Warren sheaf. [volume] (Warren, Marshall County, Minn.) 1880-current, 1906-07-12
Bea.,'s':' and the Beast.
By II. T. KIEER.

By 81. Z. KINER.
read. before my eyelids dropt thar.
The Legend Of Good women, ,ans
Sung 81 tho morning star Of song. ~
His music heard below.
--Tennyson's Dream Of Fair Women
Dan Chaucer vas that morning star.
Of song, Is dog win Chaucer. II he
gets q chance He won't? Remain
here: viii not be long. I've proof
in 'tother pants ~
I read. before my eyelids dropt their
shade, The Legend Of Good Doggies."
long ago. sung by the kennel kings
who yearn to trade dogs for dogmatic
dough.
Our Shakespeare sings, in numbers
high as height, of mongrel whelp and
houn1 Of low design. l. too. have sung
at them deep in the night, though not
melodiously.
And, for the time, the transient
throng around contest made more
noise than Shakespeare did Yea. I'm
a maelstrom of far-reaching sound,
when wrath removes the lid.
The old colonial home across the
throng grows thin, an infare reveled
in but yesterday, and we survived the
din.
Daughter and dog the widowed
master owns. The daughter, like in
carnate sunshine, fills her path with
smiles The dog fills his with stones.
and erring pewter pills.
Each has voice; the daughter, one
that dreams the soul alive in har-
monies of cid. The dogs voice rips
up silence at the seams, and can't be
sQuelched or Quelled. Last night this
demon bayed the shuddering dusk;
sent frightened sleep ayont the dream
less docks, and me in silence through
the night-bloom musk, my nightshirt
filled with rocks.
l love the daughter. At first sight
it was, as flares the full-rigged frigate
from the fog. instant loved because;
yes, twas Because. But how l scorn
the dog! hadn't slept wink at II
o'clock; wherefore, in sneaking, sur
reptitious socks, prowled, slow-pois-
ing quite the biggest rock from my
hard nest of rocks.
meant to hit him in his evil head,
not wound him merely upon legs or
ribs; but stretch him howlless, lifeless,
stiff and dead, then skidoo from His
Nibs. How could His Ntbs and his
fair daughter sleep? I thought, with
sudden and with gushing grief, they
might wear nightcaps, gorged with
cotton deep, or, maybe, they were
deaf. In either case my love was
handicapped. Deaf ears are counter
feits that cannot count. And If with
absurd cotton they're nightcapped,
'twould freeze love at the fount
For who could worship maid, how
ever fair, if avalanching all her sunny
head, nightcap, that would make an
angel stare, hip-roofed her like a
shed?
But sneaked on, my features fried
in scowls. Woo-oo-o through the
night the anthems of the brute, beset
the blackness in peal of bowls, to
tempt the wise to shoot. A thought
came whizzing through the murky air,
and swung against my thinker with a
swat; suppose kill the dog! Alas my
prayer for Her availeth not For, DER
the body Of the beast I'd rocked to his
last sleep, her papa's rip and swear!
My soul, cen at the thought of it, was
shocked. Then he'd deny my prayer.
My spirit, rent between the dog and
girl, spun like a barndoor button in
the doubt. Then came the dog! into
my nightrobe's furl he forced his
ierce-fanged snout. I felt his cold
nose feeling for my leg; felt his
breath on my denuded calves! poised
a rock, big as a dodo's egg, and split
his skull in halves. The dog was dead.
His legs stretched stark and stiff. To
last point his pointer tail was dung.
He hadn't time, after that fearful biff,
to gather in his tongue
I've saved my legs, but lost the
GIRL sobbed. Yet, her grim father,
for his pointers sake, would see to it
that l was promptly mobbed. How
my saved legs did quake! A voice fell
from the colonnade above, mans
voice, deep and firm and bravely bold,
the father of the fairy that love, and
asking: Are you cold ?" And / was
cold. shivered in the gust that
snorted through the alley, and un-
rolled, filing my eyes with microbistic
dust and debris manifold. A bullseye
lantern cut a round red hole down
through the dusk to where shud ring
stood. If escaped, promised to my
soul that henceforth I'd be good.
The lanterns evil eye revealed the
CLEAN of a revolver! Oh, this muir,
d'rous quarrel. The hole In that grim
gun to me did seem some bigger than
barrel. May you, my reader, never,
never stand at midnight in your night
gown with your breath catching on
snags some bigger than your hand,
while you stare straight at death!
oh, end It! Shoot!' I gasped IN
deadly dread. why should I shoots
The dog Is dead, said he. Then
through crevasse IN my hopeless
head, poured hope-lit idea.
4 river rat, a houseboat hummer,