The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1910-11-16

Of self in her efforts to save her coun'
try. Aloysius Thorn, maker Axe st OF Buq a.
lives alone in a chapel SURROUNDED by
a beautiful garden, and his time IS ce-
voted entirely to the making or delties
Of bronze, silver and priceless gold
lacquer.
window and in the dim light she sat
down and let her fingers wander idly
in long arpeggios. She could see one
side of the Japanese garden, with
glimpse of a tiny dry lake and a peb
bled rivulet spanned by an archine
bridge of red lacquer. 1t seemed tc
her that in this living, sentient breath
of Japan, her father was nearer to he'll
than he had ever been before.
The thought brought to her vague
memories of her mother and of hel
childhood. Old airs began to mingle
with the chords and on the shril
fairy sound.carpet woven by the myri
ad insect-looms of the garden, the bits
of melody went treading softly out
across the perfume of the wistaria.
CHAPTER VIII.
"SaIIy in Our Alley"
She thought no one heard, but out
by the azalea hedge, man was stand
inng, listening to the hushed chords
floating through the open window
Daunt thrust his cold pipe into his
DOcket and listened with head thrown
back.
1t was no brilliant display of tech.
nique that held him, for the player
was touching simple chords, but these
were singing old melodies that took
him far to other scenes and other
times. He smiled to himself. How
long it had been since he had sung
them-not since the old college days!
That happy, irresponsible era of SEN
ior dignities came back wildly to him,
the campus and the singing. For years
he had not recollected it all SO keen
ly! He had been glee-club soloist
pushed forward on all occasions and
applauded to the echo. Praise OF his
singing he had accepted somewhat
humorously-never but once had it
touched him deeply, and that had been
on commencement afternoon.
He had slipped away from the wav-
ering cheers at the station, because
he could not bear the fareWells, and,
far down one of the campus lanes, had
come on pretty Mrs. Claybourne sit
ting on rustic bench. Again he heard
her speak, as plainly as if it were yes
terday: "Why, if it isn't Mr.. Daunt! |
wonder how the university can open
in the fall without you!" He had sat
down beside her as she said: This
very insistent young person with me
has been heartbroken because we
could not get tickets for the Glee-
Club concert last night. She wanted
to hear you sing
He had looked up then to see a
young girl, seated on the leaning
trunk of tulip tree Her neutraltint-
ed skirt lay against the dark bark;
her face was almost hidden by spray
of the great, creamy pink blossoms.
Some quality in it's delicate loneliness
had made him wish to please her, and
sitting there he had sung the song
that was his favorite. Mrs. Clay
bourne had pulled a big branch of the
tulip tree to hand him like bouquet
over the footlights, but the girls part
ed lips, her deep brown eyes, had
thanked him in a better way!
The music, now floating over the
garden, by such subconscious assOcia-
ton, recalled this scene, overlaid, but
never forgotten. Hank! A cascade
of silver notes, and then an old air
that had been revived in his time to
become the madness of the music halls
and the pet of the pianolas-the one
the crowded campus had been wont
to demand with loudest voice when
his tenor led the Senior Singing" 1t
brought back with a rush the familiar
faces, the gray ivied dormitories with
their slim iron balconies, the thrOb.
bling plant of mandolins, and his own
voice
"Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally.
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives"
He scarcely knew he sang, but the
vibrant tenor, lifting across the scent
of the wistaria, came clearly to the
girl at the piano. For moment Bar
bara's fingers played on, as she lis,
tened with strained wonder. Then
the music ceased with discord and
she came quickly through the opened
window.