The L'Anse sentinel. (L'Anse, L.S., Mich.) 18??-current, 1896-03-28

me all his money"
I glanced at the shiny sleeve of his
coat and my eye travelled up the frayed
collar.
Every penny" said the man with the
looking at me with a touch of offense.
"rve never had any windfalls like
that" said, trying to speak obviously
and propitiate him.
Even legacy isn't always a bless
ing" he remarked with sigh, and with
an air of philosophical resignation he
nut the red nose ana the wiry mustache
into his tankard for a space.
perhaps not" said.
"He was an author, you see, and he
wrote lot of books"
"Indeed!"
THAT was the trouble of 1t ALL" He
stared at me with the available eye to
see il grasped his statement, and then
ayerted his face little and produced
toothpick.
You see," he said, smacking his lips
after pause. TT was like this. He was
nv uncle-my maternal uncle. And he
had-what shall / call it?-a weakness
for writing edifying literature. Weak
ness is hardly the word-downright
mania is nearer the mark. Had been
soon as the money came to him he be-
gan TO indulge his ambition. It's n
simply extraordinary and incompre-
hensible thing to me. Here was man
OF 81 suddenly dropped into perfect
pile of gold, and he didn't go-not q
DAYS bust on it! One would think n
chap would go and get himself dressed
bit decent-say n couple of dozen
pairs of trousers, at west end tailors
hut he never did. You'd hardly believe
It, but when he died, he hadn't even a
gold watch. 1t seems wrong for peo-
pie like that to have money. All he
did was just to take house, and order
in pretty nearly five tons of books and
ink and paper. and set to writing edi-
fying literature as hard as ever he could
write, l can't understand it! But he
did.
THE money came to him curiously
enough through q maternal uncle of his.
unexpected like, when he was five and
twenty. Mymother, it happened, was his
only relation in all the wide, wide world.
except some second cousins of his. And
was her only son. You follow all that?
The second cousins had only one son,
too, but they brought him up TO see
the old man too soon. He was rather
spoilt youngster, was this son Of
theirs. and directly he set eyes on
my uncle, he began bawling out as hard
as he could: Take i'm away-er', he
says, Take i'm away and he did for
himself cntirely. 1t was pretty straight
sailing. you'd think, for Inc, eigh? And
my mother, being sensible, careful
woman, settled the business in her own
mind long before he did.
''lle was II curious little chap, was my
uncle as l remembered him. don't
wonder at the kid being scared. Hair,
just like these Japanese dolls they sell.
black and straigltt and stiff all round
the brim and none in the middle. and
below whitish kind of face and rather
large, dark gray eyes moving about be-
hind his spectacles. He used TO attach
agreat deal of Importance to dress, and
always wore tapping overcoat and n
binary size. He looked Il rummy little
beggar, ] can tel you. Indoors it
was, as rule, dirty red flannel dress
ing gown and black skull cap he had.
That black skull cap made him look like
the portraits of ali kinds of celebrated
people. He was always moving about
from house to house. was my uncle,
with his chair, which had belonged to
Savage Landor, and his two writing
tables, one of Carlyle's and the other of
Shelley's, SO the dealer told him, and the
completest portable reference library
in England, he said he had-and he
lugged the whole caravan, now
to house at Down, near Oar
wins old place, then to Reigate, near
Memedith, then off to Hazlemere-
that's where the ozone grows - then
back to Chelsea for bit, and then up
TO Hampstead. He knew there was
something wrong with his stuff, but he
never knew there was nything wrong
with his brains. 1t was always the air
or the water or the altitude or SOM
tommy rot like that. so much de-
ponds on environment he used to say,
and stared at me hard, as il he half sus
pected you were hiding grin at him
somewhere under your face. so much
depends on environment to n sensitive
mind like mine
What was his name? You wouldn't
know IL told you. He wrote nothing
that anyone has ever read-nothing.
No one could read it. He wanted to
be great teacher, he said, and he didn't
Know what he wanted to teach any
more than child. So he just blethered
atlarge about Truth and Righteousness,
and the Spirit of History and all that.
Book after book he wrote and published
at his own expense. He wasn't quite
right in his head, you know, really. And
to hear him go on at the critics-not De-
cause they slated him, mind you-hc
liked that but because they didu't
take any notice of him atall. What do
the nations want?' he would ask, hold.
ing out his brown old claw. Why,