Western Kansas world. [volume] (WaKeeney, Kan.) 1885-current, 1894-01-27
DESTINY.

nif1cent upholstery or Ine SKY anu
the gorgeous beauty of the earth
I have a romance to write, or, as a
brother author would say, 'an arti-
Gle" fancy it will be a true tale l
shall write tonight for l feel in no
mood for writing romance. One can
not always write romance; indeed,
there are times when one cannot
write al all, as every writer knows to
his cost Again, there are times
when the thoughts come thick and
fast and the words almost flow from
the pen: when one can take up a
plain sub ect and embroider it over
with beautiful thought and quaint
ideas till one scarcely recognizes the
original theme
Ny talk with you tonight shall be
of one l know and love full we'll 1
have seen her within the last hour,
sitting dreamily at her window, so
lost in thought that she did not see
me as rode by on my way to the
Dostoffice-my usual evening ride.
You must know that I am in the
country now, the splendid country,
and shall not return to not, dusty
Gotham for six delicious weeks. But
this is not my story. 1t was leaf
or two from heart and life l was
going to unfold-a life in which my
own was strangely intermingled-a
life whose every phase 1 knew by
heart; for though she kept the inner
leaves of her heart folded over its
deepest feelings /, even !. had once
or twice passed beyond the penetrate
further than which no other human
soul had ever gained an entrance,
neithe" would they in the years to
come.
1t was baImy evening in June,
the hours creeping on toward the sun
set. Here and there, on the hilI-tops,
the sunlight still came fltering
through the trees, fleckjng the velvet
sward with patches Of trembling gold.
In the valleys, the long, cool shadows
crept upward, heralding the dying of
the day. Forth from their leafy
chambers came troop Of insects, and
set up their usual evening concert.
The cricket that had sang in the
warm jamb all winter opened the
concert singing his song to the end
without stopping to take breath, and
the frogs, filed with envy, joined in,
con spirito. Some timid little birds
tTilled in a few trembling notes, and
the lazy locust sang his song In long,
droWsy cadences, lulling into yet
deeper thought the pale-browed
woman that sat so still and sad by
the window. She, too, was gazing
upon the same brilliant clouds, drift
ing their purple and crimson and
gold into a most rare mosaic. The
hush Of a summer evening, was
around her and folded flowers and
sleeping birds. Yet, metninks the
summer beauty was lost upon the
dreamer, for her eyes were cast up
ward, as though in anguish or prayer.
Two white hands were Clasped to-
gether. Surely there was a prayer
folded in the small hands, else why
were they clasped so nervously one
within the other, while her eyes were
gazing up to heaven.
EDrawn closely to the window, as
though for more light, was table
thickly strewn with MSS, which be-
tckened her calling, though the pen
lay IDLY beside her, showing that for
this time, at least, her art was power
less to satisfy her heart The mo-
tionless figure was almost StatuesQue
in It's deep repoSe, making one sad
to look upon her-the twilight fell
soft and cool till its gray shadows
draped earth and sky, and still the
dreamer sat there-the night closed
around her, the grateful soothing
night that falls upon all the weary
world, that folds itself over tired
eyes and around the weary-hearted.
The moon rose full and clear, render
ing the white face still more white.
The beautiful calm moon, that lights
up sc many nights n our own and
other lands That brightens into
richer beauty the flowers sleeping
under tropic skies, and gu des the
lover to the feet Of his chosen one.
Over many love IScene the moon
light fell; over brave men and beauti-
full women; over purple seas, and
vovagerS sailing upon these seas; over
precious argosies ard ships of war,
and over this beautiful woman, sit
ting so sad and silent in the little
brown cottage on the heath. The
beautiful form is there, but the spirit
is far away. Let us shadow forth a
few of the thoughts and memories
that fit before her mental vtsion-a
fragment here and there, that will
tell somewhat of her heart history.
Her thoughts had flown back years
and years. Before her minds eye
stood a fair child of twelve summers,
her white apron flied with flowers,
which she crushed recklessly against
her breast as she extended one small
hand to catch a flower st IL more
beautiful than the rest The white
hand rested on the coveted flower,
but in drawing herself back. a stone
underneath her foot rolled, and she
was precipitated into the dark and
sluggish pool beneath. The CIR
struggled in the water to regain he