The age-herald., 1899-10-01
THE MURMUR
 OF THE WORLD
(. let not virt,,e seak

l i4ON0, lflenuSH1p, cndrlty, are subjects all l TO environs and calumniating time,
 The day was far spent, and the light of
 the low sun gilded everything it touched.
 The air itself was golden. and absolutely
 calm. Even the faces upon the crowded
 street were softened, and all the voices
 were gentle. Ribald jest and strident
 laughter were hushed The carts in the
 road rumbled softly. The thousand bells
 sounded like a far-off call to prayer. The l street boys might have been pages outside l the door of my ladys chamber. The un- 1 ripened fruit in an old womans basket be- l came apples of the Hesperides. The erutch of the cripple was the staff of the pilgrim
 bound to the shrine of charity. Il was the
 bridal hour of beauty and human charity: and the tender notes of the universal
 hymn of eventime reached to the voices of
 the night, calling across the bar to the l wide and restful sea of the dreams. All
 dscordant things blended into an exquis-
 ite harmony loved of life.
 A car was stopped at the crossing of the 1 streets-streets that had been ways of sor-
 row to many a soul gone from this planet.
 A young woman came out and gathering l her dainty draperies above her dainty feet
 stepped down to the paving stones. She l hesttated a moment, like every other wo-
 man had done who ever left cdr in crowded street or quiet. It is impossible l for a woman to walk directly away: she always has sort of sensation that she has ] left something behind her. As this fair l young creature of the perfect afternoon
 paused in the way of others, she saw | bent and frail old woman striving to mount
 the steps of the waiting while the bell
 was ringing as if impatient. Impulsively,
 but with infinite tenderness, she who 1 was beginning life in wondrous loveliness l caught the trembling arm of her who was
 ending life in wrinkles and infirmites and 1 lifted her up the steps. The old soul turned 1 to thank the young one, and at the in- 1 stant the feeble old hand outstretched re- l ceived great crimson rose, and beauti- l full youth was picking it's way daintily in l the crowded street. It all done l quickly, deftly, so beautifully that the wondering onlooker was too amazed to un- l cover in the presence of such rare sweet 1 ness, even had it not been improper to do so. The old woman entered the car wearily | and the young one ripped away upon her errand, brightenng all the fair world with 1 her brightness. The man who observed all 1 this was lost to all else That perfect l flower of young years nodding and sway l ing in the autumnal sunlight was revela- l ton to him, with all his visions and memo | ries of beautiful women. She was the per l fectly rounded unfolding flower of culture 1 with its constant love of charity. Her lit | tie tenderness to the old woman gorified | her who was wondrously fair. She took | her place in the soft radiance of the saints. l He waited to mark her return, if return | she might and waited long; but she came-
 So close to him who waited did she pass, l the crowd being great, that a fold of her l garment touched him as blessing, thrill 1 ing to tenseness. He thought nameless
 things. The ear bore her away, and she
 left a hermit in the throng at the crossing 1 of the streets
 As night fell throng of travellers passed ] through the gate at the railway station- 1 Rebind them all came an ancient mother of the unlettered hills, hobblng along 1 cheerfully and with a benign smile upon the scanned old face kindly light in the dim old eyes, Please God, the long years | that had pended and crooked her old l shoulders had kept young her heart or l many sorrows. In her quavering voice | sounded the notes of love and charity and l goodness and sweetness prized of the an l gels and such make the music of
 heaven. Her timid tread fell noiselessly, 1 her dim eyes peered about her cautiously. | She might have dwelt upon this earth a l thousand years, wrnkled and grey she
 was. She might have been a thousand years young, genial, so smiling, so trust | ful was this old mother of the hills far l away. The stawart gateman, an old hero l soldier and fit sentinel upon the ramparts l of charity and human kindness stepped | quickly forward to assist her. She had lost her reticule, she informed the good | souled gateman A sympathetic officer of | the law hurried away, and soon returned l with the lost treasure, given to her as a
 bridal gift when the world was sixty years younger. She stood outside the gate
 irresolute Had anybody seen her grand l son? Would he soon come? Nobody knew:
 all looked upon her with tenderness, and listened to her pathetically poor but world- 1 filling story. Suddenly there shufled out | of the waiting crowd a strong man of toll
 with the mark of the centuries upon his
 patient face. He kissed the tremulous old
 mouth reverently, and gathering up her | things he passed into the night with the | ancient mother of the unlettered hills. We | stood there, all of us, for time, and 1 vision of old mothers iumined the space | about us. 'I was at Manassas, said the l old soldier. "I haven't seen mine since" | In the life of each of us a Manassas was 1 marked.
 l The maiden at the crossing of the street | and the gateman at the gate the heirs l of a million years, which vast time Is find- | ing something of full flower in this year
 of grace. Charity Is chasing sef-righteous-
 ness from the earth. Mercy is making for l the millennium. The urco guid are retiring abashed to their own soiitudes. The l hoier- than-thou taking their rightfu places amongst sinners who mourn all things save their own sinfulness Selfish- l is sinking to the nnxlous recesses of