Connecticut western news., 1900-03-22
COMING OF EVEN.

.'It is only the wind" said the Poet
 He threw himself hstlessly 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 wearily. Young in in enjoyment; they had no charm for him.
 He opened his lips now in discontent ''They have written so much about the sea that one Is dead sick of 1t all. |" He sighed. ''I can find in it notLing 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 re- cruit at this little fishing town, throw ing all the burden of his disgust of life and his own feebleness into the cursing.
 Then through and betwixt the voices of the storm came a wailing cry; the cry of lost soul at God 8 gates; the cry for the unattainable from the lips of child of earth. Rising higher and higher, it beat sobbingly upon the wind It cried with the echo of the seagulls' warning: it scattered with the soft sea foam. and sank hushing and palpitating into the mutter of the waves But only to rise again in melody so triumphant as to override in its grandeur the voices of the angry ocean.
 Ut 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 tie window. "It was not the wind, he said aloud. It was still bowling. but the music had ceased. He threw open the window and looked out The wind fell in blast upon his thin face and tossed his hair, The sea shouted at him with angry menace The look of the sky upon him was without a glint of smile But again the music rose, but so soft ly that he had to strain his ears to catch the murmur of 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 white l glimmer where silver star sought its | entrance to the heavens
 \ resting on the sill. a dreamy look on his old young face There had come to him | one of those moments which he fancied had left him forever, when his mind. | like the wornout sea, could hush its | crying and be at peace.
 1t was only when. on his way to hi. bedroom later, he passed his lsndlady or the stairs that the problem of the strang, | music he had heard returned to him "It seemed in the house. and yet not il the house" he murmured to himself stopping her. "It has been wild night Mrs Lewis !"
 Indeed and it has, sir. but it ha settled down nicely" s
 ''It was strange, but I thought heard during the storm the sound of violin Some one has chosen a strang time to play.
 There's Miss White, sir. She ha the room above yours She teaches tn fiddle in town. Goes up every day But she's not been playin tonight. sir and she's the only one in the place tha can.''
 ''Oh. that explains it. She must hay been playing. No doubt it was she heard.
 But she hasn't been playin tonight sir. beg your pardon for sayin ii I've been sittin sewin in the room jus above her head. and never a sound hay I heard She's been that still too. .''
 The Poet laughed. but went on hi way unconvinced. Strange playing fo teacher of the violin" he thought land strange time in which to play She must be strange girl. 7"
 It never occurred to him, in the arrC gance of his few years. that she migh be more than girl Indeed he speedil forgot the whole matter. But in th dead of the night he rose and, hastil donning a few garments, sat till tn gray of the morning inscribing th thoughts of which the strange strair had sown the seed He had found in th sea what he had never found before.
 With the golden eye of the sun upo him he threw himself upon his tosse . bed and slept until after monday. Af erward he rambled upon the shore, r, turning, tired and hstless. at length , his chambers,
 Miss White, she's leavin tomorro' mornin,' his landlady told him as sf laid his tea
 But the Poet was not interested. E wondered who Miss White might b "Indeed:" he drawled languidly. B reused himself to poke the fire as stol per to any other attempt at converss tion, and Mrs Lewis took the hint.
 But in the evening, when, with tf coming out of the stars, dehcar thread of sound wound itself throug the stiffness, his interest came back him He threw himself upon his couc and gave himself up to the pleasure the sweet strains Yet was it hard pleasure, but more fine pain The was in the music naught of the wailir of yesterdays, naught of its pleadin! naught of its passion. naught of i hope It was like. the Poet told hin self. wire of polished silver. vii that might turn and twist in ones fe: forever, yet never cause mort wound-only an ininitude of pal
 But that of yesterday was the bro'
 blade that kills at one stroke.
 And again. as it broadened al
 deepened and faded. like moonbeal
 away. That of yesterday. he mu 7 mured, twas renunciation; with
 battle, its victory. its sublime triump
 its transient peace: today's is resign
 tion-a submittance which has naug
 of battle. of victory. of triumph. b ] only rain. Todav's ia ths and an s'