The age-herald. [volume] (Birmingham, Ala.) 1897-1902, 1899-12-24
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brown of the wood and added glory to the
grey A fluffy stuff had fallen from about
her perfect neck; her white throat seemed
the altar place of song; her fluffy hair was
exquisitely untidy. Her booted little foot
Just reached to the dead leaves of brown
blown there by the hayward breezes before
they had sunk to the stiffness of that hour.
She rustled the leaves and for space that
gave forth the only sound that reached ears
attuned to passionate utterances. He was
rotously rebellious in his SOUL she riotous-
ly resentful. He said something about dead
leaves and the poetry of them. She spoke
not at all. He arose abruptly, and, walking
a little way, gathered from low swinging
branch of a dwarfed oak the poor nest of
some bird of the wood when the wood was
green. Returning, he without speech threw
it upon the cluster of brown leaves and
grey moss she held, and 1T lay there a lit
tie black birdhouse of twigs empty. Her
comprehension was instant. Her little foot
touched the gathered waits of the winds
motionless; her ungloved hands, white as
the foam that crests wavelets upon white
sands, closed nervously. The thin, proud
lips trembed; the long lashes fell over the
eyes that brimmed with pathos. He stood
and looked, and waited for the fulfilment
of the prophecies of the heart. Suddenly
she leaped from the grey bole of the grey
oak, casting the brown leaves and the grey
moss and the black nest of the springtime
bird upon the ground and in the final cry
of defnance she called, "Oh, heart of mine!
it shall be SOL
Place no trust, my fair beloved, in the
4
never kissed one; and be very careful as
to the extent of your trust whenever you
shall be moved to give 1t at all. Men are
deceivers ever. In that particular they are
like women. There is a man known to some
of you who believes he was first in one
particular in Cupid's divinest gifts of pur-
ty He is marching with unmeasured tread
to the madhouse There is always man
who is of right to call himself first with a
true woman; but, confound him! he is al
ways the other fellow. Apply the same
truth to women regards men, and you
have in full, act by act, scene by scene, the
most beautiful comedy of human life.
In the deep of the night no shadow falls
where the white-grey canopy of smoke
weaves itself and wreaths its folds above
the briar-root pipe, blessed soace to the
wretch who slaves with the graphite pencil
and murmurs of world that is yours and
his, my beloved. In the smoke many faces
are framed; the faces of all who are good
to me. They are your Enthusiastically,
they number a million! Only smiles are
there for me; for nobody has been unknd.
The good will of my beloved is ascendant.
The world is mine.
In the picture the faces of good wo-
men, beautiful women-al good women
that inhabit this earth are beautiful! They
are there, Oh, radiant faces! and we shall
call the roll of the evangels of light and
life and sweetness and virtue:-Wife. moth
er, sweetheart, sister, daughter loved and
loyer-call the roll of them all, and in
swer to each blessed name there shall step
forth a blessed angel!
THE MURMURER.