Mineral Point tribune. (Mineral Point, Wis.) 1869-1938, 1892-11-26

BlOOlnlnS now Tor me,
when Sudd My a white dove lluttered
down upon my shoulder. Recovering
from my surprise found small
white envelope on the ground at my
feet. Following the dove with my eye
| noticed it swiftly wing to the wei
coming land of little girl. perhaps
II years of age, who sat upon a bill
beyond the hedge quarter of mile
away.
| lifted my hat and bowed and she
| tossed her white kerchief once and
then resumed careSsing the dove.
On opening the envelope | found a
delicate Swiss flower resembling our
arbutus, and read in very good French
this legend:
Il know thee not.
But yet | love thee"
was 1000 miles from home and
Younger then by many a year. Only
those who have felt the callousing
prints of time can realize how tender
and romantic the heart is at 20 Time
but makes early impr ssions deeper.
Time treads lightly upon the hardened
sand.
AZ the station whittier l was going
[ received important mail and dispatch
es, which notified me of the necessity
of my immediate return to America
and to my home in Cincinnati. But,
before leaving, l inquired of the village
master the name of the little girl who
inhabited the pretty hillside cottage
had passed He told me she was the
daughter of a French officer, banished
during the troublous reign of the last
Napoleon. He stated she had trained
a dove to deliver n message, when
liberated, to the nearest human being
in sight Then | knew | was by fate
or accident if not by the girls intcn-
ton, the riGhtful recipient of the mes
sage,
Her name was Eliza De We're; adj
dress, Vevey. Environne.
| believe in love and believe in fate,
and so do You, fair reader
Five venrs had passed. | had enter
ID business in Cincinnati. Among my
employees was a young girl, who, every
morning, brought with her to my fac
tory a white dove, which she kept inn
prisoned until noon, at which time she
liberated it to carry a message to her
mother. 1t was a beautiful and tender
thing for this girl to do. This was
realizing the old legend of doves carry
ing love messages. All the poets from
Anacreon to Moore had sung of It,
The prisoner in his cell both in real
life and upon the mimic stage had
used the messenger dove to communi-
cate with friends or lover.
With a sigh on h,y lips ard n sob in
my heart | thought of the little Swiss
girl; for | was still sentimental at %
The very landscape, the fresh June
! meadows, the hillside, the pretty cot
tage; all came wildly before me.
remembered she must be nearly 20
now, and I imagined her as innocent
and pure as the flower she sent me
by her white dove. Curiosity and some
thing in my heart did not then under
stand made me wish and ponder and
wonder l was of that age when we
feel sure that somewhere In the world
orr ideal lover or sweetheart lives and
waits for our coming.
Sometimes we catch a glimpse Of a
pretty face walking from us and won
der, fear # is our ideal love walking
away from us. We are also tempted
to disregard formality and speak with
out an introduction. We all believe In
eyes which look love to eyes which
speak again.
Opening my desk took from its
place my long-neglected, commonplace
book of European notes. And when I
found there the little girls address and
the very envelope and the faded flower
the dove had thrown at my feet; and
When I read
81 know thee not,
But yet 7 love thee"
/ believed, feared, hoped that my ideal
love, intended for me by fate and
awaiting my coming, was Eliza De
We're, Nevay, Enyironne, Switzerland.
u
short, imprisoned letter; ! say lmpas-
stoned, because passion burned between
the lines more than in the words. 1t
was worded automatically so that a
Platonic construction could have been
put upon it if 1t had proved that Eliza
had forgotten NE,
Reason sometimes whispered to me
that it was improbable she should have
remembered n stranger and the, to
her, perhaps trivial incident.
But a spell was over me and it grew
upon me. l could not sleep except at
irregular intervals. I took long drives
or rambles at night in parks OF on
drear and lonely highways. Often the
morning moon glistened on my oar
upon the silent, ripping river before
the steam whistles had awaked. and
while the ghosts Of greed and traffic
still lowered over the sullen docks.