
me. How could fair society smile up
on such wretch? A magazine said
that had once been drunkard, and
in encouragement to other men, held
me up as an example.
One day, in a section of country
which | had never before visited, [
strOlled through an almost painless
forest. suddenly came upon little
log school house. / would have pass
ed on but voice held me.
Children, SAID the voice, 81 am
glad that you love me- but | must
leave you. l must go back to my hus-
band who has become a noble man.
We have long known each other and
the separation will be painful, but /
!, muSI 70. Il nave IOlu YOU VI VIC dulHoI
, of the book which read to you. That
man is my husband-E1enry's father.
, He does not know that Henry and |
, pray for him"
Maud" exclaimed, fllnging
open the door and springing into the
room.
"Oh, John ~
, Her tears and mine fell on Henry's
head THANK God" l said. Thank
I God" Maud cried.
Into the room where l sit, the sun
beams fall. From the window, / see
Henry, riding a stick horse. l have
just told him little story, how the
calf and the old dog went to Il picnic.
He incredulOuslv shook his head, but
accepted the recital without verbal
disapproval. l am in constant dread.
, lest he be snatched from me, but why
. should hep Fate, after all, is not so
= cruel. Above my head hangs beau
7 tiful picture of man in whose hands
G are clasped the hands of q woman.
| The picture of the man bears some re-
O semblance to me, but the fair artist
Y has not done credit to the woman.
Il Maud painted the picture. Many peo-
h pie come to look at it, Art critics say
r that it is a master piece, but Maud
{ declares that she deserves no credit
f for its production that her soul in
@ stead of her hand, guided the delicate
l. tracings of the brush. We are be-
sieged by the attentions of distln-
O gnished visitors, but when thcy are
o. gone. we clasp each other in loving
IL -snss,~ <Sf