Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1892-04-03

Queries That Never Occurred to You.
be so quiet; you are out of the world III
here. The sense of silence and rest Ii
punctuated with an ache here, and pair
there, it isn't all SO restful as it looks to be.
Mattresses should be made with hump
across the middle to fit the small of the back.
You construct an artificial one. All, that's
comfort! Straightway you invent a mat
tress Of tnat kind. You turn overj the
"hump" doesn't answer so we'll when you
lie on your side. You have to invent a
Too much trouble; you will let the doctors
attend to that. You are not sleepy, but it
isn't easy to keep your eyes open.
The Progress Of the Siege.
You trace the course of a crack in the
ceiling; you discover rather artistic designs
and most expressive pictures In the natural
tracery and knots of the furniture; the foot
board OF the bed is panorama; wonder
you never noticed it before; when you get
well you will copy some of the pictures.
Which you never do. You hear wheels;
they stop at the door; it is somebody to
| inquire after you; you arrange yourself for
callers in little touch Of Importance and
complacency. They do not come upstairs.
All, not permitted to do sol Evidently your
case Is more serious than you supposed; you
are quarantined. Somebody comes to give
| you your medicine.
'Who was it called this morning?"
'That was the meat wagon"
profound impression on the part of the
| patient, who doesn't say anything about it,
however. You guess what time It is by the
shadows on the wall, missing it only few
hours. You hear the clock tick, but the
high back rocker stands SO as to hide the
dial. The clock never licked that way be-
Co. a4sz Ill
| night, that it doesn't tick evenly; it limps q
little; and at intervals there is little
metallic, bell-like ring to the tick. Once in
while it chokes and sometimes it stum-
bles 1t goes! stick, took; tick, took; tick,
tock;" you get tired of this and try to head
it off and make it go stock, tick; took,
tick" You can't do it; the effort makes
you tired.
A sortie by ths Garrison.
Everything makes you tired. You will
Just look out of the window and not think
of anything You can see the crows fly
over the tree tops; that is your universe
away up under the roof-the sky. You have
half mind to get up and open window.
You have seven-eighths of a mind, however,
to lie quite still. You find yourself laying
little bets with yourself, not too high, which
way the next crow will fly. When you win
you are passively elated. When you lose
you are strangely depressed and wonder if
you haven't gone into this thing little too
deep. BY and by you lose heavily, doubling
your bets three times in succession. You
make up your mind that somebody has
'seen" your mind, and that racing is just
as uncertain in the air as on the ground.
Beside, it isn't right to gamble even for fun
if you're going to be sold out by your own
crows every time.
You wish you had book. You can't go
downstairs after one and you are afraid to
ask for one lest someone should ask the
doctor next time ne comes to forbid your
reading. You wish you had kept-why,
there did used to be some books in this
room; someone has taken them away. In
which surmise you are quite correct. The
wandering aimless eye of sick man which
eventually finds everything, sees one, after
while, partially concealed over there be-
hind your shaving case. It looks like re-
ligious book. IT it isn't too religious it
will do. If it is the "Memoir of John
Mooney Mead" you would prefer another
heat or two on the crow track. Youget up,
and with guilty stealth start across after it.
Negotiations tor Surrender.
Help, oh mighty Herculesl Your legs |
are made of knees, that work both ways. A |
man might as well walk on pair of "lazy |
a
get so weak and wabbley before death. How |
ever, by the aid of friendly chair you get |
there. The book is not John Mooney |
Mead =" Hardly. It is one Of Bret Harte's |
tracts, entitled, 1.-TWO Men of Sandy Bar
Somebody is coming up stairs; you toss the |
book back and get to bed, SO weak that you
can't lay on the fiat of your back without
holding on. Itis luncheon. You chew and
swallow something, but you do not eat
Everything tates ex' ,tly alike, and nothing
tastes like anything When someone goes
away the 'Two Men of Sandy Bar" mys-
teriouslv disappear
. You pile your pillows up into an easy
back rest; you will change your position
little; you lie down and the top pillows come
tumbling down over your face. You pitch
them out on the floor with feeble strength,
but strong utterance. Then you remember
that you may die before you get well, if not
sooner. You teebly FISH in the evicted pill
lows and compose yourself in the popular
old CRUSADER attitude" - feet crossed,
hands crossed on your breast, eyes closed,
tranquil, serene, silent. The shadows fill
the room, somebody is reading aloud down
stairs; the lamps are lighted, then; the
voice goes murmuring on, perfect imita-
tion OF a running brook; you hear the sleet
dash against the windows, the weather has
changed, then; the voices and the dashing
SleeC DlenQ cOuluseuly-duu The morning
and the evening are the first day.
Boots and Saddles at Last
When you open your eyes, the unbroken
silence tells you that you died about q week
ago and have now been buried four days.
You don't mind it very much; it isn't so
bad as you thought it would be. But the
dim night lamp and grotesque shadows it
imns on walls and ceiling, tell you that
you are still in the service, and the clock
announces that it is ready to help you pass
the night And 90, in the usual manner you
get through it.
"Well!' you manage to say, when you've
thought over the heartlessness and ingrati-
tude of the old world that runs right away
from you after you've lived in it so long;
cancel your lecture engagements. for you
couldn't stand on your legs half an hour if
you were wired with lightning rods: tele-
graph the editors that you can't come, and
you'll crawl around to the typewriter and
tell THE DISPATCH why you can't write
= IL -. T. A. 1