The Sauk Centre herald., 1909-03-11

'It isn't what one hasn't got
That ought to quench the light OF lila
It's what one loses, is it not
It's death, or treason in a wife:
It's finding ones unhappy lot
From what you haven't gayly turn
To what you have: the worlds alive.
Still pulses beat. still passions burn:
There's still to work. there's still to
strive;
The cure is easy to discern.
$50 don't be gloomy, don't be glum,
Nor give a thought to what you lack;
Take what you have. no longer dumb
Nor idle, hit misfortune back,
And own that l have reason; come!"
Again the invalid's eyes wandered
out into the narrow glimpse of Gods
good world that his little window gave.
Good advice, Mr.. Stephen, and I've
tried to follow it; but guess it's just
a trifle late now. l don't think I've
been 'glum' very often-and no one
has known it when I have been. !
don't believe I've often dwelt on all
l hadn't. And I do think I've hit as
often and as hard at Milady Misfor'
tune as could. But she's won at last.
Then he added: Perhaps she hasn't,
but it's hard, hard not to believe so.'
Absent-mindedly he closed the book
and lay looking at it. 1t was a thin
little volume of verse by Cambridge
man. Quo Musa Tendis,' he read On
the little signboard title.
horo tho x,,,,co hoe ,>1aac
anter roads for Stephen than for me
I'd be thankful if even so small a
book as this might carry my name
on, though for only one short genera
ton" - .s~.-. .-----4-. z..-.s- ---- --
There was water-color painted or
the cover, a sea-view done in dark blue
on the light cloth ground. He remem
bered so plainly the afternoon when
that had been done. 1t was the moth
er's work, and he had been sitting by
writing. 1t was August, and the dusty
roads and fields made the shaded room
acceptable. He had found vacation
work up among the foothills, and she
had come to the little farmhouse to be
near him. There had been worries for
both, but now he only recalled the
deep pleasures Of that loving compan
ionship, and wondered if he had hall
appreciated it.
Ye put down the book and lay back
upon his pillow, but with wide eyes
and the sick brain so busy. Nothing
about him but had some story to tell
some scene to repaint for him. MOI
would one have guessed the young
masters empty pocket from seeing the
room. But the pretty furniture and
the rugs, with all their warmth of col
or, had been in the old home before
the fathers failure; the pictures were
the accumulation of college years
when a generous allowance was a
monthly surety; the books-he had al
ways bought books. from the days OF
the worn and loved Boys of '1G' to
that latest and handsomest "Anacre
on" Of Bullen's. Perhaps it was his
extravaganza; If so. it was his only
one, and in the long separation from
all those he most loved. he had 1h"sa
true friends at least always by him
The sun fell aslant the long s'nr';: SC
opposite him. 1t almost seen,-. tie
books were smiling, SO cheerfu,ly did
the gildings glance back his light.
There was dear old Ella" two vD!l,mes
of him, in gray boards as pr::.r as his
own Quaker folk, and type as clear
as his own laugh. The inv aid had
found him in a Broadway Dasenelt
shop during one Of those flying trips
down from Yale. Cheap at seven dol
lars" and the hotel bill was sent aftcl
him to New Haven. And there was
the Bachelor with his Reveriss beside
a sea-coal fire. His life had had sad.
ness in it, too, but now he only suc.
gested those long, lazy afternoons on
the lake, the little boat drifting on in
to the sunset, and just those two.
Bachelor and student, aboard. That
delightful dreamer of "Prue and r.
was there. the old bookkeeper in the
white cravat, with Prue sWeetly smil-
ing on one arm. and Aurelia proudly
glancing on the other; and Adam
Moss, his Kentucky cousin, with a lit
tie basket Of heart-shaped strawber-
ries. Both had much to say of those
all too short rainy afternoons, and
cups Of Her fragrant tea, and the
cozy, confidential chats between chap.
ters. There, too, was sweet little Lor.
ma Doone, and Kipling galloping
through the memory like one of his
own East Indian troopers. (''Kamal is
out with 20 men to raise the border
side," hummed the invalid.) Bret
Harte. Moliere, Keats, Eugene Field,