Baraboo weekly news. [volume] (Baraboo, Wis.) 1912-197?, 1912-07-25

tons; the date-palms, black and mo-
tionless against the translucent blue
of the sky; the amethystine prisms Of
the Pyramids, and the deepening gold
of the deserts brim. He loved the
Orient, always so new, always so
strange, yet ever so old and familiar.
A carriage stopped in front, and his
gaze naturally shifted. There is cease
less attraction in specializing about
newcomers in hotel, what they are,
what they do, where they come from,
and where they are going. A fine
elderly man of fifty got out. In the
square set of his shoulders, the flow
ing white mustache and imperial,
there was suggestion of m1l1tarism.
He was Immediately followed by q
young woman of twenty, certainly not
over that age. George sighed wist-
fully. He envied those polo-players
and gentleman-riders and bridge-ex-
perts who were stopping at the hotel.
It wouldn't be an hour after dinner
before some one of them found out who
she was and spoke to her in that easy
style which he concluded must be a
gift rather than an accomplishment.
You mustn't suppose for a minute that
George wasn't well-born and well-bred,
simply because his name was Jones.
Many Fitz-Hugh Maurice or Hugh
no matter. He knew instinctively,
then, what elegance was when he saw
it, and this girl was elegant, in dress,
in movement. He rather liked the
pallor of her skin, which limited that
she wasn't one of those athletic girls
who bounced in and out of the din
ing-room, talking loudly and smoking
cigarettes and playing bridge for six
penny points. She was tall. He was
sure that her eyes were on the level
with his own. The grey veil that
dropped from the rim of her simple
Leghorn hat to the tip of her nose OBJ
-scured her eyes, so he could not know
that they were large and brown and
indefnably sad. They spoke not of
WEAKNESS of travel, but of weari-
ness of the world, more precisely, Of
the people who inhabited it.
She and her companion passed on
into the hotel, and if Georges eyes
veered again toward the desert over
which the stealthy puppies of night
were creeping, the impulse was me-
chanical; he saw nothing. In truth,
he was desperately lonesome, and he
- L
ness to be. He was young; he could
at pinch tell a joke as we'll as the
next man: and if he had never had
what he called an adventure, he had
seen many strange and wonderful
things and could describe them with
that mental afterglow which still lin
gers over the sunset Of our first ex-
pressions in poetry. But there was
always that hydra-headed monster, for
ever getting about his feet, numbing
his voice, paralyzing his hands, and
never he Topped off a head that an
other did not instantly grow in it's
place. Even the sword of Perseus
could not have saved him, since one
has to get away from an object in
order to cut it down.
Had he really ever tried to over
come this monster? Had he not wait
ed for the propitious moment (Which
you and / know never comes) to
throw off this species from Hades?
It is all very well, when you are old
and dried up, to turn to worries and
metals and precious stones; but when
fellows young! You can't shake
hands with an ivory replica of the Tai
Mahal, nor exchange pleasantries with
a Mandarin's ring, nor yet confide joys
and Ills into casket of rare emer-
aids; indeed, they do but emphasize