The leader. [volume] (Brookhaven, Miss.) 1895-1905, 1899-03-01
With the ~ ~
Coming of Even
BY e4anes Grosier Herbertson.

1T is only the wind said the Poet.
He threw himself iistlessly 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 expert
ence. in enjoyment; they had no charm
for him.
lie opened his lips now in discomfort.
"They have written SO much about the
sea that one is dead SICK of it ALL" He
| sighed: ~ can find in il nothing that
has not been found before"
| He himself had written not 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 recruit at this little fishing town,
throwing all the burden of his disgust
of life and his own feebleness into the
cursing.
| Then through aud betwixt the voices
of the storm came a wailing cry; the
cry of lost soul at Gods gates; the
cry for the unattaina BILE from the lips
of a child of earth. Rising higher and
higher, it beat sobbingly upon the
wind; IT 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 mel
| ody so triumphant as TO override in its
grandeur the voices of the angry ocean.
| 1T 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.
at WAS not the wind" he said, aloud
1t was still bowling, but the music
had ceased. He threw open the win
dow and looked out. The wind fell in
blast upon his thin face, and tossed
his hair. The sSa shouted at him with
angry menace. The look of the sky
upon him was without CLINT of
smile.
But again the music rose; but so soft
~ that he had to strain his ears to catch
fhe murmur of the 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
Nshite 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-y Young face. There had come to
| him one of those moments which he
fancied had left him forever, when his
mind, like the WORKOUT sea, could hush
its crying and be at peace.
1t 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. 1T seemed in the house. and
yet not in the house." he murmured to
himself, stopping her. ut has been
wild night Mrs. Lewis"
Indeed. and it has, sir, but it has
settled down nicely"
1T was strange; but l thought l
heard during the storm the sound of
violin. Some one has chosen 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"
20, that explains it. She must have
been playing. No doubt it was she
heard"
"But she hasn't been playin tonight.
sir; l beg your pardon for saying it.
| I've been Sittin' SEWN in the room just
above her head, and never sound have
l 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 a strange girl.
| 1t never occurred to him, in the ar
rogance of his few years, that she
might be more than 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 eve of.the sun upon
him. he threw himself upon his toss
ing bed and slept until after MONDAY.
Afterwards he rambled upon the shore,
returning, 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.
"Indeed?" he drawled languiday. He
reused himself to poke the fire as a
stopper to any other attempt at con-
versation; and Mrs. Lewis took the
hint.
But in the evening when, with the
coming out of the stars, 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,
naught of its passion, naught of its
hope. 1t was like, the Poet told him
self, a wire of polished silver, wire
that might turn and twist in ones flesh
forever, yet never cause mortal wound
only an infinitude Of pain. But that
of yesterday was the broad blade that
kills at one stroke.