The Pensacola journal. (Pensacola, Fla.) 1898-1985, 1913-03-09

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Hello there, Little Glorywilde, I
| haven't time to write this letter tbs
true, but there is force that impels me
AN inspiration that suddenly catches
up the sentimental moode and drives
the waves OF thought backward over
the path of an iIl-spent life. Here
and there along the ways thought
bursts against the crags of the rocks
and falls TO pieces, which fact is east
ly discernable in this narrative. bus
span Of life-it assemblies again and
rolls on and on.
Being thus interrupted in the senti-
mental, I turn to the commercial side
of life and find my desk overburdened
with unfinished business under the
duties of which an oVerworked brain
and tired hands rebel.
Across the hall home talent is
practicing for a musical entertainment
Soft, sweet strains of violin music ride
the zephyrs from the ocean and die
in the distance cross the lake.
Do you remember, Little Glorywilde,
the night of the Jones' Miller wedding?
Next morning discovered three diff
ferent shades of wine stain In the
white silk tie wore. 1t was all on
your account If you hadn't danced
with that fellow who wore the suit of
grey, celloid collar and yellow tech.
the trouble you women folks cause.
We can't get along with you've can't
get along without you. You are con-
slant care-a lifelong Pleasure. You
are burden-a sweet relief. You are
our strongest enemy--our trueSt and
best friend. You Weave the dark
and somber threads in our lives-you
bring us the sunshine of life and filI
us with inspiration TO do the nobler
deeds Of life. You drive us into the
darkness of night, and raging storms,
and blast us against the rugged rocks
you bring us from the blood-stained
battlefields of commercialism to the
throne Of love. and shut out the cares
of life with the four walls of home,
sweet home, soothe our fevered brain,
Smoothe our ruffled brow, touch our
weaknesses with the magic hand of
sympathy. Oh, woman! Treacherous
though you be, we worship you still.
That friend CD Of yours. Glorywilde,
that girl with reddish hair-she al
ways managed to walk between you
and I when we went for a stroll II
have a hatred in my heart for her yet
have a hatred there for everything
that ever came between you and L
Once I spoke in complimentary terms
Of her in your presence. I regret it
still. Saw a little frown ruffle your
pretty brow, and a peculiar lustre in
your dark eyes that banished for a
moment the soft lovelight that I usual
ly found there and always worshipped
So She played her part well, and I
presume she finds comfort to this day
in conplimenting herself on a landed
victory.
I have seen the large eagle descend
he haiO oh H.n min nd
fasten his sharp talons into an inno-
cent, unprotected lamb while it sleot
in the warm sunshine by the root of
a large tree. Then as the greedy bird |
assembled again with his prey he sent |
forth a wild, heartless shreak of vic |
tvEs----sr iztfv- $sA~naklinS-%s-ba~SS7in
lamb cried for mercy and died. Bdri
I can recall no Illustration that fitting
" measures the contrast in woman's |
characteristics.
Sometimes there is a force that as
serts itself and drives the wave of re- |
trospection over the path of an ILL /
spent life. The same rocks that blast /
ed my hopes. blurrs the Retrospective |
picture. Here and there, Little Glory |
wilde, the soft sweet lustre of your /
dark eyes is seen again. For one brief
moment it falls upon me with the
same magnetic power of old. The
FOi1C SpCdho 10 ALI0 III Oh
nocent love; the smile of anticipated
future happiness is there; the mel
low moonlight falls in noiseless
splashes through the summer folia &c
of the trees. The ripping waters Of
the old rock spring leap along their
pebbled way as they. used to do; the
aroma of maturing fruits and flowers
fills the tropic air. But there is a
sudden breath of winter wind-the
FINISHED sentence is hushed-the
smile is changed to a hot flush Of sor-
row-tears of grief hide the sweet lus-
tire of your eyes-the trembling voice
pleads for mercy-the woman with
reddish hair sends forth a wild shrek
Of Victory Almighty God sits at
the loom of time and with unseen
fingers. He is smoothing out the tan
gled threads Of life. In His own good
time the finished fabric will be brought
forth. 1t viii be without spot, or
bIemish, and all who look upon it
shall exclaim: All things work togeth-
Ar for good to those who love him.
PETER STANLEY.