Bellows Falls times. [volume] (Bellows Falls, Vt.) 1856-1965, 1892-08-11

me what it was. He laughed at me
| Very well. 1t was dull-red stone
| with bright red streaks across 1t; l saw
the same thing in Troy this afternoon
when bod carrier fell five stories anG
they picked him up from pile of bricks
You are getting rather realistic
muttered Philander. Darnel was not
looking at him, and went on unheeding-
ly.
81 have but to tell what see. have
stopped imagining; my head has ached
Phil, you don't know how it has ached
trying to imagine things. | am past
that now; il you only shut your eyes
and look, it is all easy. Take that old
Edda story that l tried to work up,
about the fellow who fought all day
long against his brides father, and when
night came the bride stole out and
raised all the dead men on both sides, by
magic, so that the next day, and every
day, the battle ragged on as before.
used to plan about the magic she used,
and tried to invent a charm. Why, all
she did was to pass over the battlefield
at night, where the dead lay twisted in
the frost, and while the wolves snarled
around her and the spray from the ford
wet her cheek, she stopped to touch the
dead mems wrists; and they loosed their
grip upon broken sword and split linden
shield, their breath came again soft and
low like baby's, and so they slept until
the red dawn
"Loolk here said Atkinson, sitting
up very straight, you've been reading
The Finest Story in the World and it
has turned your head.''
"Oh, the London clerk who was con-
Spi0ng nf nrp-nvictnnnps anI thr,,,
all when he fell in love? | could have
told Rudyard Kipling better than that
myself" Darnel gave an impatient
whirl to the revolving chair.
"You mean you think you cam" re-
piled Atkinson sharply.
GAS you like" He spoke dreamily,
and Atkinson dropped back on the pill
low again, watching his friend as mar
rowly as the dim light would allow.
Hard work and unearthly hours told on
Darnel; he certainly seemed light
headed.
"Sickening heat-black FROST he
was murmuring; "Marching, stealing,
fighting, toiling-.joy, pain-the life of
the race-is man to grow unconscious
of these things in the moment that he
really enters the life of the race, that he
feels himself part of it? What do you
think, Philip
81 think" was the slow reply, ''that
whatever has happened to you in Yer
mont has shaken you up pretty well, old
fellow. They say that when some one
asked Rachel how she could play
'Phedre' so well, she just opened her
black Jewish eyes and said. Il have seen
her. And | think that in the mood you
are now, you can see as far back as
Rachel or anybody else. It's like being
opium-drunk; if you could keep so aud
put On paper what you see, you could
beat Kipling and all the rest of them.
But you can't keep drunk, and you can't
write pro e or verse on love-delirium.
It's been tried"
''Suppose Rachel had said, Il am
Phedre?'
Atkinson lifted his stout shoulders,
laughing uneasily. $50 much the worse
| should say, the less pre-existence OF
that sort the better. You might as well
tell me the whole story, D. What is
her name?"
''In moment She loves me, Phil.
She is waiting for me in her little house
among the hills. / left her only this |
cave New York forever. / can
write the story up there-the story l
have dreamed of writing-for | shall al
ways have the secret of it. l have but
to shut eyes and tell what see; and it is
because she loves me. All the life of
the past-I can call that "A Story of the
Road Then there will be the future to
write of-Jhe men and women that are to
come; for we shall have children, Phil,
and in them
"You're making rapid progress ejac-
ulated Philander.
CT shall know the story of the
future. Even now l know it. | do not
simply foresee it, see it. Why not "A
Story of the COAL! For l belong to it
do you not understand? Yet, after all,
what is that compared with the present?
1t shall be "A Story of the March!' Look
there!"
He threw his eyes up to the ceiling,
which was frightened for an instant by
the headlight of an elevated train as it
rushed past.
ssDo you know what that engineer was
really thinking of as he went by? That
would be story enough. Or what was
in the heart of the bride tonight, down
on third landing-you smelled the orange
flowers as you came up? To feel that
your heart is in them, and theirs in you
But Philander Atkinson was not lis
tening to the lovers rhapsody. He was
thinking of certain summer when he,
too, had had strange fancies in his head;
when his thoughts played backward and
forward with swift certainty; when he
had grown suddenly conscious of great
and deep affinities, and for space of
some three months he had dreamed of
being something more than mere verse
maker, master of the file. Then
whether it was that she grew tired of
him, or they both realized that some dull
mistake had been made-it was all over.
There were still in his drawer package
of manuscript he had written that sum-
mer, in blank verse, none too noble a
form for the high thoughts which filled
him, in queer new rhythm. too, the
secret of whose beat he had caught at
and then lost, for the lines read harshly
to him now. He looked these things
over occasionally, as sort of awful ex-
ample of himself to himself, though he
had gone so far as to borrow some of
their imagery, not without certain
shame, to adorn his light verse. His
oo ri hon bod fo1lop h1t SOmQ Of the