Iron County register. [volume] (Ironton, Iron County, Mo.) 1867-1965, 1916-11-02
By SAMUEL Mccoy

Her glance rested on his healthy,
vigorous form %approvingly.
"Yes; but her favors reproach me
now; l am afraid l can never accom-
plish what this country expects of her
young men,"
She pretended to look at him
thoughtfully. "No, I don't suppose
you can ever climb very high" She
laughed teasingly. "How do you like
your work."
Selling toys to the Indians and
laces to the ladies? Not very roman
tic"
Il should think the ladies would be
romantic, I'VE if the Indians r not.
"Oh, but they all want soldiers /;
Tn only a weaver by trade"
''That reminds me-you've never
told me about your life in England.
Please do it now-but wait, I'll tell
you myself" She half closed her
eyes and began re~flectively:
"Let me see-I'm looking into the
past. You may not know 1t, but I'm
IL real Irish soothsayer." She let the
ghost of a delicious bit of brogue lin
ger on her tongue. "Tm beginning to
see your ancestral estates now. Ora
cious, a ducal palace takes SHAPED"
"There's no doubt about your being
ar Irish soothsayer," David COM
mented sarcastically, "the ducal
castle was certainly there, but unfor-
tunately it belonged to the duke of
Newcastle. Our ducal castle was be-
hind st. Johns palace in Bottle lane
it had one room in it and no floor"
'That's nothing to be ashamed Of
half the cabins in the woods here are
no larger, and their floors are earthen
too"
"Ah, but every settler here has as
much land as the duke of Newcastle
, Air to breathe, freedom"
"You interrupted me-be quiet, or
I won't finish. You idled about the
estate all day long or you rode over
the countryside with your hounds
Ills name was Timon, that one
mongrel of mine; he had friends
who lived on him beg your par
DON"
Horrors! Will you be quiet! And
at night you lay on silken cushions in
front of the great fireplace, reading
| some tale of the court"
II know it was wrong, but n is
naturally idle after twelve hours at
the loom. I did read a good deal
with Harry White"
"Who was Harry White?"
"Harry White was my best friend.
Henry Kirke White-the son of Mr..
White, the butcher. He was just my
own age. We worked together at a
stocking loom when we were fourteen,
making stockings, but the next year
his father apprenticed him to a firm
of attorneys"
"And you kept on as q weaver?"
II kept on as a weaver. But he
lent me his books at night. He was
as poor as l was, and he drove him.
self into his grave with study. He
died when he was twenty-one, five
years ago. But Mr.. Southey, the
poet laureate, collected all the poems
Harry had written"
"a poet? A butchers SOM"
"He had won a sizarship at Cam
bridge when he was ~nineteen-he had
got his first poems printed the year
before. That was how he attracted
Mr.. Southey's attention"
"And he's dead! Oh, I'm so sorry! ~
"He told me once that a friend he
had made at Cambridge, a boy named
George Gordon, Lord Byron, said that
his poems would never die"
"He was a poet tool"
II think so. He is living yet. He's
only twenty-three."
"Why, you're only twenty-six, your
self! Don't talk like a grandfather ~
II feel like one."
"Why"
The sympathy in her voice was as
sincere as that in her eyes. David
had never known such a woman-had
never known what it was to have the
divine sympathy Of womanhood. He
began to tell her of his life, of his suf-
ferings, of his hopes for the future,
of his aspirations; and through it all
the girl listened, a white rose in the
moonlight, and poured the balm of
her pure spirit upon his head.