The Lexington intelligencer. [volume] (Lexington, Mo.) 1901-1949, 1903-02-14
THE HERMIT
OF THE FLATS

lily, VIII lur uplcS anu buotlO VI bloA
&c and hum of human voices always
buzzing through his solitude, yet al
ways alone and lonely, a hermit of the
Eats. The men of his acquaintance
spoke to him or nodded cheerily
across the restaurant tables, but he
was conscious of divergent interests,
so he never encouraged their friendly
advances, but went on his 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
tnckier 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 somber;
Others said it lacked n~aturalness and
humanity, but whatever the fault
was, Haswell began to realize that
something was seriously amiss.
$50 out among the people and get
freshened up said his friend Boyn-
ton, who had always liked Haswell's
style of work, ~and let yourself live.
Then write what you have learned
from them"
But Haswell declined to take his
advice. SAYING that the vulgar horde
Eepelled him, and he preferred to
write in his own way or not at all, so
Bis stories grew less and less success
full, and HaswelPs temper soured pro-
pOrtionately.
1t was a bitter midwinter night.
The icy wind whistled shrilly through
The alleys and filtered in between the
Chinks Of HaswelPs windows, rafting
the easements unpleasantly. Has
well was out of temper with his work
and the exacting editors, who had
returned a batch of his stories with
out so much as a rejection slip. He
rose, plugged the easements, and
drew his machine closer to the glow
mg hearth, and began to revise the
rejected copy, when a timid knock
OF 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
Che presence of a stranger with an
Hwkwardly wrapped parcel in his
arms. A thin fall Of snow hid the
threadbareness Of his ill-ftting coat,
and the dropping rim of his battered
hat obscured his face, which wasvery
young and dark and unnaturally
thin.
"What do you want here?" Haswell
demanded, sharply.
"Do Mr.. Severano live here?"
asked a very soft, childlike voice.
mo, he doesn't" Haswell an
swered 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.
need work very bad, mister"
ooh, | dare say Some begging
game, of course. Well, you won't
make anything here, | 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
ehildl'
81 am Is, mister" the soft, APP
pealing voice answered.
swell, you're mans not here" Has
well retorted, briefly, closing the
door and going back to his cheerful
hearth. But that last glimpse of the
pathetic little face made him uncom.
Portable. He opened the door once
more, and leaning over the banisters
called down to him. "Come up" h,
said, rather grudgingly, 81 may b.
able TO helpyoutind your friend"
The boy battered softly up tn,
steps. Once within the brightly light
ed room his poverty and WEAKNESS
became painfully apparent; his trous
ers and coat were frayed and ragged
and his big loose shoes were full o
gaping holes. Haswell took the oil
violin from his numb grasp and bad,
him throw off his coat, which he dill
f%umblingly, for his hands were stiff
and blue with cold. His trouser
were wet to the knees, and the melt
ing snow oozed steadily from tn.
broken toes Of his shoes. Haswel
afarad at his cad in..f hcinlnsslv