Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-08-17

|
/ she goes along the white highway, and unde
the swaying boughs of the beeches, unit
she is lost in a confusion of green and gold
"And n the meantime" said Mrs. Eli
, son (Vincent started; had that bewilderin,
and far-reaching vision been revealed to hin
all in one bfief, breathless secondly "in tn
! meantime, Mr.. Bethune, you must derive
great deal of comfort and soiace from youl
J literary labors."
"My literary labors," said the old man
slowly and absently, 81 am sorry to say, ar,
mostly perfunctory and mechanical. They
occupy attention and pass the time, how
ever; and that is much. Perhaps I hav,
written one or two small things which may
survive me year or two; but, ii that should
be so, it will be owing, not to any merit Of
their own. but to the patriotism of my coun-
trymen. Nay, 1 have much to be thankful
for, he continued, in the same resigned
fashion. ST have been spared much. If ]
had been famous author in my younger
days, should now be reading the things I
had written then with the knowledge that
was their only reader. should be think
ing of my contemporaries and saying: AT
one time people spoke of me as now they are
speaking Of you.' It is kind of sad thing
for man to outlive his fame; for the pub
lie is fckle-mlnded creature, and must
l
complain of being forgotten, for Inever did
anything deserving of being remembered"
"Grandfather," said Maisrie, "surely it
is unfair of you to talk like thatl Think
of the many friends you have made through
your writings"
"Scotch friends, Maisrie. Scotch friends, I"
he said. 'I:admit that The.Scotch are not
among the forgetful ones of the earth. If
| you want to be made much Of" he said,
turning to Mrs. Ellison with something of q
proud air, eff you want to be regarded
with a constant affection and gratitude,
and to have your writings remembered and
repeated, by the 1asses at the kirn. by the
plowman in the field, by gentle and simple
alike, then you must contrive to be born in
Scotland. TheScottish heart beats warm, and
is constant If there is bit of heather or a
| blue-bell placed on my grave, it will be by
the hand of kindly Scot
Dinner over, they went out and sat in the
cool twilight and had coffee, while the
steward was clearing away within. Mrs.
Ellison, faithful to her promise to Lord
| Musselburgh, said she had not long to stay;
but her nephew, having certain scheme in
his mind, would not let her go just yet;
and by and by, when the saloon had been
lit up, he asked her, in q casual kind of
way, whether before she went she would
thing.
"Oh, should like it of all thingsi' she
replied instantly, with reckless disregard
of truth.
Maisrie glanced at her grandfather.
"Yes, certainly-why not?" said he.
''Tnen," said their young host, "I pro-
pose we 60 into the saloon again; it will be
quieter." For there was still a plash of
oars on the river, and a echoing call of
voices in the meadows beyond.
When they had returned into the saloon,
Maisrie took up her violin; and Mrs. Elli-
son bravely endeavored to assume an air OF
interested expectancy. The fact was she
disliked the whole proceeding; here would
be some mere exhibition of school girls
snowy mplishments; she would have to
say nice things; and she hated telling lies
when nothing was to be gained. Maisrie
made some little apology; but said that per-
haps Mrs. Ellison had not heard the Claire
Fontaine, which is a favorite song of the
Canadians. Then she drew her bow across
the strings.
Vincent need not have been so anxious.
Hardly had Maisrie begun with
A la claire fontaine
Men allant promener-
than Mrs. Ellison's air of forced attention
instantly vanished; she seemed surprised;
she listened in wondering kind of way to
the low, clear tones of the girls voice that
were so curiously sincere and penetrating
and simple. Not schoolgirls showing of,
this; but kind of speech that reached the
heart.
Sur Ia plus haute branche
LIE rossignol chantait.
Chante, rossignol, chante,
Toi qui as le caeur gal.
Lui va longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne toubierai.
Did she notice the soft dwelling on the RS.
Vincent asked himself; and had she ever
heard anything so strangely fascinating
Then the simple pathos of the story-if there
was any story
Chante, ross1gnol, chante,
Toi qui as lie cBur gai;
Tu as le ceur a rire.
Moi je rai-t-a pleurer.
To as le cHur rire, |
Moi je Pai-t-a pleurer; |
Jai Perdu ma maitresse |
Sans ravoir merite. |
Lui va longtemps que je t'aime,
1amais je ne toublierai'
"That is enough" said Maisrie, with a |
smile, and she laid the violin in her lap.
'It is too long. You never hear it sung al |
together in Canada-only verse here and |
there-or perhaps merely the refrain"
"But is there more?"-oh, please sing the
rest of tit is delightful-so quaint, and
simple, and charmingr' Mrs. Ellison ex-
and Master Vim was proud and
glad young man; he knew that Maisrie had
all unaided struck home.
The girl took up her violin again, and re-
sumed:
Jai perdu ma maitresse
Sans Pavoir merite,
Pour un bouquet de roses
Que je lui refusal.
Pour un bouquet de roses
Que je lui refusal.
Je voudrais que la rose
Fut encore au roster.
Je voudrais que la rose
Fut encore au roster,
Et moi ct ma maitresse |
Dams les mems amities.
Lui va longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oubfierai!
Well, when the singing. if it could be
called singing, was over, Mrs. Ellison made
the usual little compliments, which NOBODY
minded one way or the other. But presently
,he had to leave; and while she was being
-owed up the river by her nephew she was
'ilent When they reached the yillegeia-
ura (the people were all outside, amid the
confused light of lanterns in the dusk) she
aid to him, in low voice. as she bade him
yoodby-
''vin, let me whisper something to you
! confession. Claire Fontaine has done for
ne: That girl is good girl. She is all
light, anyway"
ITO be Continued Neat Sunday.l
EXTRAvAGANCK IN CARDS, +