Vilas County news. [volume] (Eagle River, Vilas County, Wis.) 1896-1927, 1905-03-06

land far-fdr away.
Brightly as in May the sun shines
this morning, SO bright that it might
be June instead of October; SO warm
that May, as she stands on the lawn,
clad in sealskin, watching the pigeons
lowering over the old elms, might
gladly exchange that article of cloth
ing for simple muslin.
It is long past noon. luncheon
breakfast it might reasonably have
been called, for it is Mays first meal
is over: MI. Dalton has gone to look
at new horse in the Stable and the
two girls. are left to their own de-
vices. Carrie has made suggestion
anent morning calls, but May will not
hear of it.
what" she said. Waste the
glorious afternoon in stuffy drawing
rooms, talking nothing to people for
whom one doesn't care a button?"
No, morning calls were out of the
question.
"Let US go down to the river" says
Carrie. "You shall take your sketch
book and paint, and tell me all about
tire ball, May, DEAR" AID this, being
proposal after Mays own heart, is
eagerly adopted, on the condition that
Carrie collects and carries the sketch
ing materials.
Side by side the two girls wend their
way, the one just standing on the edge
of the brook which divides girlhood
from womanhood, the other from lit
tie distance looking wistfully at the
magic stream.
Together, with Carries arm around
Mays waist, they cross the lawn, and
make their way to the river.
Carries clear young treble arises
and mingles with the birds who, sur
prised by the unwonted glory of the
morning. have ventured into song.
May walks along in silence; terpsicho-
rean exercise extended to the small
hours is novel to her, and the bloom
on her cheeks is just a little paled;
there is a touch of thoughtfulness
about her dark brown eyes that rem
ders them downcast and dreamy, the
red, ripe, expressive lips-they are
none the paler for last lights dissipa-
tion--are slightly parted with faint
smile that may have been called up by
the recollection of some incident of her
first public ball.
Carrie sings through two verses Of
that popular song, in which the en-
amored young gentleman invites his
mistress, named Maud, to nocturnal
promenade in the garden, and is about
to start the third when Mays unusual
silence strikes her for the first time.
"How quiet you are, May. Are you
tired? You said you weren't. I be-
lieve you are quite tired out"
"Oh, you think so, do you? Well,
I'm not too tired to give you start
to that first oak, and race you down
to the bank, and I'll carry the paint
box into the bargain"
"You rum" she says; you've forgot
ten how to. Why, l could give you a
start. Now" she calls back, having
reached the oak, and away she skins,
her fair hair streaming behind her
her paints and brushes rafting in
their box, and May starts in hot pur-
suit
1t is sight to set the heart of a
poet or painter aglow with delight,
but there is neither poet nor painter,
nor any less prosaic being in sight.
1t is October, and the silver river,
which all the summer through bears
patiently on it's smooth bosom a long
and apparently never-ending process
sion of pleasure-boats, is seemingly
deserted. A solitary kingsfsher starts
affrightedly from the ruhes by the
bank, and skins swiftly into the woods
that rise, terrace-like, on the other
side, and a water-rat, who has been
talking to a wren, darts painting into
his front parlor
1t is close race, and Carries long,
thin legs do their part girlfully; but
days, and before Carrie can reach
the narrow line of gravel made on the
grassy tow-path by the barge horses,
May is before her; there is burst OF
laughter, then-breathless the two
girls sink on to the trunk of a felled
tree and pant.
II didn't think you could run so fast,
still, May" says Carrie. "Oh, dear! /
shall never get my breath again; and,
oh, isn't it beautiful" she adds, nod
ding at the golden-crimson red-brown
bouquets of leaves that still cling
lovingly to the trees rising on the
other side of the river. Isn't it beau
tiful and, oh, May, it's even more love-
ly in summer, when the boats are on"
81 think l should not like it better
than now" says May, thoughtfully.
Can we go on to the other side?"
"Oh, yes," says Carrie, "if we can
cross the river. Let us walk up to the
ferryman's cottage and call him to
take us across. 1t will be lovely in
the woods
"Come along, them" says May, with
alacrity, and they walk quietly
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