The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1899-02-18
With the ~ ~
Coming of Even
BY eAgnes Groster Herbe,tson.
" IT IS only the wind" said the Poet.
lie threw himself llstlessay upon

1T Is only the wind" said the Poet.
lie threw himself llstlessay upon
the hard leather couch, and turned his
face TO the wall.
The waves dashed madly upon tho
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 expcrt-
ence, In enjoyment; they had no charm
for him. u
lie opened his lips now in discomfort.
'"rhey have written SO much about the.
sea that one is dead Sick of it ALL" He
sighed; II can find in 1t 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
awcary.
He turned restlcssly on the couch,
bemoaning its hardness, and cursing
the friend whose advice had sent him
to recruit at this little fishing town,
of life and his own fcebeness into the
cursing.
Then through and betwixt the voices
Of the storm came a wailing cry; the
cry of lost soul at Gods gates; tho
cry for the unattainable from the lips
Of child of earth. Rising higher and
higher. 1t beat sobbingly upon the
wind; II cried with the echo of the
seagulls' warming; 1t scattered with
the soft sea foam; and sank hushing
and pulpitating into the mutter Of the
wives. But only to rise again in mel
ody SO triumphant as 10 override in it's
grandeur the voices of the angry ocean.
ut was the great seaepirit," said the
Poet.
But the sound had hardly seemed to
come from the sea-rather from above.
He rose and walked to the window.
"It was not the wind" he said, aloud.
1t was still bowling, but the music
had ceased. lie threw open the VIM
dow and looked out. The wind fell in
blast upon his thin fuce, and tossed
his hair. The sea shouted Mt him with
angry: menace. The look of the sky
upon him was without CLINT of q
smile.
Butagainthe music rose; but SO soft
ly that he had to strain his ears to catch
the murmur of the half-hushed cradle
song. When it ceased again the voices
of the storm seemed to be sinking,
and the sea 10 be aweary of rage. The
wind fell, and into the sky came O
white glimmer where silver star
sought It's entrance to the heavens.
The Poet stood there long, his arms
resting on the sill, dreamy look on
his oldyoung face. There had come to
fancied had left him forever, when his
mind, like the worn-out 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. at seemed in the house. and
yet not in the house" he murmured to
himself. stopping her. ut has been q
wild night, Mrs. Lewis"
Indeed, and it has, sir, but 1t has
settled down nicely.
"Tt was strange; but Thought I
heard during the storm the sound of
violin. Some one has chosen strange
time to play" t
There's 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, cir;
and she's the only one In the place that
can"
20, that explains It'll She must have
been playing. No doubt 1t was she
heard"
''But she hasn't been playin' tonight,
sir; beg your pardon for saying it.
I've been sittin' SEWN in the room just
above her head, and never sound have
heard. She's been that still, too
The Poet lnughed. but went on his
why unconvincetl~ "Stmnge playing for
teacher of the VIOLIN" he thought,
land n strange time In which to play.
She must be q strange girl
1t never occurred to him, in the mr.
rogmnce Of his few years, that she
might he more tllnn girl. Indeed, he
6peCuiIS lOISVt Tue NlOlc Dub
in the dead of the night he rose, and,
hastily DOMINIC few garments, sat
till the gruy 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 toss
ing bed and slept until after MONDAY.
Afterwards he wmbled upon the shore,
returning. tired and listless. at length
to his chambers.
"Mlss White, she's lenvin' tomorrow
mornin,," his landlady told him, as SHE
laid his tea.
But the Poet was not interested. He
wondered who Miss White might be.
"lndecd?" he drawled languidly. He
reused himself to poke the fire as a
stopper TO any other attempt at con-
versation; and Mrs. Lewis took the
hint
But in the evening when. with the
coming out Of the stars, delicate
thread Of sound wound itself through
the stiffness. his interest came back to
him. lie threw himself upon his couch.
and gave himself up TO the pleasure of
the sweet strains. Yet was 1t hardly
pleasure. but more fine pain. There