Morning journal and courier., 1889-01-10
NOT WHAT THEY SRKM.
Taking a Stuffed Club to Some of tn
 Romances of Life.

a Romances of Life.
 From the San Francisco Chronicle.l
 It was quite a romance. It might have made sweet, pretty, fearful novel, only it didn't. But it was quite romance. She
 was pretty girl, just about twenty, and of course she was charming She had had very serious illness. For some time they did not think she would get well, but she had strong constitution and was altogether too we'll fitted for life to lose it easily. She got we'll enough to be angry with the doctor l and accuse him of deceiving her because he did not tell her she was going to die when l she was so i'll. Just as she was convalescing the doctor told her he had young man, in- 1 teresting, & stranger patient, living exactly opposite She immediately became wild to be allowed to get to the window and see | him. But the doctor forbade her for several
 drys. At last he said she might get out of bed, and-well, we'll, just to think of it. | When the sun was shining and the world was ell so fair, the first thing she wanted to
 see was tha: interesting young male invalid | opposite. She saw him and he waved 8 l worn hand to her, for he had been told about her. Then there came over little
 punches of flowers, and she would wear | them in her wrapper, and he would smile 8 wan smile of pleasure. They did not send
 any other communication, but every morn ing they would greet one another from the | window. She was we'll first, and the doctor
 could hardly keep the young man patient in his room, he was so mad and wild to get out. And so between these two interesting young
 people there sprang up g sympathetic feeling
 that seemed to grow stronger every day. They both get we'll. An, was 1t not roman tics Picture to yourself what came out of
 this strange and touching acquaintance.
 Can you not see the two meeting after their
 illnesss? Can you not hear the gentle voice
 that congratulates him, and the earnest tone
 in which he replies? Well, he got well, and
 twelve hours afterward the doctor called and
 told her he had gone East.
 l I tell you there would be a great many
 more romances if they did not end in such a | matter of fact way. Fate is with peoples
 lives like the young woman who begins to
 write story. It seems to go @ certain way
 with them and then it drops them, or else it
 suddenly becomes practical and makes every
 thing prosaie. Romance does not last. You
 go to picnic and you meet a lovely girl, and you have just the sweetest time in the
 world under tho trees and by the brookside.
 And you are in kind of poetic dream until it comes time to go home, aud when you
 get to the ferry you make break for your dinner. You're too hungry to be poetic. The human etOWacA, com6 tO tnlnK or 1t, is a sad destroyer of your romance. It's
 prosaic call is so reourrent and so impera-
 tive. I don't like to think of the shepherds and shepherdesses of Acadia sitting down to a meal of bread and buttermilk; there may be poetry compatible with eating grapes, but
 even pears and apples, and oranges, are only
 poetical when they are part of the landscape. Few people can eat oranges and feel com- | fortable without finger bowl. When you
 come to think of it everything in life seems
 to conspire against poetry. It's all well to fancy your sweetheart laid on her snow , white couch dreaming of you, or standing in , g gauzy costum by the window looking al
 the moon and apostrophizing you as Romeo
 But then you know that she has to take hel . boots of and take the hairpins out of hel hair, and when her dainty little feet touch the cold floor you know that she screams, 8 s'Ouuchl how cold it isl" and in that single = instant poetry is dashed to pieces. And , youl We'll, you have lots of poetry inter . | nalIy, don't doubt, but you are not poetic ! in robe de nuit; you know you're not. f know fellow who reduced everything te s the prosaic. We walked up Market street