Rural Retreat times. [volume] (Rural Retreat, Va.) 1892-1918, 1903-03-13
TIL e
Y HERE he lived amid the tenn
ing humanity of the great and
populous city, with the noise
- linz nd Ia.

ing humanity of the great and
populous city, with the noise
and hustle of traffic and hum
of human, voices always buzzing
through his solitude, yet always alone
and lonely, hermit Of the flats. The
men of his acquaintance spoke to him
or nodded cheerily across the res
taurant tables, but he was conscious
of divergent interests, so he never
encouraged their friendly advances,
but went his own way in moody
silence. Of women he never thought
since the death of his hopes seven
years before when the girl Of his choice
had rejected him for a luckier man.
Gradually his solitude hardened him,
and the hardening process crept into
his stories, which took a pessimistic
turn. The editors complained because
his otherwise strong, virile work was
too sombre; others said it lacked natur-
alness and humanity, but whatever the
fault wasI Iaswell began to realize
that something was seriously amiss.
go out among the people and get
freshened up" said his friend Boynton,
who had always liked Haswelis style
of work, "and let yourself live. Then
write what you have learned from
them"
But Haswell declined to take his adj
vice, saying that the vulgar horde re-
PEELED him, and he preferred to write i'll
his own way Oh not at all, so his stories
grew less and less successful. and Has
wells temper soured proportionately.
1t was bitter midwinter night. The
icy wind whistled shrilly through the
alleys and filtered in between the
chinks of HaswelPs windows rafting
the easements unpleasantly. Haswell
was out of temper with his work and
the exacting editors. who had returned
batch of his stories without so much
as a rejection slip. He rose, plugged
the easements, and drew his machine
closer to the glowing hearth, and be-
gan to revise the rejected copy. when
q timid knock at his door interrupted
his thoughts.
A gust Of chilly air rushed up from
the open vestibule below as he threw
back the hall door, revealing the pres
ence of a stranger with an awkwardly
wrapped parcel in his arms. A thin
fall of snow hid the threadbareness of
his Hitting coat, and the dropping
rim of his battered hat obscured his
face, which was very young and dark
and unnaturally thin.
what do you want here?" Haswell
demanded sharply.
do Mr.. Severano live here?" asked
very soft. childlike voice.
mo, he doesn't" Haswell answered
brusquely. "There are no Italians in
this apartment house. You had better
get out before you're put out"
HE told my friend he live here" The
boy said, alphabetically. "He have
promised to let me play for him. 1
need work very bad. Mister
"Oh, dare say! Some begging game
OF course. Well, you won't make any
thing here. I can tell YOU" Then for
the first time he saw the violin under
the boys ragged arm. "Do YOU play
that thing?" he asked curiously.
You're not more than a chldr'
$500 SA-NtSSn, niiSlSI. the SOTt. 9D-
peallng voice answered.
"Well, you're mans not here" Has
we'll retorted briefly. closing the door
and going back to his cheerful hearth.
But that last glimpse of the pathetic
little face made him uncomfortable
He opened the door once more. and
leaning over the banisters, called down
to him: "Come up" he said rather
grudgingly, Il may be able to help Won
find your friend"
The boy battered softly up the steps.
Once within the brightly lighted room
his poverty and WEAKNESS became pain
fully apparent; his trousers and coat
were frayed and ragged, and his big,
loose shoes were full of gaping holes.
Haswell took the old violin from his
numb grasp and babe him throw off
his coat, which he did fumbingly. for
his hands were stiff and blue with
cold. His trousers were wet to the
knees, and the melting snow oozed
steadily from the broken toes of his
shoes. Haswell stared at his sad
figure helplessl& ..-