The morning call., 1894-11-18

81 am weary in my bones," said the
Critic, ''of this fin de steele fad for literary
Summing. Il is bad taste. 1t is bad art
l contend that literature has gained moth
ing good, nothing great, nothing at all of
value from the Five Points or the Seven
Dials. Our writer's have gone down into
their depths to hale therefrom the dregs OF
humanity for introduction into the draw
ing-rooms. but literature has not been the
gamer BY the importation. while art has
been UNNECESSARILY the loser. l confess"
with a sunny laugh-"that the man and
brother business seems to be oyerdone
Say what you will, society is compact
straifed-not subject to any such great
revolutions as our socialistic friends seek
to bring about. We 90 not find ter
tiary rock in the eozoic period, aud the
primary qualifications are of interest only
10 the technoloGist, in geology, and to the
criminologist and the sociologist, in the
humanics. 'Fhe vulgar herd. the common
craft the great substretum, so to speak.
OF humanity. that our younger school Of
writers is just now exploiting, has in
reality just so much poetry and romance
as the Imagination OF these writer's is able
TO invest them with. and no more.
- Look, for instance. at yonder boy feed
ing the pigs down there. Do you suppose
he is conscious of what we see up here?
From where he stands he must be able
TO look straight down that vista of bills
straight out through the Golden Gate. Do
you suppose the outlook is more TO him
than so much land and water aud sky
Do you suppose he knows that the ship
sailing up the channel yonder is a thing of
grace and mystery and beauty! Does he
dream of the marvellous loneliness OF Yon-
der shrouding white mist creeping in from
the bay to envelop the great city on her
heights? Does the exquisite green OF these
hills mean more to him than SO much pas
turage for his cattle ?"
The road over which the Critic and his
companion were driving wound up steep
grade. and from the pig ranch down III
the hollow below them came the diScOrd-
ant sQueals of hungry swine. ciamoring in
their sites aSthe boy. whom the Critic bad
been watching, trailed back and forth be-
tween the pens and the swil shed bearing
steamiDg pals Of hot mash tor the shriekiug
herd. The deDiZens OF the last pen finally
received their share, and the elamor gave
way to grunts of satisfaction, minRling
with the steady champ of swlnish jaws
and an occasional sQueal of protest when
one swinlsh neighbnr encrOached upon
anOther'S feeding place.
Nathan, for that was the boys name,
stood leaning against the top rail of one
sly watching the greedy brutes interest
eddy. Stooping he scratched one black
and white porker's back speculatively.
They're getttn' mighty good an fat"
he muttered to himself. Then he glanced
up toward the road. where the Critic and
bis companion might still be seen ascend
ing the grade. His dull eyes swept the
landscape as hestraightened up to carry
his pals to the she'd
Looks mighty pretty out yonder," he
thought. as the low light of the glowing red
November sun in setting poured through
the Gate and touched 10 crimson and pur-
pie and opalescrnt splendor the dimpIing
water. the distant hills and the sails of
the craft coming into haroor with the
close OF day, but in his mind was DO
thought OF estheiie effects, nor of wonder
as to what might be beyond the Gate, nor
of the lives and aspirations of those WHO
90 down to the sea in ships, OK who climb
mountains u commune with nature. In
Etead, he felt glow of self-gratulatlon
that the early November rams had already
manted the hills with crisp green pastur-
age. Just the thing for the stock
Then he put away his pals and started
up the hill TO briug down the COW.
Inc pigs belonged 10 Silas Bennett, his
employer, but Betsy, the COW. was his own