The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1897-11-21
appetite p9et Of FEseeFi-Fo-Fum in his glass

appetite Of Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum in his glass
mouse among the sudsy clouds.
tk Alo' 100, there We're strange happenings in
nose days-pirouetting dream images Of
shadow-buff challenging recognition one
moment In the long winter evenings and
again putting on flesh and blood to watch
"a butterfly teetering on a yellow dande-
non IN still summer day, or tenderlv
ttlItlng the butterfly after a summer shower
MS rain-drenched wings. Deari dearI deart
ana there was one little "make-believe''
that was not SO fascinating to one part OF
Ing Pretense community, though 1t perforce
ylelded allegiance to the tyrant ruler. There
was long shaded arbor with the purple
Stb5 a cuddied among the green leaves and
Drusnlng against them. / think no other
a i,op was ever quite so pretty as that one,
Win ire dusty bloom on the big purple fell
lows faces and the blush on the little fell
lows as II the sun had been in hurry and
n mad forgotten some summer night to take
az MS dyeing color with him; and the
other little white punches of sweetness like
Inc pale wratths of a past season.
the country Of ff Pretty play site IL
there, when the toy dinner table was
set with viands from the mothers pantry.
Inc TWO little sisters were hidden: you be
mems and go -otf-yonder; no, not
tnere-farther yet where you can't see me
at all and I'll be rooster that's going to
scratch worms Tor you and when / find
a worm I'll crow loud--this way-happing
imaginary wings and lifting a shrill chan
ticleerian voice. and then you'll know theys
80 the obedient little hens-I think they
were little brown hens-went clucking
away and waited and waited, long enough,
1t seemed for a worm TO wriggle his race
and die. And then came the shrill cock-a-
doodle-doo. But, alas for the perfdy of au-
tocratic poultry! In the arbor room would be
an overturned, empty table, with the din
ner completely vanished and the knight Of
the spurs Growing iriumphantly from safe
vantage ground. All of US know such sto-
ries. The children love those tales of far
yesterday in the mothers or fathers life
with their used to be- better than the most
artful construction of a professional story
endearng through association.
Among those children of whom I told you
there were two much younger; one, from
his staid, dignified demeanor, was always
the bishop the other was just boy, because
no other name seemed so fitting. The
bishop had grave black eyes, a golden curl
atop his head, and a slow, wide SMILE
Boy had soft brown eyes, the blacklist head
and the sweetest voice a baby ever had
The bishop was an obstinate baby. He
would not be rocked to sleep in a cradle:
he would not be rocked in a chair; he
would be jolted In a straightforward chair,
hippity-hop, over the floor in his fathers
arms, while the father intoned "Injun''-
ain. tain, tether. feather, fp''-or told Of
The babes in the wood, poor babes in the
wood that the robin birds covered with
dead brown leaves. Boy, on the floor
caught the refrains of The songs the older
children knew and sang them even before
he could speak word. The wind roared
down the chimney on winter nights. And
VIII tic carly dSqNlACA ii<hC-bSliCfS,
the bishop would go each night to the
soughing chimney. and. listening intently,
would ask mournfully, what wind say?
What wind say?" And as graveIy answer
himself: Wind say cold 'edder. cold
'edder.'
Dear babes of that time! One is now a
brawny man and one is a dweller in the new
country. And l cannot but hope that the
influence Of the songs and hymns he heard
for song is the flower OF literature-and
the stories he heard, with the quaint con-
ceits they generated. have gone into his
new happiness. / think whenever the sweet
old Star of Bethlehem is sung as 1t used
to be sung so often to him in the early
dawn to soothe his baby restlessness. that
his memory Is stirred by the love still lin
gering. Wherever his brown eyes are shin
ing there is the old home-love making that
shine: in his new home there IS surely re-
membrance of the one he left In the new
sweet stories of that land where he is an
indweller, the tales of herolsm and nobility
and right must have part. since they were
long since part Of himself.
OLLAH TOPH.