The age-herald., 1899-01-29
THE MURMUR
 OF THE WORLD

1 c- his coat, the color of his cravat, nor the crease in his trousers. Nor Is 1t bounded by the cost of his dinners, the vintages of his wines, nor the quality of his guests. So also with women. A woman's headgear and her clinging gown may be superbly beauu- ful, but at the same time she may haye holes in her stockings, because of her ob- | jection to the little labor of darning She may wish herself to be esteemed the daint- lest darling in all the world; but she must bear herself worthily. She must convince you that she is that which she esteems herse.I to be. Necessarily she is not in position to convince you that there are no holes in her hosiery As a matter of fact. tho reference to broken hosiery is "a mere figure of speech. It is suggested by the ex- perence of one who was younger brother to me years ago when silly youth loved to love In silly manner. He was walking l with her. She slipped on stone, and her ankle was wrenched out of joint. At once she was helpless. He cut the lace-string of her boot, and three out of the five little pink toes peeped out of the undarned rent in the stocking. He fled to the nearest house for aid. Love went another way, | and never returned
 The painfulest spectacle in our modern system of social organization is tho snob, with money in his purse, trying to patron ize gentlemen who are without the means to give grand dinners. At the great dinners l of Veneering, M. F., only one gentleman was ever present, and he slept over sta ble Veneering's dinners were real com fort to this gentleman and his presence was an honor to his host and the vulgar horde that gathered to consume the din ner, which cost so much a head.
 
 | It is not of any moment nowadays wheth- | CT ones father was a swineherd, ditcher or beggar. Nor does it matter. A mans | a man for a that and a that! The sun | shines as brightly, the flowers blossom as beautifully, the birds sing sweetly, the | brook murmurs as softly, for the son Of | the swineherd father as for the heir to numberless millions. The sun rises as re- 1 spendently and sets gloriously for the heir of poverty and want as for the heir to a throne. The song of birds is as entrance | ing; the odor of the flowers as sweet In the bountiful provisions of nature, the boy | in Lincoln green has no advantage over the young ruffian of the shirt-tails. It is matter of environment Linc>in Green may lose out, and Young sjhirt-tails become senator. This is ,svt arguing against the | semi-div'av right of those born to purple ] and fine linen. Assuredy there is as much | in the proper breeding of men as there is | in the breeding of dogs and pigs. Cads l hnpOma GnOhS whilst snobs marry gentlewomen and become cads. | The process of transformation is in each case very amusing. The light of the duke | fades; the star of the quondam swineherd rises to the zenith.
 But the sun shines on us all. Cad and snob, swineherd, gentleman and princely parsonage, they all of them bask in sun light which some of them comprehend not, | and for which the others glorify the Giver | of all the good things of this life. There is as much difference between the man who kicks dog and him who caresses one as | there is between vice and virtue. The one | would beat his wife; the other would salute her as one exalted.
 
 | The anniversaries of life mark our prog | ress from joy to sorrow, from sorrow to | joy, and they are the milestones along the | beaten highway to that vale whereon the | sunshine never rests. This dawn recalls to | the thought of many of us the grief or l gladness of a year ago, ten years agone, or some other year of our storied past. It is the anniversary of day memorable in many human life-perhaps in your life
 
 bourne from which no traveller has ever yet come back. Turning the pages of our poor little calendars, we each of us come | to one stained with tears or perfumed with joys that sped, mayhap, at the instant of | salutation, and returned not at all. Fossil ply it were best that we turn back to no date as it certainly is best that we turn not forward to any date out of its due time; but to many of us in the world this privi- lege is all that is left to us The fires burn out; the ashes lie cold and grey upon the hearthstone, whilst the flame in the breast burns and consumes the heart and trans- forms our mortal frames to the death's- head and the crossbones of hopes that have proved delusive.
  versaries. In love, or in more material things-or in both, perhaps-we have had our successes, and these are blazing bea- cons that illumine the shadows behind. Oh, waiting long, oh, waiting late,
 Is a sweet-faced girl at the garden gate; over the mountains, down by the sea, A sweet-faced girl is waiting for me. This may not be true now, but there was a time when, in it's essence, it was true, and when you spun your cap upon the winds, as you thought of her swinging on the gate, shyly watching for you far down the way. She may be waiting for you now by your own fireside, and your children and hers may be playing about her; or she may await the coming of another, preferred to you at the altar. But still in some sense you have a claim upon her, born of re- spectful esteem and thoughtful considera-