Shiner gazette. [volume] (Shiner, Tex.) 1893-current, 1908-01-23
THE BUILDERS
By Willis George Emerson

believed that Whatever is to be
will be, and ifever the time came
for him to tell her of his great af
lection he would have the courage
to do so. At present he was enjoying
to the utmost the pleasure Of an
unspoken homage, and contented
himself alone with the loving. His
admiration for her was certainly
ennobling.
Her singing had silenced him
he wished to be alone, and soon af-
ter took his departure, vending his
way to the little back room of the
printing office.
When he awoke next morning
he found an exceedingly heavy
snow had fallen. Nothing like it
had occurred in Gold Valley for
many years and many of the mines
necessarily closed down on account
of the scarcity of fuel to operate
the engines. During the next four
weeks the snow kept falling in
greater quantities and in measure
Gold Valley was cut off from the
outside world.
Fred applied himself strenuously
to his work, increasing his ac-
guardianship with the people, so
Letting advertisements and succeed
ing far beyond his expectations in
aking the paper success. His
friends said many pleasant things
about the attractive appearance Of
the Prospector. 1t was filed with
good, readable matter, and its cir
culation was constantly increasing.
Another heavy snow storm dur
ing the holidays rendered the roads
almost impossible, and finally the
work on the Shonbar was of neces-
sity suspended, nor was it resumed
until late the following spring.
One dismal night when the snow
was falling and the wind bowling
Fred fell into "a meditative mood,
thihnging Of the old New York days
of the clubs and theaters, and his
friends in the Banner office OF how
all these attractions were now as
nothing to him, compared to a lit
tie mountain maid with fluffy, wind
blown hair Of gold and eyes OF blue.
There was song of gladness in
his heart, although the tempest was
wailing a mournful chant without;
refrain of the song she had sung
to him that day so long ago, and
acting under the impulse of the
moment he wrote these lines.
My Dear Ruth
1 scarcely know why l write you,
but sitting here in the back room
of my little printing office, with
the winter winds Juggling at the
warped Notwithstanding of this
frail building, and the snow drift
ing deep and white without, 1 feel
like again telling you fthe pleas
ure YOU gave me when singing the
song of marble columns, blooming
roses, in Spanish garden, and
pearls hidden in the heart OF the
deep. do not remember the words,
but both the sentiment and the har-
'mony have found Judgment in my
heart.
ITO me, vocal music is the melody
of the gods, it is an ethereal mist,
a sole and dainty distillation OF a
Thousand aromatic perfumes, as in
spring and wholesome to the soul
as dew is to buds and blossoms;
measureless, joyous delight like dis
tant purling of ripping waters ap-
pealing to the affections with a
tuneful voice of dreamy sweetness
that seems to culver on the boun-
Diary the dividing line Of reason
and romance, of intelligence and
inspiration, plantively pleading in
its rhylnthmic pulsing and purity to
'wayward and hungerng humanity,
begging it ocome higher into re-
,gions Of loftiest love.
Oh, wondrous power that can
thus speak to the soul Thine is the
nearest approach to the breath OF
Omnipotence as it is waited to us
on the drowsy and fragrant night
winds of peace from the whisper
ing gallery of heaven itself.
A singers lifework is a flowing
brook of gladness, CLINT Of warm
est sunshine, the sweet voice Of con
G fo,o,;xre