The Baltimore County union. [volume] (Towsontown, Md.) 1865-1909, 1908-07-25
THE AwAKEN1NG OF s1NCLA1R.

Although the midday sun was
glistening upon the blossoming trees
and fresh, growing things of the outer
world, the dingy little room on the
top story Of the lodging house was
lighted by means of an ill-scented
kerosene lamp. Beneath the lamp
stood desk, on which typewriting
machine formed an island in the midst
of a perturbed sea of papers. Before
the desk sat a young man. However,
he was not writing on the machine or
locking over the papers or busted in
any way at all. for that matter, but
sat idly resting his wan face upon his
slender haud and gazing listlessly at
the bare walls. It was very early in
the day for workman to have so
wearied of his task-shat is, for a
workman vino had slept peacefully
through the night. But Sinclair
Evans, the young writer whose ethe-
real paragraphs and glamorous verse
appeared in local publications, had
accomplished what he considered his
most artistic strokes in the deep noe
turna1 hours while all the world about
him slumbered. Just now he had
arisen from a brief, restless sleep for
a final reading of his manuscript, but
the whole thing seemed somehow out
of sorts. The ideas which he had so
hastily and feverishly expressed un-
der the artificial inspiration of the
night sounded irrational and meaning
less in the midday reality. A wave
of sickening disappointment swept
over the poor young artist, and he
cast aside his manuscript in despair.
Months ago he had discovered that
his wits were brightest and clearest
during wakeful hours of the night.
times ideas which he had been
unable to express during the day had
come to him so wildly as he lay star
ing into the darkness that he had
arisen, lit his lamp, and written until
daybreak, when he had fallen into an
the freshest, best HOURS OF the uay'
while the real workmen went forth to
their simple, wholesome tasks. Fl
nally he had adopted this midnight
work as custom, and the result was
failing nerves as we'll as morbid
thought.
Sinclair was aroused from his un-
happy meditation by sudden burst
of melody. A little bird lighted for
a moment upon the half-open win
dow shutter, and trilled his wild,
JOYOUS song. How redolent was the
music with suggestions of the glad,
free out of doors Sinclair looked
gratefully toward the window. A
faint ray of sunshine filtered through
the shutter and fell upon the only
picture on the bare wall. The fair,
young faces in the little frame SEEM
ed to smile with pleasure at the
familiar sight of the sun. For mo-
ment the artist studied them thought
fully. A marked resemblance exist
ed in the two round, fresh faces
which nestled affectionately together.
There were the same dark eyes, the
same long lashes, the same delicate
features and yet how different the
expressions The little boy seemed
to be gazing far away into some mys-
tic fairyland of dreams. In his eyes
was fanciful, visionary light, an ut
ter Inconsistencies of the existing,
the material environment. The mouth
seemed to be made to murmur pretty
whisperings to invite invisible play
mates in the far-away clouds, to taste
the sweet breath of dreamland, never
to be set in endurance of common
place calamity.
In the little girls lustrous eyes
were the fash of buoyant vitality, the
happy understanding of the existent,
the real, wide-awake consciousness
of life and a readiness to meet it.
The rosebud mouth seemed about to
burst into full-blown ecstasy or to
breathe forth the fragrance of tender
affection and sympathy.
Sinclair wondered how long it had
been since he had left off looking at
the picture every day and choking
back the tears which arose with the
fond memories which the smiling
faces suggested. What happy, happy
children he and his sister were at the
old home far in the beautiful country
How often had they run, hand in
hand, down the winding avenue to
the great stone gateway What q
pretty girl his sister was He re-
membered her first as child with
long, dark curls and laughing eyes
romping under the stately trees about
the old house, and then in the flower
of girlhood. How fair and lovely
she was to see in the summer morn
ing of life-the sunlight glistening II
her hair, the delicate pink of the wild
rose glowing in her face, fountains o
| Joy playing in her dark eyes ant
sounding in her mirthful voice !! HI
used to love to watch her coming
across the lawn, trailing her film!
skirts through the soft grass. Las
of all, he remembered her as brid
when she had told them all good by
through a mist of tears and gone far
| far away to live. After that every
thing seemed different, and change
followed in rapid succession. Hi
father had joined his mother in tn
country beyond the skies, where sh
had gone when her children wer
barely old enough to realize thei
loss. The old place had been sold t
meet debts, and Sinclair had come t
the citv to make his way as writer