The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1905-06-02
A ZEPHYR GIRL.
BY M. T. ELDER.


girls, made all of rose leaves, sunshine
and fragrant zephyrs. A Laughter OF
Joy, with ripples of happiness dim
ping over her face.
Down the street, on the opposite
side, and some distance off, came
child OF Woe in the shape OF poor
hunchback in go-cart pushed by MS
caretaker, probably his mother. his
age could not be guessed. He had one
OF those queer, sad, old-young taces'
which left one in utter doubt as TO
whether he was four years of age or
Ia or 40. His expression was that OF
one who had suffered hopelessly nun
dred years, and had yet hundred
years to suffer more-wear1ness anu
woe beyond the telling.
Presently the girl, whose name was
Joy, caught sight of him whose name
was Woe, and instantly her face I'M
derwent transformation. All the ra-
dience and smiling dimples vanished
and in their place were genuine pain
and womanly compassion. The next
moment she crossed the street-hghtly
as floating thistle down-and went up
to greet the poor cripple. Evidently
she knew him well. They were neigh
bors, perhaps, or perhaps relations
even. And what was the manner OF
her greeting? AS of one who would
say: "Ah! you poor, afflicted creature!
You hopeless unfortunate! How my
heart bleeds for you'll"
eel No, not like that. She greeted him
warmly, kissed him heartily, put her
arm about him and stood there pat
ting and stroking his own listless hand
and arm with unmistakable affection,
every movement, every meditation OF
her voice, saying plainly:
"Why, you dear, dear child, is this
really you? Isn't this a tip-top sur
prise! l wasn't dreaming of meeting
you to-day. 1 didn't even know you
were in the city. Oh, isn't it happi-
ness for good old friends like US to
meet Unexpectedly like this!"
And he, the child of misery, how
did he reply? By not one word, not
one glance. 1t was beyond him. All
he could do was to hold his face some
what in control. Instead of looking
toward her he turned away his head,
averted his eyes and was silent. But
what rush of ecstasy illumined his
poor, dull eyes, his sad, weakened fea-
lures? However defective his body,
his mind was there Enthusiastically. In
deed, it was enough to make one believe
in the Immortality of the soul to see
the flood of feeling that welled from
within. Otherwise, whence those emo
lions that surged across his face?
But he said nothing. In this he was
like a very little child. Not the story
book child; not the stage child; quite
the contrary. At the play, when the
absent parent returns, the stage child
flies to him with scream of rapture,
and leaps into his arms. Quite an, eff
fective scene, spectacular and thrilling.
Now, in real life, the little child, for
week or more, perhaps, all day and
every night, has been asking: where
is papa? Why doesn't papa come
homer" But when papa does come
home, how does the little one act? He
turns away his face, sinks off into
corner quike likely, or hides behind
mammals dress! Very fiat. Very dis
appointing. Very nonspectacular and
nonthrilling-but the truth, neverthe-
less. The unusual event has overpow-
cred his little heart. Hearing once
more that half-forgotten voice, and
seeing again the old familiar face he
used to know and love in the dim and
distant past (about two weeks ago),
he is overcome. Delight so keen it is
almost pain; wonderment to the point
of being dazed; a strange, agonizing
bashfulness; amid these contending
emotions, he knows not what to say,
what to do, except to take refuge in
flight.
1t may be put down as pretty safe
rule, that whatever the stage repre-
sents is the opposite of nature-and
the way things turn out in the novel
is the reverse of the way they turn out
in real life. Perhaps the stage ways,
the story book ways, are far better
than the ways of real life. For my
part, however, 1 have fancy for the
truth, and SO, to resume:
Our poor cripple, our chill of misery
was also child of nature, with emo
tons primitive and manner spontane-
Gus. He could not speak out the hap
piness he felt, and so he did not speak
at all. But his face was living poem
Of reverence, love and touching thank
fulness.
The girl named Joy chatted awhile
with the caretaker, not emptily, not
frothily, but earnestly and kindly, be-
thinking her of topics that would in
terest the afflicted one-of some new
doctor and bis wonderful cures, some
modern treatment, some new kind of
surgery that offered hope to many
whose case had been pronounced hope
less. After which she took leave, say
ing: 81 am going to spend the day
with you Wednesday of next week.
Will that day suit?" Then she bade
good-by, and was waited up the street
and the sun continued to shine as i'm
partially upon the fragrant zephyr as
upon the poor cripple.