The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1920-07-30
THE GREEN JADE
A ROMANCE OF THE DESERT By Lulu L. Bridges


1 have learned ratio and proportion
in an exclusive college and disproved
them at Monte Carlo; have appeared
before clubs with papers of philan
thropic subject and misanthespic sub
stance.
l have spent days Summing in the
name of charity and nights acting in
the name of society.
Like an unchartered satellite, have
swung round the world in path that
fades as fast as l move, recognized
only by the phosphorence of my jewels
and the nebula of my voiles and pom
gees. But, despite all this, savagery
is my heritage. The call of the track
less seas and sandy lonliness stirs my
heart more than all the idle chatter
of wearied and wearying gentility.
This innate inheritance I can ac.
count for only by analysing myself as
Hybrid freak.
Wizards of plant and animal-kind
have long ago proven the law of the
Brinn monk, that nature preserves the
characteristics of parentage with
scientific accuracy through countless
generations.
The best of the breed show the
colorings emphasized, or the fleece
elongated or silvered; others display
the weakness of some far remote par
ent; while one now and then skaters
all laws of heredity and establishes d
freak.
Thus can understand how savagerJ
is my heritage, bequeathed by the for
bears who dwelt in caves near the
firths and the ancestors who f1oated
with the sands, driven by the lawless
winds, purposeless and without desti-
nation.
The history and attributes of tine
whole Scotch race seem written in the
blue of my mothers eye; in the hair
where the suns ray rests and sparkle
as if it were composed of myriad cry
stalls; in the heart which can no more
be easily won than could the ancestral
territory, though once won, loyal for
ever.
Through my fathers veins ran the
blood of the royal lineage of the land
of adventure whose queen once sent
the Pinta and her sisters into unknown
seas to find Fountain of youth and
a treasure land of gems of gold.
My friend-mother never told me the
story that might have explained my
antipathy to the wooded hills or
thrown light on my perversity of dis
position. 1t was only from sparkling
of her eye and softening of the tone
that 1 gathered, link by link, fairy
chain, as it were, that traced back
ward into the days of her romance.
solved the mystery for me.
somewhere in the realm of long ago,
sac had been won by distin -uished
young Spanish officer; attracted per,
haps by his contrasting personal ap'
pearance though more likely by his
self tenderness, the counterpart OF
which her maiden heart yearned for
but found not in the sturdiness of hel
own race.
The remembrance of that father is
limited to single etching in the gal
lery of memory. The dimmed picturS
shows dark handsome face whosl
eyes glowed with a worshipful love
for his child, when his strong arms
clasped me close and swung me upor
the most beautiful horse l have evel
seen. The tin-type in mothers ole
hair trunk pictures a mounted, lythe
straight figured man in uniform
adorned with gold buttons, braid anG
epaulettes and glittering sword.
loved the horse for long time.
could not understand why my mother
PdlSu dI pIdlS6 VI IllS
noble animal which had borne my
father to the battles front and faller
with him in death. Could it be that
her change of mien betokened a jeal
ousy of the steed Could the charger
be blamed for the husbands death
while sharing the fate with him? Per
haps. But still another reason:
The Brinn monks law was working
out its proof; an Arab ancestor had
left to this Castilian knight not alone
the maroon tinge of blood, but brave
fatalism in battle and devotion *
his charger strong enough, dec
enough, to rival religions, faith ant
family ties.
My prosaic mother yearned to keel
in touch with the throbbing world yet
several months out of each year, he
object unknown to me, she was accus