The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1913-03-19
THE EVENING STORY
Music in the Air.
nv Harmony Weller.l

Truesden glanced out into the court
His meditation had been pleasantly
broken. There was music in the air.
and he wondered whence it came.
The music was not actual song, but
merely the infections of feminine
voice. and Truesdell peered cautious
Iy from behind his art curtains with
the hope that his eyes might discover
1 the owner of the voice
| Some people should go into the
profession of entertaining persons
| who are deaf and dumb and lame and
halt" the whimsical voice continued
| And looking up at the window a
scant five yards above his own, Trues-
dell traiIed the girl Just because
an incOnsiderate twig made me spra1n
my ankle I am compelled to sit
here, swathed up like mummy, and
bore myself to a mere shadow.
Truesdell smiled as the voice
traiIed off into a discontinued silence.
, Cautiously he extended his view and
, drew a swift breath of admiration.
Over the top of the window sill he
saw a head. Two tawny braids hung
down and framed a face, oval and
dainty as a dream face. A multitude
of soft pillows backed the restless
head, and in the dim recess behind a
profusion of flowers spoke of thought
full friends.
IF 1 were rolling in wealth." the
my living coloring photograveurs OF
Henner and LIE Brun I would order
Caruso and Mccormack and Amato
to come up here and sing to me-"
Truesdell smiled grimly. 1t was
bit tough having to work at an easel
and make ones living when one had
to be propped up with pillows.
1T would be extremely sorry for
myself he ruminated, 'if I had to
write a love story under those cir
Suddenly TruesdelPs very blue eyes
frightened.
"I can do a little philanthropy" he
said. And went off quickly to his
writing den. A moment later he re-
turned with the machine which his
unappreciative friends called his
canned music. Henry Truesden
himself called it his aviary, and his
birds were named all the way from
Caruso to Harry Lauder. His latest
novel had been written entirely under
the inspiration derived from the hid
den songsters.
1T will amuse the golden-headed
one," he unused. Being feminine and
of natural instincts, she will no doubt
prefer a masculine voice." decided
TruesdelPs intelligence. And he put
on record of Il Hear You Calling
Me-"
When Mabel McCarty heard John
Mccormack caressing voice so star
tlingly near she leaned forward with
a quick little movement of delight.
For a second Truesdell was jealous
of the Irish tenor. He placed the
machine as nearly outside the win
dow as equilibrium and secrecy would
permit, then drew back and watched
the joy that flooded swiftly into the
girls face. She had craned her neck
slipped over the window sill and hung
there in the sunlight. Truesdell ex-
perienced his second thrill and won
dered when the third would come.
ct could love that girl" he confid-
ed to himself, then selected a record
of Caruso's.
All through the varied program
Mabel McCarty listened with rapt at
tention. Once or twice she had
glanced down as if to fathom the dis
lance between herself and the music
box, and it had seemed to Truesdell
as if her eyes had looked into his own.
That third THRILL he muttered,
and put on the great Welsh tenor,
Evan Williams. Truesdell had an en-
gagement with his publisher, and this
would have to be the last song for the
day. He watched the golden head
fall back against the pillows and the
heavy Iashes sink contentedly against
her cheeks. Then he went quietly
away lest he awake her.
The following days began to assume
changed his great writing table to the
room from which he could watch for
the girl with the sprained ankle He
fell to wondering what he would do
wnen the ankle permitted her to go
to theaters and
dances with other men. How blank
would be the brick court without her
sunny head at the Window
st am certainly in bad way" he
told himself grimly. ''It is bad enough
to be in love with a girl you know,
but how much worse when the girl
does not even know of your existence"
And yet, as Mabel McCarty dabbed
the queer Henner blue upon the robe
of the "Magdalene at the Tomb a
whimsical smile played about her lips.
ST am nothing but a silly little
goose-to imagine that he has noticed
me-and yeti know that the click Of
his typewriter used to come from
farther down the hail. The color
rushed into Mabers cheeks. "And the
gramaphone, too" She painted con-
tentedly for some moments, and al
ways the head of the man below came
to her. ct is a wonder 1 don't give
the Magdalene golden hair and blue