The sun., 1898-12-25
Christmas
In Old
California.
THE ROMANCE OF A BELL.
By Eleanor Going Walton.

and your religion" went on the youth,
not needing the old man, who seemed to
have forgotten the presence OF the
younger man, "and l care for so much, l
want so many things explained, there
are so many things in life do not under
stand, so many MYSTERIOUS things, and l
wonder if after all, Padre, saint like
you is the happiest of men, 4 shall
never be a saint" said the priest with a
sigh, "but in the life lead, there often
comes chance to gain absolution for the
old life."
"Padre dear" said the youth, "tell me
what is life?"
"Life, my son, is a gray plain where
there are mirages, nothing more. Life is
a painting and breathless pursuit of what
is not. We spend our first years, clutch
ing for the golden butterfly and our last
gazing at our empty palms. And before
death comes what do we find in life? A
flower faded and dead when we lave
thought it had exquisite perfume. All
lives are failures, child, yet within each
live are seeds OF perfect bliss. Life is a
dull gray theatre, the curtain goes up and
we are each given Imaginations to form
the scenes of our play. Cultivate that
Imagination and it keeps our interest up,
it keeps the tears back and it keeps the
smile on our lips for a little while, but
after a while the glasses of our Imagina-
ton.
become clouded, the colors grow dim
and try as we may, the plays in our lit
tie theatre take on sad and gray strain.
The music becomes weird, and discord-
ant sounds like the wall of lost soul
mark the entra acts" The old man strides
up and down with sudden vehemence.
'It is only a mad man who thinks his
wishes will be gratifed on earth. 1t is
only a brainless fool who thinks he can
catch the Elusive maid, Happiness.
Catch her? All, yes, he may catch her
and hold her in his arms minute and
close his eyes to realize the bliss, only to
open them to find he holds nothing. We
are put here for some object. Only One
Being knows what. Every whisper,
every smile, every heart-ache, every lisp
of little child, every groan of a dying
man is link in the great chain that
binds us to the unalterabe Whole. OF
what use is prayer, for what can we pray
that the Almighty would not give us
were it meant tor us at any rate? What
can He think of our puny wants and
why would He change the plans of the
great universe for our individual COM
fort?'
Padre, Padre" and the youths voice
rang out in the air. His tone and words
recalled the father to his senses, and, re-
suming his seat, his voice suddenly be-
came thin and liieless. Sometimes l
forget myself but this terrible mystery,
this endless Waiting for what-we know
not, weighs upon me too heavily. For
get what have said, my boy. am
happy here. And something nearer peace
than anything else in this world can be
is found among these holy ruins"
A look OF calm came over the old
mans face as there fell on the air a
sound of bells breaking the stiffness
Slowly and evenly they pealed forth in
the evening air.
When they had ceased and the echo
had died away as the sun sloped down
toward the West the Padre. crossing
himself, said: at is vespers. my son."
and he made his way across the stone
corridor and under the broken columns
Of the once imposing Mission to say a
few prayers and helpful words to the
devont few who came to say their Ave
| Maras on their beads and kneel at tie