The Wichita daily eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1890-1906, 1890-08-22

| 510K m 6uc AbrHz5a - OF tna5 Gay you
| will find this from his pen:
1.-THE china trees are hanging out their
banners, yellow, golden, glorious, bright
signals of the changing season. The hick-
ory and the maple are'biushing little,
and the lockwood has lighted his torch in
| the still enbers of dying summer The
persimmon is taking on aAcotor that fills
| the eyes of old Br'er 'Poesum- The honey
| suokle blossoms again around the porch,
there Is no touch of change in the wistera
vine, and the autumufowersi in the garden
| borders are gray.
"The change lacks3he melancholy aspect
| Of the north--the saddsDed skies, the haze
| hidden hills that seem to stretch into some
| far country, where hes the longed for car
cassoms The birds have for the most part
| broke up housekeeping and are frolcking
| with their families in the woods. In the
summers interfude the hooking bird is re-
newing its melodious utteEsnces, and there
| is an added sweetness in its Do5e- And the
| change will go on, growing richer and
more vanton in coloring. till the cold hand
of winter tears down the whole royal pano-
rama"
1t was no little thing that the man thai
could appreciate life thus should give it
up.
Noon found him on the north bound
train; by the next noon he was in Cincin-
natl, and by night home. The village was
quiet; he went TO his old room and went to
bed During the night train went thun-
dering through the valley; he heard the
whistle and the roar of the fires when the
furnace door was opened, he heard it cross
the bridge and go down between the hills
till the sound faded into an echo, and then
died. And, as in years before, his fancy
followed it through the night, out Of the
valley, into day and the warm and cheerful
world
The morning came; the light crept
through the little panes as it had done
years before. John Long had been think
ing as he rolled homeward On the train;
he had laid another scheme. and he felt
sure this one would not fail And the last
twenty years had passed from his mind.
and he was living again his old innocens
childhood He walked out through the
village and stopped at the house on the
hill, where he had come to live with his
aunt when his father in the city died; he
looked from it's veRanda far down the dusty
pike, and remembered how, his first
spring there, the waters of the river rose
and covered It asfar as the eye could reach.
He stood long and watched the shadows
chase each other across the hills on the
other side Of the valley, as he used to do
long summer days.
There was no installing the temper of
the people with regard to the murder of
William Harris. With the night shadows
a hush fell on thetown. Mothers gath
cred their children into the house and
closed fast the doors. Men might have
been seen struggling down the east pike on
horse and afoot. They stopped on the first
bridge out, and at midnight, from out the
shadows of its ancient rafters, a troop Of
silent men marched forth. Straight to the
Jail they went; they never asked for the
keys nor wantedthem. A stout stick on
the shoulders of a dozen men broke down
the door at few blows. They knew the
cell; it had but frail bars and they were
soon down. In thirty minutes after the
lynchers left their rendezvous Arthur
Brooks was IN their hands.
The preparations were simple A short
rope hung from the sign of the Handle
house, and underneath it was a store box.
Upon this Brooks was hoisted.
'ShalI he die?" said the man who held
the rope. These were the first words
spoken.
LET him diei'' answered hundred voices
in terrible bass And a thrill of horrid
interest ran through them as they waited
for the final moment.
But third figure'was upon the box. It
was that of John Long. He took the moose
from off Brooks neck and placed it about
his own. He said not a word, but stood
with folded arms and head thrown back.
And one of them told me that, standing 50
in the moonlight, something of bis old boy
ish beauty came into his face and made
him look like the noble man he might have |
made.
The mob was at loss.
"Are you guilty, instead of Brooksf" |
they shouted.
Brooks is innocent" said Long.
did you kill Harris'"
Brooks Is innocent"
"Never mind him, " they shouted then. |
"Up with Brooksl String him upp'
Gentlemen" said John Long, II am
guilty, and not Brooks. meant the poison
for Lucy, and her father got IT "
God forgive him the liel In the instant
that followed perhaps he wondered if the
truth would ever be known, and whether
Lucy's children would ever play above his
grave, and whether she would teachathem
the meaning of the words: Greater love
hath no man than this, that he lay down
bis life for his friend"
Perhaps dying so in dishonor and shame,
the merciful father permitted him to know
that it would be so. Perhaps he Dever
heard the yell with which they pushed the
box out from under him. They stood still
hen and let him hang. Presently one Of
hem noticed that his hand was quite cold.
1t was a week after that night when Ar
,hur Brooks had gone home in JOY to his
bride and John Long had waited out in the
night that they found the note William
Harris had left, betrsying the fact that
lisoFdersd brain had led him to suicide.
Then they nka1r William RaHar,i Hrda |