The Sauk Centre herald. (Sauk Centre, Stearns County, Minn.) 1886-current, 1900-02-01


Ill and jaggedly. for the fingers were
stiff and bent. The beauty and the
strength Of the man were gone.
AT last an old, wizened, shrunken
face looked out above the rocks. 1t
saw the eternal mountain rise with
walls to the white clouds. but its work
was done.
1.-THE old hunter folded his tired
hands and lay down by the precipice
where he had worked away his life.
It was the sleeping time at last. Be
low him over the valleys rolled the
thick white mist. Once it broke, and
through the gap the dying eyes looked
down on the trees and fields Of their
childhood. From afar seemed borne
to him the cry Of his own wild birds,
and he heard the noise Of the people
singing as they danced. and he thought
he heard among them the voices OF his
old comrades. and he saw afar OF the
sunlight shine on his early home. and
great tears gathered in the hunters
eyes.
".Ah, they who die there do not die
aloner he cried.
Then the mists rolled together again,
and he turned his eyes away.
~ have sought he said, for long
years I have labored, but I have not
found her. I have not rested. have
not repined. and I have not seen her.
Now my strength is gone. Where l
lie down worn out other men Will
stand young and fresh. By the steps
that have cut they will climb; by the
stairs that l have built they will
mount. They will never know the
name Of the man who made them. At
the clumsy work they will laugh; when
the stones roll. they will curse me. But
they will mount. and on my work;
they will climb. and by my stair! They
will find her, and through me! And no
man Iiveth to himself. and no man
dieth to himself
The tears rolled from beneath the
shriveled eyelids. If Truth had ap-
peared above him in the clouds now,
he could not have seen her-the mist
of death was in his eyes.
My soul hears their glad step COM
ing in he said. and they shall mount,
they shall mount He raised his shriv-
eIed hand to his eyes.
Then slowly, from the white sky
above, through the still air, came
something falling, falling, falling.
Softly it futtered down and dropped
on to the breast of the dying man. He
felt it with his hands. 1t was feath-
er. He died holding it"
The boy had shaded his eyes with
his hand. On the wood of the carving
great drops fell. The stranger must
have laughed at him or remained ST.
lent. He did so.
How did you know it," the boy
whispered at last. 1T is not written
there, not on that wood. How did
you know it?'
Certainly" said his stranger, ''the
whole of the story is not written here,
but it is suggested. And the attribute
of all true art. the highest and the low
est. is this-that it says more than it
says and takes you away from itself. 1t
is a little door that opens into an inf
mite hall where you may find what you
please. Men, thinking to detract, say,
People read more in this or that work
of genius than was ever written in it,
not perceiving that they pay the high
est compliment. If we pick up the fin
ger and nail of a real man, we can de-
cipher a whole story-could almost re-
construct the creature again from head
to foot. But half the body Of Num-
boo-jumbow idol leaves us utterly in
har hn To
We see what we see, but nothing more.
There is nothing so universally intelli-
Bile as truth. 1t has a thousand mean
ings and suggests a thousand more"
He turned over the wooden thing.
Though a man should carve it into
matter with the least possible manipu-
lative skill, it will yet find interpreters.
1t is the soul that looks out with burn
ing eyes through the most gross f1eshly
filament Whosoever should portray
truly the life and death of a little
fiower-its birth. sucking in Of nourish-
ment, reproduction of it's kind, wither-
ing and vanishing-would have shaped
symbol of all existence. All true
facts of nature or the mind are related.
Your little carving represents some
mental facts as they really are, there
fore so different true stories might be
read from it What your work wants
is not truth, but beauty of external
forr. the other half of art"
He leaned almost gently toward the
boy. Skill may come in time, but you
will have to work hard. The love of
beauty and the desire for it must be
born in a man. The skill to reproduce
it he must make. He must work
hard"
.AH my life 1 have longed to see
you" the boy said.
The stranger broke off the end Of his
cigar and lighted it. The boy lifted
the heavy wood from the strangers
knee and drew yet nearer him. In the
doglike manner of his drawing near
there was something superbly ridicu-
lous, unless one CHANGED to view it in
another light. Presently the stranger
said, whiting, do something for me?'
The boy started up.
mo; stay where you are. don't
want you to go anywhere. l want you
to talk to me- Tell me what you have