The Forrest City times., 1899-02-24
I I

| 'nc Soluen eye or the sun upon him. he threw himself upon his toss ing bed and slept until after noonday. Afterwards he rambled upon the shore returning, tired and listless, at lenptb | 10 his chambers.
 Miss White. she's leavin' to-morro,v mornin'." his landlady told him. as she | laid his tea
 But the Poet was not interested. He wondered who Miss White might he
 'lndeedY' he drawled languidly. He reused himself to poke the fire as A stopper 10 any other attempt at con-
 versation; and Mrs. Lewis took the | hint.
 But ill the evening when. with tbe
 coming out of the stars. a delicate thread of sound wound itself tbrougb ! the stiffness, his interest came hack 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 fine pain. There
 was in the music naught of the wailino of yesterdays, naught of it's pleading. naught of it's passion, naught of its | hope. It. was like. the Poet told him. self, wire of polished silver, wire that might turn and twist in ones flesh I forever, yet never cause a mortal wound --only an infnitude of pain. But that of yesterday was the broad blade that Kills at one stroke.
 And again-as it broadened and deep ened, and faded, like a moon beam, away-"that of yesterday" he mur- | mured, was renunciation; with it's bat tie, its victory, it's sublime triumph. l its transient peace; to-day's is resig- nation; submittance which has naught I of battle, of victory, of triumph, but only pain. To-day's is the end, an end | that has no end.'
 But as he lay there, hands clasped | behind his tired head, lips parted in | smile-a smile unlike his, for it had naught of scorn in it-there broke upon the silence the opening bars of little prelude, dainty and sweet in itself, but the manner of its playing a veritable | triumph in mediocrity. It walled and cried laboriously above the Poets head, and echoed above the window. It broke into painful snatches and indifferent rhythm.
 The Poet sprang to his feet with an exclama ation of impatience. 'To spoil that with this!" he cried. 70, how can | she?" He bit his lips wrathfully; but he did not intend to have his dream | altogether spoiled, and, his anger con- quering his weariness, ran lightly up the narrow stair.
 He burst into the room of the stran- ger without preface or prelude, and be- gan. in high-pitched, womanish voice: What in the world" Then he paused, for he found she was crying. A little, middle-aged woman, with a wrinkled face, and funny elfin locks that fell in cloud about it. She was standing in the middle of the room, with her music stretched out flatly on the table, and her violin and bow in her hands; stand~ ing, the tears running thickly down her pale cheeks, without making any at- | tempt 10 wipe them away. The Poet felt even angrier than be- fore. Women of that age had no right to cry so openly, he thought; it went against all his theories. He was angry, too, that he had imagined her to be young.
 What an abominable row." he said, savagely. And what are you crying about? But it is enough to make any one cry!" He was not far from tears himself with vexation. She looked up at him wistfully-she was but a little thing-and without any apparent surprise at his presence or ab rupt entrance. "Ah! should not have played again." she sobbed, 'after-aft- CT had given it up.'
 Then I had guessed aright!" cried the Poet. "Yesterday it was renun- citation, and to-day resignation. But what had you given up? What have you renounced? To what are you re- signed?"
 'I don't understand you," she said, uncomprehendingl She laid her vio- lin on the table, hanging over it as mother does over her child.
 When you played yesterday"
 But I didn't play yesterday!" che cried. II wanted too, so badly! The storm cried to me; the wind cried; and the sea cried; and heard them all. l took my violin in my hand, but I could tell nothing of what hearfid O, how unhappy I was! Then drew the bow backward and forward across the strings, but without touching them, and imagined it all. l caught the sob ping of the sea-god on the end of my bow; I sent out the cry of the gulls-"
 And the spray of the seal" cried the Poet.
 And the eddy and gathering of the foam
 And the mutter of the waves!"
 And l thought of how might have played had not something, something been wanting. o, cried to God to give me the power to play as-as my soul could play, but for this thing-this me that cannot"
 "The cry for the unattainable,' the Poet whispered to himself, but she did