The Kimball graphic. (Kimball, Brule County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1905, 1886-10-22

trance and listened. A stream OF peo-
pie, jeweled, satined, and prismic
under the showering light, were pass
ing in. but he could hardly see them,
his blood was throbbing So Suddenly
there was sweeter melody; wave of
human voices, strong, smooth, har-
monious, that swelled and sank upon
the undulating organ food and charged
the air with sympathy.
1t was stronger than the ragged
child; with lips parted and eyes hungry
he entered. Oh! Oh! what beautiful
place! music, light, color, and frag-
rance! He stood bewildered. Then
suddenly he felt himself softly pushed
and heard a low, menacing voice bid him
quit the place, and he looked up at the
stately, odorous usher, and shrank out
of the great doorway into the shadows
again.
Then the music fell away into silence.
and odors delicate and faint and sounds
subdued and restful foated out tho
SPLENDID doorway past the child. Then
even, mellow, and handled like music,
The minister was praying, but prayer
to little Tim was something all un-
known. Like words that were flowers
it drifted by him, long train of soft
melodious clauses. He could not un!
derstand it, but he felt its beauty.
The thread of humility run
ming though it, the ten
der pleading, the pathos. and the gen.
tie alteration sent great wave of lone
illness across him; kind of clear, thick
darkness, an isolation that was plain,
crushing medium like heavy envelop-
ing iron. All, how widely he was iso-
lated from every heart and every good!
He could not comprehend why. but his
condition crushed in upon him like de-
scendlng death, until quailing and moan
ing he sank beneath it and crouched in
the shadow on his bare knees, with his
face against the cold wall of the Fathers
house, he wept and struggled. Sud-
denly great peal of music swept up
voices and organ-chords in a lifting,
joyous flood, and the child, as if Gods
voice had called him. leaped in at the
doorway and stood stralning and wav-
ering in the light. Only a moment he
stood there, wild with thirst for COM
fort, quiyering to be saved; then that
musky presence rose again before him,
and the usher's big white hand grasped
him and led him to the entrance.
There the stately presence muttered
something, pushed him little, and
turned away, and ragged Tim, lame.
and oil but blind with fright and feeling,
tripped and plunged headlong down
the fight of granite steps. glanced from
the curving base with cry of pain,
rolled into the shadow, and lay still.
\ The anthem flowed on, but the child
did not hear it. 1--WE thank thee, O
Lord, that THOU art merciful," it peal
ed; "that thy strong arm doth save the
righteous and confound the wicked!"
and itswelled and died away. Then the
pastors lingual music came again,
mellow. pleasant, perfect; round, edge
less words that wove like velvet shut
ties dissolving, beauteous fabric be-
fore his people. For an hour it rose
and fell, science and revelation, linked
and interfused with poetry and fine
allusion; but ragged Tim, lying there
in the shadow with his oozing temple
on the uncushioned granite, gave no
heed.
The pastors sermon melted into
silence, the glinting organ-pipes throb-
bed and trembled with their freight of
melody again, wave after wave of blent,
harmonious voices tloated out upon the
buoyant, billowng medium of the
pipes, the benediction fell, and out the
arching entrance rustled the throng,
with smiles and salutations, flash of
jewel and eye, soft speech and happy
laughter, but the little rag-heap in the
shadow made no sign.
The doorway to the Fathers house
was closed; sleep Tapped the pastor and
his people in its dream engendering
fleece; dew gathered on the wall above
the fallen child, and crickets in the
grass-fringe round the fag-stones
rasped the silence.
The moon rode slowly over, the stars
strove to take it in their silver net but
lost it to the dawn; the east took fire
with morning.
But little Tim slept on. No friend
was there, no word of pity; only 4
cricket singing at his ear, and the dew
trckling down the cold wall upon his
piteous face, as if the very rocks shec
tears for their dead. .-Alpa Milton Kerr
in the Current.