Five Mile Beach weekly journal., 1915-08-13
CHAPTER TX.

Christmas came to Misery wrapped
in a drab mantle of desolation. AT
the cabin of the Widow Miller Sally
was sitting alone before the logs. She
laid down the slate and spelling book.
over which her forehead had been
strenuously puckered, and gazed some
what mournfully into the blaze. Sally
had a secret. 1t was a secret which she
based on a faint hope. If Samson
should come back to Misery he would
come back full of new notions. No
man had ever yet returned from that
outside world unaltered. No man ever
would. A terrible premonition said he
would not come at all, but, II he did
if he did-she must know how to read
and write. Maybe, when she had
learned a little more, she might even
go to school for a term or two.
The cramped and distorted chirog-
raphy on the slate was discouraging.
1t was all proving very hard work. The
girl gazed for a time at something she
saw in the embers. and then a faint
smile came to her lips. BY next Christ
mas she would surprise Samson with a
letter. 1t should be well written, and
every "hain't' should be an isn't"
=
The normal human mind is a res.
eryoir which fills at a rate of speed
regulated by the number and caliber
Of its feed pipes. Samson's mind had
long been almost empty, and now from
SO many sources the waters of new
things were rushing In upon 1t that
under their pressure it must fill fast,
or give away.
He was saved from hopeless com
plications of thought by a sanity
which was willing to assimilate with
out too much effort to ~analyze. The
boy from Misery was presently less
bizarre to the eye than many of the
unkempt bohemians he met in the life
of the studios, men who quarreled
garrulously over the end and aim of
Art, which they spelled with a CAPT
tai A-and, for the most part, knew
nothing of. He retained, except with
in a small circle of intimates, a silence
that passed for taciturnity, and a
solemnity of visage that was often
construed into surly egotism.
He still wore his hair long, and,
though his conversation gradually
sloughed off much of it's idiom and
vulgarism, enough of the mountaineer
stood out to lend to his personality a
V of the crudely picturesque.
Meanwhile he drew and read and
studied and walked, and every days
Lescott, tremendously interested in his
experiment, began to fear that the
boys too great somberness of dispo.
sition would defeat the very earnest
ness from which it sprang. So one
morning the landscape-maker called
on a friend whom he rightly believed
to be the wisest man, and the great
est humorist in New York.
II want your help" said Lescott.
Il want you to meet a friend of mine
and take him under your wing in a
fashion. He needs you"
The stout mans face clouded. A few
years ago he had been peddling his
manuscripts with the Inconsistencies OF
unsuccessful middle age. Today men
coupled his name with those of Kip.
ling and De Maupassant. One of his
a~ntipathies was meeting people who
sought to lionize him. Lescott read
the expression, and, before his host
had time to object, swept into his re-
cital.
At the end he summarized:
"The artist is much like the setter
pup. If it's in him, it's as instructive
as a dogs nose But to become eff
Client he must go a-ield with a steady
veteran of his own breed"
II know!" The great man, who was
also the simple man, smiled reminis.
Gently. They tried to teach me to
herd sheep when my nose was itching
for bird country. Bring on your man;
l want to know him"
Samson was told nothing of the be
nevolent conspiracy, but one evening
shortly later he found himself sitting
at a cafe table with his sponsor and
a stout man, almost as silent as him