The Columbia herald. [volume] (Columbia, Tenn.) 18??-1935, 1891-05-15
THF pRATY1EH.
we'll! Thenl s1ovel'I That Is the
subject of my story!

We'll! Thenl "Govei'' That Is the
subject of my story =!
It is an old story, but as often as it
is told it revives recOllections we love
to dwell upon. These recollections
sometimes connect US with our baby
hood that we cannot remember, but
still we love to recall the loving stories
told by loving mothers of our inno-
cent prattle when we were yet IN
deed innocent.
And then we dreamily glide to our
school boy days, and the debates we
had over the knOtty problem (Which
is the Stronger, Love or Hate? %
And the memory of those oratorical
DAYS, " it'll victory always for the side
of love, mantles the cheek of age with
the flush of youth, as the arguments
Of the powerful debate recur with all
their force.
We remember the mothers love on
the far western plains, when persued
by wolves she kissed her baby good
bye and threw herself out of the
sleigh, a willing sacrifice to stay their
pursuit, while the horses carried the
sleeping babe safely home. We re-
call the deeds of daring of frontier
life, when lovers braved the Indians
knife or murderous omahawk to
save from harm maiden fair.
These legends of the past, the Scott
ish Chief of ScOttland's Crags, and
Romeo of Shakespeare's brain, come
to us with halo of their own, and
some are given to think they were
creatures of the times, and find no
counterpart in these work-a-day,
practical, piping times of peace.
*x*
But 1T is not true! They live, and
with the shifting scenes in the drama
of life, ever and anon act their parts.
~
1 could tell a story.if / would, and
date it with the present year, and
need not go a hundred miles to find
my hero bold. could tell how love,
like a worm, fed upon his damask
cheek and eat the down of youth
away. How he told his story over
and over again, while the maiden
called for more cnestnutS and laughed
his love to scorn. l could follow him
along his dimIY lighted way and see
him squander his last sheckle tor
hand-Organ, that he might grind out
MS love anew, ahd let it fall upon her
drowsy ear, and then picture to my
readers-if 1 would-the agonized
blankness that walked about with
him, days and days, and weeks and
Weeks-all for his love.
*xx
I could-if I would-tell how his
intense ardor warmed the marrow
u the bones and bent his knees to
till another pleading, and how h
chilly answer and majestic carriage
froze him where he was and held him
there. or how his bruised heart and
storm tossed soul, brave in defeat,
determined that they should live or
die together; in lie or death Il @
twain should one be. The thought
was like an Inspiration and he hied
him to his purpose. Lest one might
fail, two trusty weapons he carried
with him. Their potent influence he
did not doubt, and the first beam of
nope that had OF late mantled his
brow, perched proudly upon it when
he profert made of the accessories TO
his suit.
The inspiration and the hope were
as transient as the tickle mOOnbeams,
upon a cloudy night. They came
like an oasis to his night of despair,
and disappeared as an ignis fatuus in
the swamp of detection. She swept
past with a majestic mien and her
beautiful presence knew him no more
forever. The invitation of slOp tub
to catch his hearts blood was dis
painfully rejected, and he strobe a
stroll out lintO the night, "a disap-
pointed, misanthropic, desperately
wicked, bad, bad, man.