The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1888-05-03

gone into a slow decline and pined
away, refusing to be comforted.
In this they were not different from
most people, for love is never an in
Simultaneous creation like a bruise
that follows a sharp blow; it is like q
blossom that cannot have its being
until the seed is sprouted, the plant
grown and the young bud has been
formed. Place two young people OF
opposite sexes in position that
brings them constantly into each 9th.
er's company, and unless their natures
are mutually repellant at the ont.
set, they will at length conceive an
affection for each other. 1t is q natur.
al result of natural causes.
There was nothing to obstruct the
course of the love of John and Ella;
both were fortunate in having their
respective parents still living, but the
latter interposed no objectiops to
what promised to be u happy union.
Nor was there anywhere a rival to
John, nor any coquette to charm him
away from the object of his affec.
tions.
At length the time came when John
decided to ask Ella to be his wife. He
did it without the fear and trembling
and the agony OF suspense that have
come to be considered the mental
conditions OF a young man about to
propose matrimnny to young wom-
an. Nor did he come prepared with
set speech, nor cast himself upon one
knee while declaring himself, nor cay
that he could not do without her. In
fact he knew beforehand pretty posi-.
lively what her answer would be, so
he merely drew her little closer he
was sitting beside her-and said gen.
thy:
ELLA, you know that I love you,
will you marry me?"
Ella did not remark, to her credit be
it said, that this was ali so sudden,
that she must have time to think. It
was not sudden, for she had expected
it; why should:t she. So she merely
placed her hand in his and simply an.
swered:
"Yes."
For some reason that ! could never
clearly understand, writer's always
consider this the proper place to
''draw the curtain" 1 refuse to do so.
] wlllev venture the assertion that
John kissed Ella several times or Oft
ener. and she did not blush every
time as though it were something to
be ashamed Of. Then they discussed
plans for their future, and it became
quite late when John started to 20
home. | forgot to remark that all this
occurred at the home of Elias par
h> Ia,
Elias resignation was now soon to be
accepted, as the reader might have
supposed.
John did not linger for four hours
on the front stoop before leaving; he
went at once after he had started,
first having hidden his aftianced an
appropriate good-by, or rather good.
| night. He did not walk on air as so
many lovers do on similar occasions
in the writer's n,ind-his steps were
decidedly upon the earth, and the de-
cidedness thereof was about the only
outward manifestation Of any exulta.
ton he felt. He was glad; contented
with all the world and with himself,
and consequently happy.
Ella likewise felt happiness within
her, but she did not go to the seclu-
sion OF her chamber and sob out her
JOY. She retired and slept soundly.
With others this would have been
the proper place to insert loads
Of agony and grief and distress;
but / am not like others in this
respect. After remarking that in due
season John and Ella were married.
and that they lived in domestic nap
p1ness thereafter, my story is finished,
and may add that any other young
couple would have received the same
treatment at my hands as did John
and Ella.
But, says the reader, there is no
plot, no romance in such tale as
this. True, there isn't; but that is
not my fault; that is the fault of life.
There is no depth, no vigor about the
love you attempt to portray. adds
the disappointed reader; it is cold, in
sipid, Hat. Do you think so, kind
peruser? Perhaps you imagine that
love is sort of a cyclone that comes
without warning, rips everything to
pieces and tears around generally un.
til it gets tired and goes away some
where. That is wherein you are mis-
VoNCus 1911 v lIhc ClIdU AC Ill, lOV0
isn't. There may be sort OF feeling
that operates in that wild fashion,
but it isn't love, it is-well, I'll be
hanged if l know what it is-passion,
perhaps.
Real love is the sunshine that comes
with the dawn OF life's days; that
grows warmer and more gladdening as
it tends to the zenith, whose night
not the darkest cloud of sorrow can
entirely shut out, and which abides
until existence itself is swallowed up
in the night OF eternity. There, how
| is that? l thought that sentence out
myself.
All the foregoing is not exactly in
my line, but did the best knew how.
At any rate,if you don't like this kind
OF love story, you are not obliged to
like it, you know.-Albany Express.