The Opelousas courier., 1896-10-10

llasG Vi u~uultuity, N1I1t 1OHei aue
lower ana finally seek occupation il
the most humble and bitter paths O
life. Such creatures of misfortune
were the tenants Of q small, shaky
structure in lower New York, e build.
ing that ha so %outgrown its useful
ness and decent appearance that it was
known rs "The RUNS" which name
was most significant when one consid'
ers the financial condition of the old
houses occupants.
We lived in "Ihe Ruins" Tom and
I, pegging away az VI pictures and
praying for that blissful day when
fame and fortune would come, When
we could shake the dust Of "The
Ruins from our feet and journey
away to some delightful spot beyond
the reach of bill collectors and out OF
the prosaic sound of vegetable carts
and coal wagons. It was this thought
of coming wealth that kept us on our
feet, that buoyed our sinking spirits
and made US laugh when u hearts
were crushed under a load of sorrow.
Were We unhappy? No, for we had
each other, and the love Of man and
woman is a healing balsam in times of
misfortune. To be sure, each grleved
to see the other in want of those little
luxuries which make life worth the
living, but had we, not each others in
spring words Of hope to cheer the
way and make the rough places less
sharp and painful? Had Tom been
alone, had l been alone, the dreary
forsakenness and the agony of unceas-
ing disappointment would have been
beyond all human endurance and
we'll, who can tell what fate would
have been ours? It is a narrowing
thought, and foolish one, but women
are wont to dwell on ''what might have
been," even if it makes them miser.
able.
Our neighbors, the other tenants OF
s'The Ruins" were conditioned like
ourselves. Like us, too, they wore
shabby clothes and turnover shoes and
supplied the wants Of the ''inner man.
by buying articles of food at tho cor
ner grocery and cooking them over
the blaze of q smoky CRATE fire or an
ilt.smelling sputtering oil stove. There
were six or seven of them, our neigh
bors, and every week or two one would
disappear, no doubt to go into cheaper
lodgings, while a new face and an IN
familiar but equally shabby figure
would take his or her place. We saw
little of the other tenants, meeting
them only in the dusty, bleak hall
ways or on the creaking, unsteady
stairs.
Sometimes they would murmur
good morning or we would exchange
a growl of hatred for the Landlord OF
the crumbling "Ruins," but more fire..
quently we passed in silence, sinking
h%urriedly along as if ashamed of our
parcels of provisions or our three-sea.
son garments. This had been the con.
dition of our social affairs until one
gloomy April day, when there came q
timid knock on our door, which I an.
swered with no great feeling Of hap.
piness, fearing an unlooked-for visit
from the uncongenial landlord.
My apprehensions were groundless.
st was the little German governess
who lived in a cherries back room on
the floor above.
II heard your husband go away and
SO took the liberty of coming to you,'
she stammered in broken English, as
a pretty blush of embarrassment Grim
soned cheeks which were usually of q
cold and unhealthy whiteness.
81 have waited to come for such q
long, long time. It is very lonesome,
this New York, is it not? I think one
could die and not be found for years
unless it was by the landlord when he
comes to collect his fees each week.
The landlord, one is only sure of him /;
he never fails, he never forgets, he
m each WeoGsedPy with hand held
out for the money and his wrinkled
old face is oil pinched and puckered
with avarice. zach, I hate him, the
landlord"
She paused for breath. I took TOMS
palette, lowered with paint from the
n comfortable chair in the room and
begged my visitor to be seated.
"You and your husband are both
artists?" she continued, talking fast
and never waiting for replies to her
questions-"you must be happy. Yes,
you are happy, for I hear you singing
some times, and when ] see you and
your husband on the street he is al
ways holding your arm as if you were
q piece of rare porcelain. You are the
only person in this dreary place
this ruin, Is they call 1t-vho ever
smiles. The rest-ah! they go about
like ghosts, creeping up and down, up
and down, the stairs as if they'd die
at SO much as the sound of their foot
steps. Oh, this America, it is awful
it is terrible. I think sometimes 1
shall die. ! think sometimes that I
can live no longer in this vault. where
people are neither dead nor alive. #
only I had more work, it only I could
earn more money and get q little more
room somewhere in the fresh air and
get where l can see trees and green
things. And this noise-this endless
roar Of wagons and changing of street
a bells! All, / fear I am going mad
that my brain is ill"
1t was the anne old story-little or
no work, wretchedness of heart and a
desperate lack Of money. Ipitied her