St. Landry democrat. (Opelousas, La.) 1878-1894, 1892-12-03

attendance on her were wont to give
ore than they received. Barnard
comparative success had been matter O.
envy.
II can't help thinking of that little
beggar," Barnard said, with smile, az
| he pulled cigar from his pocket and lii
| it, while Theron gathered up the rein'
and they drove off, followed by the open
admiration of Aunt Sarah's "olivt
branches" Chow unnecessarily he slip
ped into and out of life. The lifetime Of
day Most of us do little enough with
a much longer span, but he did abso
lutely nothing If he had been born
twenty one years old, and in New York,
he might have had fuller existence, if il
were short. Poor little Jack-in-t box +!
Two months later Barnard met Mrs
Amidon in New York at an afternoon tea.
She had only returned from Europe q
week before, and the newspaper accounts
of her doings there had not been the most
grateful reading for him. Her greeting
was friendly. But Barnard had the
sense that it would have been quite the
same if they had CHANGED upon one an
other in an Eskimo hut at the extreme
North. 1t was so independent of condi-
| tions. She would have said: GLOW do
you doc and would have made
some remark about the icebergs as a
timely conversational topic. AS it was,
she said he looked brown. Had he been
yachting?
He had never seen her appear so
charming. She was to him the ideal
grande dame. Her exquisite figure could
have warmed an antique statue to an en-
vious thrill. 1t woke her man dress
maker to extravagant admiration. And
| her face was so softly, coolly beautiful.
Yet her charm of manner almost made
one ignore the graces Of her form and
face
Mrs. Amidon resumed Barnard where
the close of the season had interrupted
him. He fell into his rather favored po-
sition in the line with well-defned pur-
pose of playing himself with such success
that he could secure an enduring post at
her side. He knew that she had taken
him up; he meant to assume her.
By November, he felt that he had made
a distinct advance Toward the end of
that month some fashionable woman gave
an entertainment at which Mrs. Amidon
and himself were present. The large
rooms were not stutfily full. Barnard
was very much at Mrs. Amidons elbow
this evening, and there were two or three
nuances in her treatment of him which he
construed delightedly as a gratitied ac-
ceptance of his devotion, something so
much better than if she had merely shown
it.
Several of the people present had
drawn eleemosynalsly on their powers Of
entertaining. Somebody had played on
the violin, young woman with a brazcn
accent had recited something from Andre
Chenier, and Creole girl had sung two
or three folk-songs of French Louisiana
with bizarre quality in the lifting chant.
Then Barnard stepped little forward
with bit of paper in his hand.
In my travels of last summer in the
wilds of Maryland" he began, in his
full tones and slightly drawing manner,
II CHANGED upon a warriors grave. For
if, as they tell us, life is warfare, then
was he a Knight though he jousted but
for day"
Mrs. Amidon's fan moved more gently,
until it came to repose. The alIegory
was amusing.
''He had his monument, had this knight,
one proportional to his life and deeds;
for the summer grasses threw slender
shadows quite across its top. This me-
al hnf nd r,$ hnrnp1
the name of him who had fought the
good fight, save that he waged it in
day. ! thought that even so small a poet
as myself might sing Of this incense
quential warrior. and, if YOU will of
your patience suffer it, | will read what
for lack of better title. | have called
''Verses on Hamilton Pinkney Fairfax
aged one day"
Mrs. Amidon had sunk back in the
broad chair, her fan lightly resting on
her bosom, till the glistening gardcnias !
seemed yelled in a film of mourning, as
if for the dear, dead summer.
" LIES ftful day is DER, and here he
Tucked fast asleep beneath his native
skies,
Earth's. warm, brown blanket folded on
his breast,
His wisdom fundamentally confessed.
For when he came, he did not like the |
place,
And had the wit to wander into space.
The crow of chanticleer hailed him be- |
gun,
Noon saw his prime, and twilight found
him done.
Hamilton Fairfay, at the crack of doom,
Will flicker forth to judgment from his
tomb,
To find how little of the Book of Life
Was needed to recount his earthly
strife.
This to the world his modest shaft must
say,
When it records his span of but day:
W bite was his soul at dawn, as white at
White when it passed, at curfew, not too
soon
Had he but known life's way he would
have chuckled
That at her breast he was so briefly
sucked.
Hamilton Fairfax, lucky wight were
you,
TO get to Heaven for what you did not
do |"
There was murmur of soft laughter
S he bowed gravely at the close, and
moved away. Smiling faces and mock
protests met him. One volatile young
woman tapped him with her fan, and
ried in a high voice: "You hard
learted thing, to make fun of that dar-
ing little creature l didn't know
whether to weep or to laugh over this
abbreviated Fairfax. I watched you,
nj if you had shown any regret for