The Press. (Stafford Springs, Conn.) 1883-1935, 1902-08-14
THE KING
WHO WAS
A PAUPER
BY Frances WILSON
Copyright, 1901. by Frances Wilson


umns in a perfunctory manner and
dreaming, to a man, of what they
would do ifsthey were king.
A modest door, upon the glass of
which was inscribed in small, neat let
tiers "Mr. Allston," led into the kings
private room, where Turkish rugs
smothered the floor and leather COW
cred chairs were ranged along the wall.
There was also low bookcase, which
contained such invaluable biographical
dictionaries as Bradstreet's and Dun's,
to say nothing of poor's Railroad Man.
ual, Somebody's Street Railways and a
number of similar works, which con-
stituted the kings solid reading, though
he had once observed dryly that they
contain more fiction than you'd suppose
from the titles"
The king was sitting at his desk,
tracing with lead pencil crude
squares and rectangles on the pad be-
fore him. The buzz of Wall street,
softened to gentle murmur by the
height, came in through the open win
dows and a soft breeze huttered the
papers on his desk and filled the room
with it's freshness, just to let him know
that it was April.
The breeze was damp and cool, as il
it had blown across moist, earthly
places where the viOlets were pushing
upward instead of across acres of
metal roof. 1t rumpled the kings thick
hair as nonchalantly as If he had been
a mere commoner and somehow set
him to thinking Of the queen.
He stopped making squares and rec
tangles and began to scrawl something
on the pad instead, something that
would have made the clerks in the
outer office open their eyes and stare
in wonder could they have seen it, for
it was quite sentimental and had moth
ing whatever to do with stocks and
bonds: #.'
Oh, faint, delicious springtime violet,
Thine odor. like a key, ,.. .--
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards
To let thought of sorrow free!
Indeed the king himself was aghast
when he looked at what he had writ
ten, and he tore the sheet from the pad
with hurried, guilty air and crumpled
and crushed it into small wad before
he threw it into the wastebasket.
into small pieces, a precaution which
was entirely unnecessary, as no one
had ever been able to read more than
two consecutive words of the kings
writing. and, besides, no one in the
world would have believed him capable
of quoting poetry. - -.
He went back to his squares and rec
tangles again, his mind busy with the
days before his millions had made him
a serene highness. In those days, he
remembered, he and the queen used to
take long walks in the park when he
could get away from the office in time.
She called it their picture gallery and
affected a fine scorn for the people who
gushed over their Corots, Millets or
Rousseaus, but gave never thought
to the real thing-the tender green's
the misty ,grays, the last flush of sun
in the western sky, against which the
trees stood out in yelvety, mysterious
darkness. 1--WE get our beauty at first
hand" she was wont to say gayly, Gin
stead of on small pieces of canvas
which reek of man instead Of God"
And they had gone their way through
the soft April twilights or sensuous
summer dusks, in love with life and
the world.
But that was all very long ago! The
king gave a weary little sigh as he
realized how long. The queen-he liked
to think of it all as hers-had lone Of
the finest private galleries in Amer
lea" now, and she drove in the park
on spring afternoons rather bored and
disillusionized and certainly too busy
In bowling to the occupants Of other
carriages to give much time to the
beauty about her. 1t no longer gave
her thrill of delight to notice how
the gray of the leafless trees some
times melted into pale amethyst
nor did it touch her with a subtle sad
ness to watch the sunset through a
network, of bare branches. 1t is only
the poor who have time to appreciate
natures free exhibitions.
Even kings have their bad quarter
hours, though you couldn't make any
Of the clerks in the outer Office be-
lieve it. In this particular case, for
instance, not one of them OWNED that
his majesty was sitting there in his
luxurious private room longing for the
old days before he was king, living
over TIL days when he and the queen
were first married--those exciting days
when he could scarcely get home fast
enough in his eagerness to tell her per-
haps that the time had come when she
might afford the pale green carpet and
mahogany furniture upholstered to
match which she had SO long coveted
for her little drawing room.
And the pink brocade hangings! The
king smiled reminiscently as he
thought of them, for they were a sur
prise. She never dreamed that they
had reached that point Of aff1uencc
where they could afford them, and he
had decided to 81 rprise her with them.
He could still see the shine in her eyes
and the flush on her cheeks when they
came home! The portrait painters
should have done her then, the king
thought discontentedly.
Well, the queen had her carriage now
and retinue of servants and Paris
gowns galore, but none of these things
had ever brought the light ., her eyes
that had shone there when the brocade
hangings came home. Life had given
her all her wishes and flched from her
-zest. 1t seemed rather tragic to the
poor king ut this moment that the very
success to which she had been his chief
inspiration had become the OCEAN upon
which they were drifting apart; not
intentionally-heave forbid that-but
like two ships when the cable that
dashed them together had been sun
dered.
1t was the price they paid for lions
share of the worlds money. There
was something chummy and intimate
about six room apartment with one
maid which house of the king really
did not know how many rooms and
host of servants could not possibly
attain. YEA N53
Then II cnraoc about No t,,ro liz or,oa.crl,