The Somerset reporter. [volume] (Skowhegan, Me.) 1868-1909, 1899-02-16
COMING OF EVEN.

III Is only the WIND, SAID the Poet.
He threw himself Estlessly upon the
hard leather couch and turned his face
to the wall
The waves dashed madly upon the
rocks below the little cottage, with
angry shrieking the wind beat up the
waves, and the moan of the storm came
upon the wind. The Poet heard all
these and smiled YEARLY. Young in
years, he was old in spirit, in experience,
in enjoyment; they had no charm for
him.
He opened his lips now in discomfort.
''They have written 80 much about the
sea that one is dead sick of it all = He
sighed. II can find in it nothing that
has not been found before. -
He himself had written not little
concerning the beauties of the sea, but
his hand had been young in sooth when
it held the pen, and his eyes not yet
aweary.
He turned restlessly on the couch,
bemoaning its hardness and cursing the
friend whose advice had sent him to re-
cruit at this little fishing town, throw
ing all the burden of his disgust of life
and his own feebleness into the cursing
Then through and betwixt the voices
of the storm came wailing cry; the
cry of lost soul at God s gates the
cry for the unattainable from the lips
of child of earth. Rising higher and
higher it beat sobbingly upon the wind.
1t cried with the echo of the seagulls
warning; it scattered with the soft sea
foam, and sank hushing and palpitating
into the mutter of the waves. But only
to rise again in melody so triumphant
as to override in its grandeur the voices
of the angry ocean.
ut was the great Sea Spirit, said
the Poet
But the sound had hardly seemed to
come from the sea--rather from above
He rose and walked to the window.
at was not the wind. he said aloud
1t was still bowling. but the music
had ceased He threw open the window
and looked out. The wind fell in blast
upon his thin face and tossed his hair
The sea shouted at him with angry
menace. The look of the sky upon him
was without CLINT of a smile.
But again the music rose, but so soft
" that he had to strain his ears to catch
the murmur of half hushed cradle
song When it ceased again, the voices
of the storm seemed to be sinking and
the sea to be aweary Of rage. The wind
fell, and into the sky came white
glimmer where silver star sought its
entrance to the heavens.
The Poet stood there long, his arms
resting on the sill, a dreamy look on his
old young face. There had come to him
one of those moments which he fancied
had left him forever, when his mind,
like the wornout sea, could hush its
crying and be at peace.
1t was only when, on his way to his
bedroom later, he passed his landlady on
the stairs that the problem of the strange
music he had heard returned to him.
1T seemed in the house, and yet not in
the house, he murmured to himself.
stopping her. 1T has been a wild night.
Mrs. Lewis.
Indeed and it has, sir, but it has
settled down nicely.
1T was strange, but | thought
heard during the storm the sound of "a
violin. Some one has chosen a strange
time to play
"Theres Miss White, sir. She has
the room above yours. She teaches the
fiddle in town. Goes up every day.
But she's not been playin tonight, sir,
and she the only one in the place that
can.
"Oh that explains it. She must have
been playing. No doubt it was she
heard
But she hash been playin tonight.
sir | beg your pardon for sayin it.
I've been sittin SEWN in the room just
above her head and never sound have
| heard She been that still too.
The Poet laughed but went on his
way unconvinced. Strange playing fol
"a teacher of the violin, he thought,
land strange time in which to play
She must be a strange girl
1t never occurred to him, in the AFRO
gance of his few years, that she might
be more than Il girl. Indeed he speedily
forgot the whole matter But in the
dead of the night he rose and. hastily
donning few garments, sat till the
gray of the morning inscribing the
thoughts of which the strange strains
had sown the seed He had found in the
sea what he had never found before
With the golden eye of the sun upon
him he threw himself upon his tossed
bed and slept until after MONDAY. Aft
erward he rambled upon the shore, re
turning tired and listless. at length to
his chambers.
Miss White, she's leavin tomorrow
mornin, his landlady told him as she
laid his tea
But the Poet WAS not interested He
wondered who Miss White might be
Indeed" he drawled languidly. He
reused himself to poke the fire as a stop
per to any other attempt at conversa
ton. and Mrs. Lewis took the hint.
But in the evening when, with the
coming ont of the stars, a delicate
thread of sound wound itself through
the stiffness, his interest came back to
him He threw himself upon his couch
and gave himself up to the pleasure of
the sweet strains. Yet was ii hardly
pleasure, but more fine pain There
was in the music naught of the wailing