The Warner sun. (Warner, Brown Co., Dakota [S.D.]) 1885-1???, 1886-04-02
HER HUSBAND.

Good Americans, when they die, go
to Paris. Bien! My terrestrial para
disc is Brussels-Les Bruxelles-with
it's glory ofmedinva grandeur,
relieved by the flashing brilliancy OF
its gay boutiQues; it's host ofwarriors
in dazzling uniforms; its capoted
priests; it's round-armed Flemish
bonnes beneath whose abbreviated
petticoats the little feet, shod in
wooden sabots, patter merry music
on the pavement.
This bijou Paris is a dream to me,
glorifed by the remembrance that
here l fell down metaphori2ally and
worshipped the sweetest ideal ofwom-
anhood apainter's brain could picture
Maria Wigson.
Igrant that Maria is not a roman
tic name; that Wigson does not sug-
gest poetic surroundings and blue
blooded refinement; but bless you,
that tall, graceful girl with the dreamy
brown eyes would have doubled-dis-
counted the proudest princess inChrist-
endom.
Isat opposite to her one fatal day
at the table d'hote of the hotel de l.
Europe, and forthwith collapsed, with
out an effort to a myself from my
fate.
Before the fish and soup were re-
moved, | felt the thrilling influence OF
her presence; with the entrements |
reached a seventh heaven of adora-
ton; and when the tasse of black col
fee with a dash of cognac in it arrived
laid the last fragment of my shatter-
ed heart a willing captive TO her love
illness.
You may think that / possessed
rather a gushing, spooney tempera-
meet; but you never knew Maria Wig
son, so ! forgive the hasty insinua-
tion.
But / had for a time to confine my
expression of admiration to tender
chances, for my divinity was hedged
IN by an insurmountable barrier In the
shape of a father and mother who
were without exception, the stiffest,
starchest specimens of British snobo-
crazy it was eve my lot to meet.
More unmeetable than icebergs, they
frowned down every approach on my
part with an ""aughy haspect' that
disdained toscrape acquaintance with
q poor devil OF a wandering Yankee
journalist.
To no purpose | bribed the head
waiter to seat me next to my idol at
the dinner table. l could not find
pretense or screw up courage for a
word.
Now on the Montaigne de la Cmur,
the State street of Brussels, there is
or was twenty years ago-a cigar
store, with an inner sanctum called a
divan, the admission to which was
only obtained by introduction-akind
of club, where travellers met for Cos
zip. 1t WAS much affected hu En-
gTIshmen, as all the London dailies
and alleged humorous journals were
on Hle.
One day / was just issuing from this
temple OF Nicotes, and had just stop.
ped to light my cigar at a torch held
by a bronze image of Cupid near the
door, when my head came in contact
with that Of q young man whom Ihad
not noticed, but who at the same mo,
ment bent forward with similar In
tent.
apologized.
"Ah," lie said, speaking with q slight
French accent. ut is nothing. Mon.
sieur is an E~nelishman, ! presumed"
sTgo." / said with a smile.
Indeed. You speak the Language
very we'll for q foreigner" he added,
dubiously.
There is another land than Eng
land where that language is spoken.
In the States we think that
.'Oh, you are an Americana" he in
tcrruped. Il am really glad to meet
you. Al few years ago / was fora short
time in your land.
AS we were talking we drifted up thu
hill toward the peak.
He spoke with admiration concern
ing whot he had seen in my country
and / saw that he was a keen observ
er. While generally complimentary
his remarks were spiced with a run
ming criticism, which was often based
on erroneous impressions, and undeI
whose aeceticism ! WINGED, especial,
az he had IN off-hand manner of op
posing my remonstrances with a shruI
of the shoulders, which meant 81
much, but was un~answerablc.
But when he came to decry my typ
o. all human perfection, the American
girl, fairly boiled over with indigna