Courier Democrat. (Langdon, N.D.) 1891-1920, 1897-12-30

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belle would de-
mand. "she can't have any admir-
ers."
why should she look so happy"
the younger, who spoke of Art and
Missions with capitals in her voice,
would ask. "She can't regard being
secretary to that lawyer as noble
calling"
And the wives of the boarding
house used also to puzzle over the Old
Maids joyousness, "for she has no
husband" they said, "and at her age
can hardly hope to get one"
But I never marveled at the gentle
spinster's radiant face after we had
heard the Singer, not. because hear
ing his voice was enough to provide
his hearers with fund of inner JOY
for the remainder of their days, but
because of the song he sang.
Now, the Old Maid had lived so long
In the clearinghouse on the square
that it had become second nature for
her to choose the less furnished spoons
In the holder and to avoid instructive
ly the top slices of bread on the bread
plate. She was familiar with all va
rieties Of clearinghouse servants,
and she knew that all alike despised
her as "the fourth floor 'front.'" She
knew by heart the landlady's stories
of pressing present need and of past
afduence. She had nothing to learn
In the matter Of substituted gas Jets,
and her feet were trained to skip the
torn spots in the stair carpet. Alto
gether there was nothing in the Old
Maids position in her clearinghouse
to account for her serenity.
Downtown the Old Maid was a ste
nographer in law Office, where pref
tiness was at discount as hindrance
to unremitting toll She did not real
ize that her chief attraction to her
employers was the lack of distracting
features and complexion. Long as she
had lived in the sordid but educating
clearinghouse, she had not learned
about motives, and she believed that
her fathers old friendship with the
lawyer had much to do with her po-
sition.
Before the remote day when the Old
Maid first came to the law Office and
the clearinghouse she had lived in
the country. Even yet when the
spring rains came down and drenched
the grim pavements she had swift,
fleeting sense of late SHOWS melting
by the rim of the brooks and of timid
flowers pushing through the soft earth.
And whenever there was the fresh
odor of new-growing grass, and new
sprouting leaves in the city parks her
mind turned toward peaceful, pastoral
ways, and her eyes were filled with
visions of billowy, poisoning trees,
of plowmen moving across upland
fields, of the waking up of life and
industry. In short, the Old Maid was
a poet, although the crude little ex-
pressions of her emotions never met
the keen eyes of critics or even the
kindly eyes Of her friends.
Well, once upon time the Singer
came to the clearinghouse on the
square. He was young and his au-
diences-they were largely feminine
declared that nowhere else was there
a singer who carroled out songs and
sobbed out ballads so knowingly.
Whether or not he was peerless is
question, bit at any rate he had made
a great success, and people wondered
that he should come to the dingy
abode of the boarders and the Old
Maid. Some said that it was because
he had lived there in the days before
he was known to fashion, and some
whispered knowingly that the lady to
whom the Singer sang lived over the
way in the stone house with the bal
comics at the window and the guard
ing lions at the door. Be that as it
may, it is a fact that when the Singer
came to the city for his series of con-
certs and recitals he sanctified the
abode Of the Old Maid with his pres
ence for whole week. And the Old
Maid was agitated mysteriously by
his presence, though it is doubtful if
he even saw her shabby little figure.
One night she crept down the stair
way when the house was still and
slipped paper beneath the Singers
door sill. The paper bore set of
verses written in the fine hand of a
woman who was educated a quarter
of a century ago, and little note that
read:
eff you should sometimes find this
worthy to sing would be the happiest
woman on EARTH"
Now, the Singer felt a brutal indif-
ference about all happiness save his
own, which had been sorely tried that
night by the lady of his songs. So he
merely muttered: "Confound imbecile
womenw Then he looked at the verses
and then he went gloomily to bed. But
through the night, as he reflected upon
his blighted hopes and the hardness Of
his fate, some of the Old Maids lines
sang themselves through his mind:
I'll see thee in each flower that grows;
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