Lyon County times. [volume] (Silver City, Nev.) 1874-1907, 1891-09-19

Thomas Carlyle, Hannah
II don't believe ever did," said Han
nah, unless he was one of them old fel-
lows whose books you gave Dick to
read"
mo, no, Hannah, he was a modern, a
wonderful chap, can tell you, for he
pricked more bubbles and showed up
more shams in his time than any other
man, He wrote book, Hannah, on the
philosophy of clothes. and I've been read
ing it this morning, and was tempted to
try and write little piece of my own,
not in imitation of Carlyle's style of
writing, for that would be presumptu-
Gus, but Just to catch the overflow Of
my own thoughts and fancies. Sit down
and rest for FIVE minutes, Hannah,
would like to read it to you to see what
you think of it"
Hannah sat down uneasily on the edge
voice and took up sheet of paper from
the table before him and read the fol-
lowing fragment;
"Oh, you little viper self. you mis-
created devill How to liSe with you on
decent terms know not, seeing that to
live without you | cannot and there is
little hope of your amendment. Oh, the
tricks you play me, the mean, wretched
turns, the illusions you cherish, the false
hopes you raisel Your vanity is with
out bounds, and when you hare done
mean act you come fawning with low
and base excuses. Who can count your
subterfuges, your cunning tricks and
turns? You are as sensitive and weak as
a woman and as foolish as a child. You
poor, ugly monster; | cannot hate you,
ought not to love you, for we must live
together and rub along through the
world as best we can. try to improve
you morally, you know do. starve
you on poor diet, and feed you on the
hard, dry bread of philosophy washed
down with tears of penitence, but can
not change your nature You come up
always the same"
"Well, what do you think of it, Han
nah?" said the old man, spying on her
over the top of his spectacles.
II don't think much of it," said Han
nah discontentedly. that is if | sense it
right You know you amt selfish
man, and why should you be writin'
lies about yourself? If that's the way
your friend Carlyle goes on don't take
much stock in him"
The old mans mouth puckered shrewd-
ly He liked Hannah's spiciness and
thought she had a streak of genius in
her What terrible critic you would
make, Hannah. You would not leave
the poor authors shred of vanity to
cover their nakedness."
al should like" said Hannah grimly,
'to make them novelists hop like hen
on hot griddle-them that flood the
country with sentimental stuff out of
their own heads when the world is all
red hot with reality-suffering and tears
and groans and poverty and wickedness
and sin It makes me mad that folks
can't write Gods truth if they must
write at ALL
She went out of the old mans room
conscious that she had been rather rude
toward his literary aspirations, but she
did not hear him chuckling softly to
had afforded him
Now it was time to fold Judge Rivers
shirts and Mrs. Prices baby linen and
pack them in the basket covered with a
dainty blue mosquito netting for Dick to
take home when he returned from his
work When the kitchen was all cleaned
up, the ironing table set back, the clothes
horse put away, the irons placed in a
row on the pantry shelf, Hannah smooth
ed her hair and put on a clean apron for
the afternoon rest. The April sunshine
was coming in at her western window,
making warm, ruddy splash on the
plastered wall. Hannah drew her rock
ing chair and little work table into the
sunny corner, for rest did not mean idle
ness to her. She had pair of Dicks
trousers to patch, revealing a compli-
Gated hole, six cornered and jagged, that
seemed almost as formidable to Hannah
as a problem in Euclid. She was just
wrinkling her forehead over the task of
trying to fill this aching void with
round bit of cloth too small to fit it.
when there came a tap on the door, and
before she had time to say Come in"
the door opened to admit the plump per
son of Miss Ruby Armstrong.
Miss Ruby was Hannah's nearest neigh
Dor. She lived in tiny white cottage
with weedy old garden attached, and
kept her sister Jane, who had spells of
being demented, when she fancied her
self the angel Gabriel and would blow
shrill blasts on a tin horn out of the
window to inform the benighted neigh
borhood that the end of the world was
at hand, But these spells were not very
numerous, She was generally quiet and
harmless, and not without quick flashes
of sense and insight and knowledge of
what was going on about her that made
Ruby feel, as she said at times, very
"streaked," as if Jane were bewitched.
Moreover, she had intervals of remem-
bering things long past which everybody
else had forgotten, and suddenly drag
ging them out to the light in a eerie,
elfsh way that gave poor Ruby creeping
sensations all the way down her spine.