The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1920-07-30
By Lulu L. Bridges

speak of love.
Guiltily, 1 slipped the amber with
the blue and Tom was again forgotten.
A pebble of greyish white like an I'M
polished diamond lay near my feet.
STOPPING, l touched it. Instantly, my
thoughts reverted to my debut party.
Here was the dress my dearest friend
wore on that night of nights. How l
loved her! How / confided my every
secret to her keeping! How often we
swore eternal friendship, praying to die
the same day!
Thus ran our beautiful comradeship,
until we CHANGED to allow our common
taste to which we proudly boosted, to
be applied to the same young man,
her present husband.
Now, even the stone is not half 50
cold as she or L
And then l found a gold brown one
which reflected the strands of another
chum's hair.
Next, violet tint was vivid re-
minder of life long friend ,uneffusive,
but true, whose one beauty lay in her
violet eyes.
Soon, cold black jewel whether a
quartz charred in some volcanic cal
dron or a polished besalt, I am not
geologist enough to decide, attracted
my attention. AS it lay in my hand
this somber stone seemed to meta
morphosize, and a silver plate: At
Rest-spoke not of my heart as gazed
for the last time upon lips, that had
been mine. Yes, this stone was he,
beautiful even under the black wings
of death-and this stone alone was
silent to my touch, yet l clasped it
more tightly than the rest and held it
longer.
Thus life's past came surging back
as wandered in the bend of the river
And as touched each stone, like the
murmur of a cone shell, whispers OF
friendship and love, voices of kindness
or reproach, spoke and echoed in my
inner mind.
So fraught with life had become
these desert sands that planned to
come day after day, as devotee would
go to a medium to converse with their
dead. But another feeling also pos
sessed me-a feeling of insufficiency;
an idea that my rainbow lacked yet
a color, the spectrum of my heart
showed an incompleteness. What was
lit? 1 could not so much as guess.
Thus my conscious self would reason.
Reason? With what? With whom?
To whom or what do we address our
inner thoughts in hours when we
struggle with the decisive battles OF
life? Is it not that at last our con-
scious faculties are overpowered and
giant rises from the hidden recesses
# our little known SubconSciouS selves,
and moves the pen or causes the lips
to utter the fatal word or directs an
act dynamic? 1t must be so, for in
that very moment l stopped and picked
up the only ugly stone had yet found
1t had no lustre but instead an
unctuous feel. No prismatic crystal
lization or even rounded form made
up for it's lack of color beauty. 1t had
not and could not take a polish.
had added, guided by whim or un-
discovered force plain green jade.
Long I revelled in the companion
ship of my fetiches until nature intro
duced the evil spirit of the desert.
Thirst. By now it was past the noon
hour and hunger added fatigue. Has
tily, I started for home, calling my
faithful dog upon whom the desert
held no charm but who shared with
me both the thirst and the hunger.
When l enteed the main road and
toiled up the foot hills, heard behind
me the labored strokes of a motor.
It's presence was so incongruous, I
thoughtlessly turned and stared. In
stantly, it stopped beside me, and the
lone occupant of the car almost gruffly
babe me ride. Despite his rather I'M
kept appearance, his unshaven face,
and the dust covered clothing, some
thing inspired confidence in him.
AS yet l was unaccustomed to the
lack of unconventionalities and diff
ferences of social customs which
makes the west so unlike the east
While my fatigue argued with my
sense of propriety, stood mute, until
my unknown companion with hurry
consistent with his general bearing.
leaped to the ground and almost lifted
be into the seat beside him. l looked
at him in wounded amazement; my
terrier growled; yet l was not afraid