Santa Fe new Mexican. [volume] (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1898-1951, 1899-02-15
COMING OF EVEN.

He threw himself listlessly 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 so much about the
sea that one is dead sick Of it all. He
sighed. 81 can find in it nothing that
has not been found before"
He himself had written not a 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 a wailing cry; the
cry Of a lost soul at Gods gates; the
cry for the unattainable from the lips
of a child of earth. Rising higher and
higher, it beat sobbingly upon the wind.
1t cried with the echo of the seagulls'
warming; it scattered with the soft sea
foam, and sank hushing and palpitating
into the mutter of the waves. But only
to rise again in a melody SO triumphant
as to override in its grandeur the voices
of the angry ocean,.
"It 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.
''It was not the wind" he said aloud.
It was still bowling, but the music
had ceased. He threw open the window
and looked out. The wind fell in a 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 a CLINT of a smile.
But again the music rose, but so soft
ly that he had to strain his ears to catch
the murmur Of a 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 a white
glimmer where a 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 it's
crying and be at peace.
It 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.
''It seemed in the house, and yet not in
the house" he murmured to himself,
stopping her. 'It has been a wild night,
Mrs. Lewis"
Indeed and it has, sir, but it has
settled down nicely"
''It was strange, but l thought /
heard during the storm the sound Of a
violin. Some one has chosen a strange
time to play"
"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, sir,
and she's the only one in the place that
can"
"Oh, that explains it. She must have
been playing. No doubt it was she l
heard"
"But she hasn't been playin tonight.
sir. ! beg your pardon for sayin it.
I've been sittin SEWN in the room just
above her head, and never a sound have
I heard. She's been that still too"
The Poet laughed, but went on his
way unconvinced. "Strange playing for
a teacher Of the violin" he thought,
land a strange time in which to play.
She must be q strange girl"
1t never occurred to him. in the AFRO
gance of his few years, that she might
be more than a girl. Indeed he speedily
forgot the whole matter. But in the
dead Of the night he rose and, hastily
DOMINIC a 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
''Indeedf' he drawled languidly. He
reused himself to poke the fire as a stop.
per to any other attempt at converse
tion, and Mrs. Lewis took the hint.
But in the evening, when, with the
coming out Of the stars, q 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 it hardly
pleasure, but more a fine pain. There
was In the music naught Of the wailing
Of yesterdays naught Of its pleading,
Ct its passion, naught Of it's
hope. It was like, the Poet told him
cell. = wire Ct polished silver, a wire
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