Sullivan republican. [volume] (Laporte, Pa.) 1883-1896, 1894-11-16

| rare IarlS1an Dy-WayS Wnero 1nero is
not single shop. I do not know q
more tranquil spot. Several gardens,
enclosed in long low walls overhung
with branches, shed over the deserted
street in May the delicate odor of
lilacs; in June, the heavier perfume
of elderaowers and acacias.
Among these was one abode even
more isolated than the others. When
the porte cochere opened to admit a
landau or coupe, the pedestrian (who
heard the echo of his steps on the
sidewalk) saw only graveled road,
bordered with hedge which turned
abruptly toward a house hidden amid
the verdure. 1t would have been diff
ficult to find q corner more secluded.
The place contained neither gardener IS
house nor porter lodge-nothing but
that nest in the foliage.
The pavilion was inhabited. The
garden, gay with flowers, always care
fully attended to, was proof of that
In winter, the smoke from the chin
neys rose to the gray sky, and in the
evening light shone dimly behind the
thick curtains, always closely drawn.
Several times saw going or coming
through the lattice-door an old SER
want in sombre livery, and with cir
cumspect, even suspicious, air. Evil
dently should gain nothing by inter-
rogating him. Besides, what right
had to trouble with vain curiosity
the unknown host or hosts of the
closed house?
I respected their secret, but the
enigmatical dwelling continued to ex-
ercise for me its singular attraction.
One July night, sitting night, un-
der dark, heavy sky, came home
about eleven o'clock, and, accord
ing to my usual habit, I
mechanically turned my steps so
rs to pass before the mysterious
pavilion. The little street, lighted
only by three gas jets far apart, which
fickered in the heated air, was abso-
lutely deserted. Not q leaf stirred on
the trees III the garden. All nature
was dumb in the quiet which precedes
storm.
l was in front of the pavilion, when
some notes were struck on piano
within and echoed in the motionless
air. l noticed with surprise that,
doubtless because of the heat, two of
the windows were partly open, though
not enough for one to see the interior
of the apartment. Suddenly woman's s
voice, q soprano of wonderful sweet
ness and power, burst forth upon the
silence of the night.
She sang short melody, of strange
| rhythm and the most touching melan-
choly, in which OWNED instinctively
o popular air, one of those flowers of
primitive music which are never gath
cred in the gardens raked by profess
sional maestri. Yes, it certainly was
folk song, but of what country? l
did not recognize the tongue in which
the words were written, but I felt
there the plaintive inspiration, and
fancied that I detected in them the
sad spirit of the North. The air was
thrilling, the voice sublime. 1t hard
ly lasted two minutes, but I never felt
in all my life such deep musical SEN
sation, and long after the song had
died away, l felt still vibrating within
me the final melodious note, sharp,
penetrating, sad, like long cry of
pain. l remained there for long
time in the hope of hearing that de-
hcious voice again, but suddenly a
storm burst upon the city. The wind
shook the trees. I felt a large drop
OF rain on my hand. I was obliged
to make all haste to get home.
Some days afterward was in the
Casino at Dieppe with some jolly COM
panions, and took part in an anima.
ted discussion upon music. praised
popular airs, which spring spontane.
ously from an innocent sentiment. In
aid of my theory, related my adven-
ture.
"What do you think of this air o.
asked Prince Khalof, a young Rus.
sian with whom I was very intimate.
81 shall never forget IL" said warm