Clarksville weekly chronicle. (Clarksville, Tenn.) 1873-1890, 1886-10-23
= A rALE oF rHe NOW. rtyl



An American story By an American
| Author Using American Ingredients.
The glcrifed and infiamed west was Just
deepening Into rosy twilight, and the eastern
hills were In the act OF peeiing of their ruddy
robes for the night, when well dressed
Englishman Of American descent might have
been seen vending his way in a northeasterly
direction, regardless OF the gathering night.
He was tall, 1.-THE and pimply in the ex-
treme, with large, wistful, dewy eye. The
other eye was also in the samr condition. His
name was Edmund Clayborne Briggs, a do
mesticated Englishman from Massachusetts
He was a self made man; but, aside from
that, he had never done anything reprehen-
sible.
Edmund Clayborne Briggs ancestors bad
toiled for a livelihood, for they were an igno-
rant people and did not know any better. He
was engaged IN trying to overcome this In
herited desire for industry strange, NOR
bid yearning for something to do His sue
cess thus far had been phenomenal. Still he
hoped to accomplish even greater things IN
that direction
His dress was that of a young man born on
American soil but who had tried TO conceal
the disgusting and terrible fact from the eye
of the world His pantaloons were worn flow
ing in the legs and glossy across the seat. All
that he had done thus far In life had been In
the sedentary line He was proud OF the fact
that his hands were not hardened by low,
coarse toll. Some had claimed that there
werc bunions on his brain where self-esteem
was located but that was only an Idle rumor.
and this is no place for anything Of that
kind
How sorry he felt for those who wore
American shoes and New York hatsl As be
stood leaning against fence, feeling strange
yearning for something more definite, he
looked down at his own English-mnde shoes,
with their fat and pussy" appearance, their
droop in the middle and their wide, over
fed choked look. He felt OF his youngest
pimple and looked at. the stars, which were
just coming out one by one.
We will leave him there few moments
while we pass on to briefly describe a young
thing named Vaselinia Couture, who stands
in the bay window patiently waiting for US to
do so. She is not neglecting her other work,
however, for she hos no other work. She feels
that she was born TO be loved, and though she
has been out of job good deal Of the time,
that. is her business. To love and be loved Ii
her aim in life.
She loves Edmund with all the deep, rip.
snorting torrent Of her intense nature. She
IL like him, for she dislikes those who per
spire. Her father was toiler, and now, al
the age of SIS, be is an old man.
She will take warning and shun the mad
maelstrom in which he has wrecked his young
life She shudders as she thinks OF it. She
Iecoils Il costs her an effort, but she re
coils. She then stands on the other FOOT
awhile as she peers through the cleaning.
Let us look at her for moment as shs
peers through said cleaning Her brow !,
low, and it looks still lower, because sht
wears her hair tossed wildly over 1t in little
faky, fluffy gibets of redness, while at th
back of her head it is caught up into an In
famed doughnut and held in place by til
dagger. Her throat is long and flexible, an
the poise of her head, which she wears at tht
upper end of her swan like throat, Is frs
rate. The air Is one of dislain She has
naughty way Of taking out her gum an,
seeking it on the ceiling that reminds one Of
duchess in good spirits.
She now changes back to the other foot
and looks yearnfully out through the gather
ing HlSuI. IlSi uJbltuu6 ~ OHb With
painter might long strive to portray o.
canvas and fail to catch. Her dress is cut s
Us to conceal her shoulder blades as far q
possible, and she wears large wooden button
on the points Of her elbows, so that she wi
not scratch the marble top dressing case wheI
she leans on it in order to ponder fe,
hours over the interrogatory, "Why was
bornT
The night has almost instantaneously grow
intensely dark. 1t is as dark as the interio
of benighted Ethiopian. The wind is sigh
ing through the trees, and seeking out th
belated gentleman whose underwear has bee
worked up into rag carpet.
"And will be never, never conner mul
murs Vaselinia as she sits on one OF her fee
on the lounge and huns a low refrain, Ell
titled Climbing up the Golden Stair"
The bell now reverberates and Edmun
enters They looked into each others eye
but all is vacancy there. 1t is what they el
pected.
Anon Edmund seats himself. 1t is his no
NAL condition. In his hand he holds a car
with white celluloid head to it. How
envies the cane Thoughtfully he leans TO
ward with the whole white top of the site
immersed in his mouth He is just about
speak when there is sharp, resonant expl
sion, a dull cry Of alarm from Vaselinia, Il
smell of gun cotton camphor, hair oil, dar
aged ideas and escaping gas.
Il