Blackfoot news. (Blackfoot, Idaho) 1891-1902, 1891-11-28

| girl OF IA, with an awkward manner.
! She opened for me the door of her
fathers study, and brusquely lifting
her great black eyelashes, turned ON
me timid and distressed glance.
found Miraz huddled in an easy
chair in the corner OF the fireplace,
wrapped in a sort OF bed-gown, with
gray locks streaklng his long HAIR;
and by the cold, elammy hand which
he reached towards me, by the pallid
face which he turned upon me, Iknew
that he was lost. Horriblel / found
IN my unhappy comrade that worn
and ruined look which used to strike
us formerly among the poor Poles we
used to see.
,'Ah, well, old man, things are not
going well?"
"Deucedly bad, my boy" he an
swered, with a Misunderstanding smile
I'm going out stupidity with CON
sumption, as they do in the fifth act,
you know, when the venerable doctor.
with head like Beranger, feels the
first walking gentleman's pulse, and
lifts his eyes toward heaven, saying,
The death struggle approachesi' Only
the difference is that with me it con
tInues; 1t will not conclude, thee DEATH
struggle. Smoke away; that doesn't
disturb me, he added, seeing me nut
my cigar one side, his cough sounding
like death-rattle
tried to find encouraging words.
talked with him, holding him by the
hand and patting him affectlonately
on the shoulder, but my voice had in
my own ears the empty hollowness OF
deceit, aud Miraz, looking at me,
seemed to pity my efforts.
was silent.
Look, ! said he, pointing to his
table; see my work bench. For six
months have not been able to write.
! made new effort to revive him.
Die, at his age, Nonsense! He wasn't
taking care of himself He must pass
the winter in the South, drink a good
draught OF sunlight He could He
was easy in his money matters.
But ne stopped me, putting his
hand on my arm.
Listen, he said, gravely, 1--WE have
seen each other seldom, but You are
my oldest. perhaps my hest, friend.
You have proved me pen in hand.
Well, ] am going to tell you something
m confidence, for youto keep to your
sell, unless it may serve on some oc-
caslon to discourage the young liter
ary aspirants who bring manuscripts
you-always praiseworthy action.
Yes, | have been successful. Yes, /
have been paid a franc a line. Yes, /
have made money, and there in that
drawer
green, and orange papers, from which
coupon IS clipped every six months,
and which represent $500 OF income.
1t Is rare in our profession, and to
gain that poor hoard / have been
obliged to initiate the unsociable viz
tues OF miser, know how to deny
a jewel to my vile, a dress to my
daughter. But at last | have that
money. And / often said to myself.
il should die tlfeir bread is assured,
and here is little marriage portion
Tor Helen And | was CONTENT was
proud.-fOr know them, the stories
OF our widows and our orphans, the
4-penny help of the Government, the
tobacco shops for 600 francs
IN the province, and, ii the
daughter is intelligent and pretty
like mine, the dramatic author, an
old friend OF the father, who advises
her to enter the Conservatory OF
Acting, and who makes OF her-mercy
OF God. that shall never be.
But for all that, my boy, it is nee
eessary that / should not linger.
Sickness is expensive, and already it
has been necessary to sell one or two
bonds from that drawer To seek
the sunlight, as you suggest, to bask
like lizard in the tropics, one more
bond must go, and there would not be
enough to last to the end, il / should
wait Tor seven or eight years more,
now that | can no longer write. Hap
PLY, there is nothing to fear. But
what / have suffered since | have been
incapable OF writing, and have felt
my hoard OF gold shrink and dimin-
ish in my hand like the Magic Skin
OF Balzac is frightful. Now you under
stand me, do you not? and you will
no longer bid me take care OF myself.
No; if you still pray to God ask him
to, send me speedily to the under
takers"
Fifteen days later some thirty OF MS
followed the hearse which carried
Louis Miraz to the cemetery. 1t had
showed the day before, and DIR. Ar
mold, the old frequenter of painters
studios, the friend and physician of
the dead man, walking behind me,
called, in his brusque voice.
very commonplace, but always
terrible the contrast. burial in the
on white. The Funeral
OF the Poor. Brrn'
At last we came to the edge OF the
grave. The place and the time were
sad. Under cloudy sky the little
yew trees, swayed by the wind, threw
down their burdens OF melted snow.
The bystanders had formed circle,
and were watching the grave-diggers,
who were lowering the coffin by cords.
Near cross bearer, whose short
surplice permitted the bottom OF his
trousers to be seen, the priest waited
with finger in his book; and, having
the rim of his hat under his
left arm, the orator already held in
L l. Il 4 I