The Kimball graphic. (Kimball, Brule County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1905, 1890-05-16

You'd this iolidsy tnrohg, ana AT last 1ouno
a hill upon which vegetation was wilder
and more romantic, and where they were
alone for q little while, looking down upon
Paris lying in an oval basin at their feet, a
city of white houses and church towers,
domes and statues, girdled with gardens,
flashing with fountains, the beautiful river
winding through the white streets and quays
like a broad blue ribbon, touched with
CLEANS of gold.
us it not q noble city?' asked CASTOR,
proud of his birthplace, the only home he
had ever known.
Yonder to their left, on the s'ope of the
hill, lay the cemetery, crosses and columns,
Egyptian sepulchres, Roman temples, gilt.
tering Whitley in the sun amidst a tangle of
summer foliage.
Shall we be there, among the lines, when
our life is over, | wonder?' unused Kathleen.
Perhaps you will have a tomb like Balzac's
or Musset's. Who knows"
"Who knows, indeed, dearest? / have
been earning my bread by my pen for the
last ten years, and do not find myself any
nearer the fame of a Balzac than when ] be
gan. Yet who knows what / may do now ]
have you to work for? Balzac had n long
time to wait. Fame comes in an hour some
times. And of late, inspired by thoughts
of you, l have nursed the dim idea of a
novel, as l tramped backwards and for
wards to the office. Yes, l believe l have a
fancy which, worked out faithfully, might
hit the Parisians. But a journalist is the
drudge of literature. All his faculties are
the slaves of a tyrannical master, whose
name is To-day. He must think only of the
present, write only for tho present. He
must harbor neither memories of the past
nor dreams of the future. If Shakespeare
and Goethe had written for the papers we
should have neither Faust nor Hamlet"
But you will not always have to work
for the papers"
"Who can tell? 1 must be at work early
tomorrow to write a description of that
scene on the Bourse for the Monday nun
ber."
IF L could only help your sighed Kath.
leen.
"You do help me, dearest. You have
helped me to nobler ambitions, to pures
hopes. You have made me work with higher
purpose, with steadicr aim. You are the
rood spirit of nv life"
Tell me about your story" she sa,d, 'tne
story you have in your mind"
ut is all about love-and You. I will tell
you nothing. But some day l shall c~ontrlve
to write it, between whites, between para
graph and paragraph, leader and leader,
and l shall get a publisher to produce it,
under a nom de plume, and the book shall
be the talk of Paris; and you shall read il
with smiles and tears, and you shall say,
70 CASTOR, what a painter, what a poet,
what an inspired dreamer this nan mus,
bel l only wish l knew who he is, that ]
might worship him." And / shall say,
worship me, love. ! I'm the poet and the
dreamer; and you are my only Egeria."
He looked like q poet, as he lay at hel
feet on the %sun-burnt sward, his eyes gazing
dreamily over hecity in the valley-dreami.
ly away towards Mount Valerian and the
Notifications on the other side of Paris.
They loitered away the long summer aft
ernoon In serenest contentment, In deep in.
eXprcssible bliss. 1t seemed TO them as il
life were henceforward perfect. They haC
nothing left to desire-eYcept, perhaps, or
Gaston's side, fame and wealth, in n remote
dream-like future. Kathleen had no desire
to be rich. Poverty had never hurt her; ex.
cept in that one sad time, when her sister
was Ill. And now she had a little money,
put away in a secret place, against any sucl
evil hour. Poverty had no flavor of bitter
ness for this easily satisfied nature. Sh,
rose as gaily as a lark; she went about he
little duties singing for very %joyousncss
Her humble fare was sweetered by her con
| tented spirit. Her humble home was beau
titled by all those little arts which endeaI
lowly rooms to the dweller. And now, tt
begin life anew, on the same third floor, il
the Rue Git le C4ur, with her lover-hus
band, was like the browning bliss on til,
last page Of y fairy ta'e.
eTn M Continually