Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1892-03-27

""cS 'ney nau 10 pear. que knew; ens
used to teach school herself I ought t.
get up and apologize to that institute: i
was shame that anyone should be allowed
to come there and fairly insult clas!
OF people who deserved so well from us a
the district school teachers. And much
more of the same medicine did receive
Well, did try to explain to her that she
had misunderstood me; did I attempt to
correct her misrepresentation? Not much
J.! had got over that long ago; I used to
do so, but it made my hair fall out and my
eyes bloodshot, so quit it. I recognize
the species on sight now. I meekly took
the part she assigned me and played it, de.
tending my conception of it as best could.
There was nothing else to do. Six straight
weeks of denial and elaborate explanation,
supported by afidavits of ustworthy wit
nesses wouldn't have convinced that wo-
man that hadn't said just what she thought
1 did.
| Hearing at . strablsaie Angle.
1t would have mixed her up worse and
worse, and II we kept at II long enough, and
made 1t clear enough, she would have had
me indicted for manslaughter, testifying
that with her own ears she had heard mo
confess to poisoning no less than three
school teachers, because I did not like the
way they taught long division. Thi. one
| U
known men who were "cross-eared," just
the same, and heard everything at a strabis-
mic angle The .quietest and easiest way
out of that trouble was for me to plead
guilty to crime hadn't committed.
Now, most trying ere these people, be-
cause they are well meaning. If they were
malicious you could-I don't say you
would-but if it would be any comfort to
you, you could quarrel with them. But you
dislike to do that There is no Intentional
harm in them. They do mischief now and
| it is like the mischief of boy playing
with matches in the haymow. You
wouldn't be Inhuman enough to class the
boy with lncendiaries and want him sent to
the penitentiary for life. His play burns
up your barn and hay, just the same. The
only thing one can do is not to let the boy
have matches. After these harmless people
who always misunderstood you become
pretty generally known to the community,
they are not very dangerous. Everybody
learns that their statements must be SUBJ
mitted to the local Browning Society for
analysis before they can be accepted.
An Illustration From Football
When I was schoolboy, centuries age,
when we played football as she is spoke, and
kicked the ball with our feet instead of
carrying it around in our arms like water
melon, We had one boy-Andrew Buckwal-
ter-who always kicked the ball with his
instep, rather than with his toe. The nat
ural result Of this eccentric play, as any boy
can readily see, was that the harder he
kicked the worse it was for his. own side, for
he invariably sent the ball over his head,
flying far, far behind him.
Consequently, whenever, in the course of
hotly contested game, he obtained posses
sion of the ball, the welkin, which we al
ways stretched over the ball ground so that
the game need not be called in case of rain,
would ring with agonized shrieks from all
the fellows on his side: ''Turn around,
Andy! turn around!" If we could only
get him to kick with his back to the foe, he
was strong player. He was always the
last boy chosen, and the side that got him
went to its place like men going to the dem
tist's-all the fellows wringing their hands
and moaning.
So, when you have anything to say to
these people who are croSs-eyed in their
hearing, you should say it backward, say
just what you don't mean, and they will
transpose it and get it straight as string.
As 1t Is in the Novel.
Have you ever wondered, but of
course you have-when you read a
novel in which the hero is a young man
with long hair, split at the ends, and a |
fringe of goose-down whiskers prematurely |
born. which give him in your mental por-
trait of him-you see him in real life, too, |
impression of bearded |
baby, have you ever wondered when you |
come to the chapter in which he writes his
book-this kind of hero is always literary
writes il single night, scribbling away |
like a mad man, throwing the pages of
over his shoulder, strewing the
room with them, knee deep, thick as
autuunal leaves that strew the brooks in
writes all night, candle goes out,
keeps on writing by moonlight; moon goes
down, writes on Dy starlight; ink stand runs
dry, makes no diff; writes right along with
scratches; writes 'Finis," ast as the sun
rises; sinks back in his chair, pale, cold,
always gets wan-and not bit
hungry; book goes to press same day; is put
on the market next day; whole world goes
wild over it; crowds besiege publishing
houses and bookstores; presses running
night and day; authors name on every
body's lips; book thrills the world to beat
Robert Elsmere" or "Peck's Bad Bov,"
nothing like it in all literature-have you
ever wondered where you could get a copy
Of that book? 1 have often.
But when I went to the book stores, I
never knew the name Of it, and when 1
described it the clerk always told me it was
,ut of print, and then tried to show me their
1ow spring line of half gilt wall papers and
window shades Same way with the mu-
'icians and artists in the novels. The won
lerful work these people do in the novels
always impresses me hopelessly and rather
'adly. They resemble the real people as
he freckled negative resembles the 'toned'
They are meteors in the book.
Dedicated to Capricornus, the goat Be-
,een crushed by fate, to say nothing of
eet)
THE SINGER.
Her white hands over the white kew
trayed, but her soul was above the stars;
Ind the far-of look in her eyes betrayed the
ire in the wnyward bars. Then the spirit
ound birth in burst of song, for music
,eld her hands, and full-born harmony
lowed along like the cadence of angel |
,ands. The listening Inultitudes thronged |
o hear, and weeping they went away, af1re |
md tremble with love and fear. to dream
md to do, and pray.
The dodgers upstairs and across the street |
prayed heaven the noise might cease, and
ent their garments and stamped their feet, |
nd shouted "Police! Police"
THE ARTIST
Long, long at the fire with head bowed
own, he gaZed at the embers' glow, till mid
light paused DER the slumbering town. and |
he waning moon sank low. Then his dark |
yes burned with genius rare, to the easel
e sprang with bound, and wrought by the .
altered round. And all night long till the
ale, pale, dawn looked in at his easement
i'm, he painted the "Song of the Dying
wan" and the song she sang for him. The