The progress., 1890-06-21
COUNT TOLSTOr.
Ills Racket a Granger-The R1sNan
Novelist Roasts IbSen.

1t was sunny day, says Puck, and
even the barren Russian landscape
looked bright and cheerful, as though
it felt that spring was close at hand
and the rigors of the bitter winter
nearly at an end In field near the
roadside large man, with unkempt
hair and beard, was laboriously steer
inc plow over the surface of the
ground, still frostbound and unyield-
ing.
Two horsemen toiled slowly up the
hillside road. the one evidently Il Rus
sian officer, the other. from his dress
and appearance, an American or En-
glish civilian. As they passed the
4ield the officer drew the attention of
ais comrade to the solitary laborer, and
said something to him in Il low voice.
The civilian cast glance of casual
curiosity in the direction indicated,
drew notebook half out of his pocket
and put it back again. The two passed
on. and as they disappeared behind Il
clump of trees, the large man, with
despoudent groan, sat down upon a
stump, and, with furtive look about
him, drew from the pocket Of his
sheepskin ulster a clay pipe, whic! he
returned to its place with a grimace of
disgust. and then 4 package of cigar
cites, of which he selected one and lit it.
Darn me- said Count Lyof n. Toll
stoi to himself in the purest Russian.
If don't believe have made II bad
break. This communistic-manua
Dor scheme was all right at first; but it
amt working worth shucks now.
That was a newspaper correspondent.
| know 'em when | see 'em-and he
wouldn't so much as take 4 note-not
a note. Sees the greatest novelist in
the world breaking his blooming back
behind measly plow and won't SO
much as give me a three-line notice i'll
his fool paper. It's no good. ought
to have tried something else.
''And then don't ever seem to get
the hang of darned thing. Last
spring planted my wheat in hills and
rot the grand guy from every moujik
in the deestrick, and got an intima-
ton from my brother in st. Petersburg
that the Imperial insane asylum had an
eligible padded cell at my disposal
whenever | felt inclined to be funny
again. Funny! Maybe he thinks it
was funny when tried to bleach my
potatoes and got 'em all sprouted. How
was to know? Never saw the cussed
things with their skins on in my life.
Maybe he thinks it's funny jamming
this old plow around. Bv thunder, |
begin to think that moujik was right
when he told me oughtn't to begin
blowing till the frost got out of the
ground. Here | have been skithering
that thing over this chilblained cast
iron soil the whole morning and have
not made a scratch. Oh, it's sicken-
ing!
Had picture painted of myself do
ing this act. Much good it did. People
said it looked just like any other old
fool plowing. But what in thunder is
popular novelist to do to keep his boom
going? These women are spelling trade
for us any way.
Darn the whole thing! Darn the
public! Here l am doing days labor
in sheepskin coat that would knock
out a ton of musk in one rOund-and
what's my reward9 Why, this blamed
intelligent, enthusiastic, esthetic public
goes off and takes up Il Scandinavian
duffer named Ibsen, who doesn't do a
blamed thing to boom himself except to
sit still and let his hair grow for an ad-
vertisement.
''Oh, it makes mo sick-hi there, Is
that those chaps coming back? Jeru-
salem cricket! I'll get notice out of
that newspaper clam or I'll smash the
plow!'
And grasping his agricultural imple-
ments firmly by the handles the count
shouted Gee. haw!" to the mule and
cheerily. hopefully, and undauntedly
tried to cut through chunk of field
spar with his coulter. while the news
paper correspondent and the Russian
officer put their whole souls and minds
into the pressing business of taking Il
drink apiece out of the newspaper mans
flask