The age-herald., 1901-08-29
STORIES ALLEGED TO BE
 BOTH SAD AND FUNNY

watch the habitue than to be one your self. That to really become a bohemian was disappointing It was much more interesting to drop In only occasionally at the little cafe frequented by habitues than 1t was to be the habitue who had become a part of the cafe. But all this was like a hot air story to the city edi- tor. A woman is not as credulous as she appears. Nothing could convince her that it was better to observe the habitue semi-weeltly or that to be a bohemian was disappointing. She argued the point with him necessarily. An habitue was necessarily a celebrity. He had dlstinc- tions. He had achieved something. He had contain little corner in the cafe reserved for him, a certain little time to have his dinner a certain cigar to smoke, a favorite lounging place. It must be an absolute privilege to be an habitue, a lux ury to be bohemian. And she can never be neither And so her friend, who IS both, gives her occasional glimpses into what she calls bohemia. He has pointed ont the habitues until she has come to know them as soon as they enter the CaTe. Sne ueI6CLS d DOliCiiiiei lv. There is a slight distinction be- tween the two, but she does not define it satisfactorily. It is like the difference between the smoke of a good cigar and one not so good, indefinable. In artistic moods she cannot distinguish between the two--its all bohemian, vague, a world that she really never enters for there Is no such ulace as bohemia.
 The Confessional.
 The two were standing at the crossing of the street, strange place you VIII say for A confessional. There should have been shadowy spot, the falnt glimmer of candies, head bowed in con triton. But her head was lifted and the light brought out the tiny lines In her face. "It's no use," she was saying to the other woman. "I have tried it long enough I have failed, so has he. We no longer attempt to conceal 1t from each other why should we desire to de- ceive the world. I see no use in trying to keep up appearances. It wears me out besides I never could appear to be some thing 1 am not I am miserable. He has made me what am So why do owe 1t to him to deceive the world into believing I am happy. I have made myself smile for the last time. Tears, you know, are dangerously near to smiles. And now find it so much easier to cry than to smile A tear falls as quickly as the petal of a rose when once 1t Is loosened.
 She was smiling bravely. The other woman regarded her pittyingly.
 DO you know" she said that our wedding anniversaries are the same. l could not help but think of it. You were so happy then and I, you know, was not happy then as I am now. You see the years have brought so much to me. l confess that I did not love my husband when I married him, but now he Is my very life. Instead of acknowledging our failure we are proud to admit our success. We have little confessionals. We get on beautifully I can not see why l did not always love him.
 The tears sprung to her eyes. The other woman was still smiling. Some one will hear our confessions' she said. They will wonder why I am smiling at your tears, and they will think that you are the unhappy one."
 'sThe world" said the other, "usua1ly misjudges. It is very quick to jump at conclusions. It never waits for the con- fessional. I was a part of this blind world a moment ago I shall always think of this little crossing as con- fessional."
 She was nearly half way across the street. There were still traces of happy tears in her eyes, and the other woman was making a desperate effort to smile. This is not lost art with women.