St. Paul daily globe., 1889-05-26

Hl/I/XlkNIHHANMSS an attempt may
!+--111,=,:Sf,74lF be made at it
-MaHIXl-~ by an ordinary
@ENA4M@ reporter, even
%A7HM ~ though his tai
@@ ents and inn
agination are
regulated by the salary that he draws.
The suspension bridge by night! In
darkness, a mass of solemn gloom; by
day, monument of architecture. Its
massive stone arches, each rail of iron,
each piece of wood and every strand
which forms the mighty cables
that suspend the bridge itself
above the Mississippi, the Father
of Waters, could tell tale, if given
tongues to speak. At night, when the
clock has tolled an hour of lateness and
the steady grind of wheels and hurry
ing and scurrying of feet have ceased
their noise, begins the romantic and
tragic side of life on the big bridge. A
GLOBE reporter, with ne fixed thing in
view, wandered down there the other
night, and, leaning over the rail, took
note of what he saw. The hands on the
mammoth depot clock pointed to- II.
The moon was under cloud, and not a
soul was IN sight save a blue-unl-
of the peace, who tramped up
and down with steady tread. Beneath,
the waters surged and rushed, and the
murmurings of the waves seemed to
say: 81 have many secret here" The
lights of the slumbering city cleaned
ftfully in the darkness, and solemn
and mysterious stiffness seemed to pre-
vail everywhere. Luna finally struggled
through rift in the clouds and threw
a beam of light on the darkness of the
bridge. 1t revealed to the reporter a
heap of something lying almost at his
feet. 1t seemed to move and then
to grOan. 1t was a man, or
another one of those miserable speci-
mems of man known as a tramp. He
was ragged and dirty, unkempt, un-
shaven, with haggard face and eyes.
He was sleeping all bundled up near
the railway, near one of the huge stone
towers, and when the reporter touched
him he groaned again. He was prob
ably dreaming scene from real life
that his pocket and stomach were
empty. When the reporter touched
him again he awoke. and, rubbing his
eyes, muttered in sleepy voice: .'All
right. Pll move on; only stopped here
because | was so sleepy"
'Move on" was evidently familiar
phrase to him, and in his sleepy way he
couldn't imagine anything else being
said to him.
Il thought yer was cOp." said he,
by this time fully awake and sitting up
with his elbows on his knees and lean
ing against the stone masonry. ''What
yer want ter wake feller up from his
peaceful slumbers fer anyhow, ELI?
Couldn't yer see had retired on my
settee and was dreamin' of the
time 1 was kid an get
TIM walloped by my dad. Gimme
two bits fer a bed, will yer. pard? 1
hain't been under pair of sheets fer
over four months, an l want ter see
how'd feel ter sleep in bed again and
not be as told ter move on every fif-
teen minutes. No, wasn't allus a
tramp, but fell inter bad ways an in
with bad uns until [ am what l am.
Gosh, but amt it chilly? Hain't got
any whisk' about yer clothes, have yer,
pard? Well, what in thunder are yer
out this time of night fer, any way?
Are yer onto lay of some kind,
detecs as never catches enything
but the measles? Lord, here comes the
COP. Pll have to move on now, sure.
Over the river" and with this he was
gone, and there was nothing left save
an odor of rags and the same impene-
trable gloom. One phase of lite, truly,
and only one of many met with on the
bridge by night.
At the other end of the bridge, lean
ing over the railing, stood a couple
more mOrtals with hands close
together. These were surely not
tramps, but most likely lovers, as
one was man and the other woman.
"Strange time and ACE to do courting,
though" thought the reporter as he
wandered past the pair, who were ut
terly obliviOus of what was going on
around them, so engrossed were they
with each other. They had evidently
quarreled, from the occasional words
uttered above whisper, and in making
up had forgotten the fact that it was
time for ''graveyards to yawn," and
that they were liable to be told to
''move on"
Down at the end of the bridge the re-
porter met the policeman, who was
only too glad to find mortal he could
talk to, and thereby hurry up the lag
gard time. He told stories about rob-
bers and thieves of every description,
and in every case he figured as the hero
and always caught his man. He conf
dentially expressed himself that if he
kept up his wonderful record
he was liable to be made ser
gea Mt. or even captain. ''Dere's
nothin' like keepin' yer eye peeled, me
bye," said he, with self-satisfied
smirk. Bidding the next century SER
geant adieu, the reporter walked down
the other side of the bridge. He hadn't
gone far before he stumbled and fell
over the PROSTATE body of a man. The
first thought that flashed across the re-
porter's mind was that the man had
been murdered, but that illusion was dis
PEELED upon investigation and re-
ceiving Whit of the PROSTATE
wretch's breath. He was only drunk;
full as a goat and all. This time the
valOrOus next-century sergeant was
magnificent chance to dis
tinguish himself. When the poet Long
fellow ''stood on the bridge at mid
night" he did not meet with the same
nor see the same sights
that one sees on the suspension bridge;
at least, if he did, he failed to insert the
facts in his copy when he turned the
same in to be blne-penciled. But it is
all in lifetime, and there is only one
jack pot night.
Not being able to find his muse in the
vicinity Of the prostrate gentleman