A Thankful Heart.
Thou art not rich, thou art not poor.
Thy fortune keeps the middle wuy;
llo ills thy strength cannot endure,
Apportioned to the passing day.
Thou art not young, thou art not old.
Yet. calm thou sesst thy years depart;
And Joys are thine, a thousandfold—
Because thon hast the thankful heart.
A thankful heart for life alone—
For beauty in the earth and skies,
(And for such share as thou dost own
By happy gift of seeing eyes).
For human love's endearing bond.
Where stauchly thou dost bear thy
part—
For solace here, and hope beyond—
For all thou hast the thankful heart.
So, to this day of crowning cheer,
By easy course thy steps did tend.
Since with each day of all the year
Some grateful leaven thou didst blend.
No chance thy prize from thee can
wrest;
While IKe shall last thou shalt not part
With that good gift (of all the best).
The treasure of a thankful heart.
—Edith 11 Thomas In Harper’s Bazar.
Realism vs. Romanticism.
BY F. H. LANCASTER.
(Copyright, 1902, by Dally Story Pub. Co)
They were sitting on the gallery in
the twilight and the discussion began
by the Woman Who Wrote taking ex
ception to the extravagant praise be
stowed upon a modern book.
“It is not true; not possible. If a
human woman had attempted to live
through such a series of sensations
she would have died of heart failure
in a week; or, been sent to an asylum
for the insane.”
The Newspaper Man cut in dryly:
“Realism will never appreciate ro
manticism.”
“I wish to goodness that I could un
derstand what is meant by realism
and romanticism,” announced the
Green Girl.
“Why, the difference is just this,"
responded the Woman Who Wrote.
“Realism deals with what would
probably happen—every-day flesh and
blood. Romanticism with impossible
creations of nerve and fury. For in
stance:
“Once upon a time there was a man
and a woman in a gaudy little garden
and life looked glad. But as the sun
hastened to its setting the glow of
their gladness began to dim, for to
the man sunset meant return to camp,
and to the woman, making hot bis
cuit for supper. So they watched the
setting sun and their words were few
er as their eyes grew wistful. For
this is ever so in life, novelist to the
contrary, notwithstanding. A full
heart makes not a ready tongue.
“Then into the garden came the
maiden aunt of the woman, and she
made obeisance to the man and said
to him in pleasant, every-day, un
grammatical talk, that she would be
much pleased to have him make a
third at their testable. Let any man
who has learned to prize the presence
of one woman above all others say
what was in the heart of the man as
he followed the old maid and the
woman into the dining-room that
smelled of new bread and sad salmon.
“ ‘We will not bother about biscuit
to-night., Polly, if you will slice some
cold bread,’ spake the aunt. But the
man interfered, declaring himself to
be familiar with the weapons, and
laying hold upon the bread knife, at
tacked the loaf valorously. Where
upon the old maid went to the pantry
for the tea. The door latch clicked
in closing and the bread-knife was in
the left hand of the man and his right
arm was about the shoulders of the
woman. His breath raised her hair,
and then that happened which will al
ways happen when any ordinary man
and woman whose hearts have gone
into each other’s keeping, chance to
find themselves alone together and
safe from the eye* of others. For the
The bread knife was in the left hand
of the man and his right arm was
about the woman’s shoulder.
space of a moment, heaven hung over
the breadboard, then a loose plank
squeaked and the woman began to lay
places for six and the man cut slices
of a thickness to beat the band.
The man’s hand touched the wom
an’s Intentionally as he passed plate
and platter. Marvel not, ye mortal?
of mundane flesh and blood, c*. X th>
tea drank th -t night was a nectar
compared to which the ambrosia of
the gods was but as milk and water.
For all that I have told is very true
and has come to pass many hundreds
of times, and if the world holds will
come many hundreds of times more.
At last they said good-niglit in the
moonlight. And if there be any among
you who have not counted the mo
ments by the delicious quiver of a
heart beat against your own, I shall
not strive to picture to you that pleas
ant parting, for no words could make
it plain; and if there be those among
you who have, neither will I expend
energy u pon useless endeavor, for you
know' that no words may do it justice.
So for the sunshine. The shadow
came next day with his letter. “My
own dear Polly, The Indians are up
The door burst open, Genevieve Tre
valion cprang to her feet,
and we have been ordered against
them." Do not condemn him for
breaking it so rudely. His heart was
hurting him too badly to think of
finesse. It is ever so with an ordi
nary man, pain makes him impatient.
Well, the woman felt troubled; be
cause she missed him, and because all
at once she could think of him only
as of a still, white face upturned to
the moon. She went to the machine
and made a couple of shirt waists with
tucked fronts and insertion as per or
der then she read the newspaper to
keep from going into the garden. She
did not care to talk about it—sym
pathy upsets one’s self-control. But
the hurt in her heart grew worse as
the day died and when the time camt
for tea. she felt as though the food
was choking her beforehand.
The eyes of the w'oman grew warm
with tears as she looked upon the
bread knife and thought of those
great, clumsy slices, but she assented as
a matter of course. Her fingers closed
over the horn-handle and that haunt
ing, upturned face left her. She saw
him again beneath the hanging lamp,
his eyes aglow with mixed up love and
mischief. Ah! how good to be able
to think of him once more as her dear
bad boy.
When the house wras still, she car
ried the knife to her room and cov
ered its handle with tears and kisses.
Trouble not yourself with idle ques
tionings, whether the man came back
from the wars or no; for when a man
has woo such love from a woman that
she kisses handles for his sake, he has
seen his Austerlltz; let him beware
lest he live too long and so look upon
his Waterloo."
‘‘That's realism.”
“In all save one particular, com
mented the Newspaper Man.
The Woman Who Wrote spoke hur
riedly, “Now for romanticism:
“It was a wild, dark night, dark as
death. The rain poured down in cease
less torrents; the wind tore the thou
sand-year-old monarchs from the for
est and lashed the sea into a raging
mass of inky waters. Against it all,
in the very teeth of the storm, the
man held on his way. Heedless of the
howl and roar, heedless of the jagged
lightning that leaped from the lower
ing heavens. Deaf, blind, lost to con
sclousnss of aught save the sting cf
wounded pride and the fierce resent
ment of an outraged love. None save
gods or devils would have braved such
a night, but he- What was beat of
rain and lash of wind? What was
this wild storm without, compared to
the fiercer one raging within? T>~
rage of passion that sent the blood
seething through his veins, and beat
in his brain like hammers.
“The crimson curtains with their
satin fringings swept to the floor,
shutting out the storm and the night
They could not shut out the wind that
howled and shrieked like a thousand
fiends in torment. Genevieve Treval
j lion crouched over her fir*, her great,
i violet eyes staring Id dense terror at
! the flames. For hours she bad sat
thete cowering under a sense of Im
pending doom; suffering the agony of
a hundred deaths. No torture devised
by man so intense so agonizing as
that of undefined fear. She clenched
her hand until the blood sprang from
her tender palm and dyed her perfect
nails; low moautngs broke from her
palid lips. ‘He would not come, he
would not come, and to-morrow would
be too late, too late. Oh, Go I; ths
bitterness cf a luxury that defeat*
love.’
“The man fought on, not knowing
that he fought. Over rage and resent
ment a desire had come to him, more
blinding than the blue flare of the
lightning. The desire to be with her,
to breathe the Intoxicating perfume of
her hair, to feel the wild beating of
her heart on his, to crush her lips be
neath kisses strong as eternity, eager
as life. His foot sunk into deepening
water and a stream of heaven's blue
fire showed him the bridge—a mass
of broken timbers heaped upon the
farther shore. Before him, wild,
wicked water, but not hell a-gape,
would have stopped him now. Into
the raging water, beating against it
defying it, his magnificent muscles
strained like whipcords, his face
blanched, his lips numb.
“The door burst open, Genevieve
Trevalllon sprang to her feet. The
man stood before her. His grand
eye3, black and passionate as the
night, burned into hers. His breath
came in hoarse, gasping sobs. Pallid,
spent, unkempt as the storm, he stood
before her. Wet as a drowned rat!"
"Ah, how outrageous!"
‘‘But he was wet," she protested.
“Bother; if we cannot escape prosaic
details let’s have tea.”
As the Woman Who Wrote arose to
follow the others, the Newspaper Man
stopped her.
“Did you really kiss that knife’s
handle?"
“What knife?"
“The one I cut ham with that
night."
“Why, you crank, you and I have
never been anything to each other.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. Remem
ber the damage I did to your mother’s
china. If you hadn’t been as cold as
an Iceberg you \yould have been bet
ter posted on realism. When your
own heart Is going like a buzz-saw
you can’t feel the beat of another
against it. See? This is realism.”
An Effervescent Maharajah.
On the first consignment of seidlitz
powders to the Maharajah of Sing
pur that monarch was deeply inter
ested in the accounts of the refresh
ing box. A box was brought to the
potentate in full court, and the in
terpreter explained to his majesty
how it should be used. Into a goblet
he put the twelve blue papers, and,
having added water, the king drank
it off. This was the alkali, and the
Royal countenance expressed no sign
of satisfaction.
It was then explained that in the
combination of the two powders lay
the luxury, and the twelve white
powders were quickly dissolved in
water, and as eagerly swallowed by
his majesty.
With a shriek that will be remem
bered while Singpur lasts the mon
arch rose, stared, exploded, and, In
his full agonies, screamed: “Hold
me down!’’ Then, rushing from the
throne, fell prostrate on the floor.
There he lay during the long-contin
ued effervescence of the compound,
groaning as surely monarch never
groaned before, and believing himself
in the agonies of death—a melan
choly and humiliating proof that
kings are mortal.
Age Limit and Hair Dye.
For a long time there has been
close to complete cessation in the
manufacture of hair dye, bu* the
past year or so a boom has dt» *.*1oped
in that branch of industry. The gen
eral establishment of an age limit
in the employment of men in com
mercial and mechanical pursuits is
said to be responsible for this un
expected revival. An official of the
American Federation of Labor says
he knows for a fact of many men who
are using dyes to hide their gray
hairs and hosts of others who shave
constantly to look young enough te
be able to hold their positions. Sta
tistics prove that it is every day be
coming more difficult for a man past
the prime of life to secure employ
ment. The skilled mechanic engi
neer or employe who wants a job in
any service must have youth as well
as ability. If he doesn't possess it he
must counterfeit it. Presumably the
elderly man with a bald head must
wear a wig in order to cover his
years.
Repairing Longfellow’s Home.
The repairs on the outside of the old
Longfellow home, Portland, Me., have
begun. The house is to have a new
roof and the woodwork and blinds are
to be painted. The floor in the vesti
bule, from the street, is to be restored
to its original appearance, and the
old stone front doorstep, which has
been covered up for many years, is to
be raised and used again, as formerly.
Over this old step the family have
gone from the beginning of the house.
On it stood Zilpah Longfellow, in 17ti8.
the mother of the poet LongfeHow, and
presented a standard to the SV-tland
federal volunteers, the first uniformed
military company in Maine. This
company was reorganized as the
Portland light infantry, and next year
the members are anticipating a cen
tennial celebration.—Boston Tran
script.
Don’t sit up late or be late to meals,
v’oth are unsanitary.
A WARRIOR BOLD.
By ST. QKOI PE RAT 11 HORSE,
Mu'her of "Little Ml w Million)," "The Spider')
Ifeti," "Dr. Jack') W How'," "U» Caprice,'' eta
rl*ht 1901, Street ond Smith. New York
CHAPTER XII.—(Continued.)
' We must have another deal, that's
all. Perhaps a better and more gen
erous lover will appear the next time
—one who will appreciate little favors
at their true value. You can consider
yourself dismissed,” with a wave of
the hand that should have struck
dumb terror into the heart of the
other, but which, on the contrary,
only excited his secret mirth.
"Thanks, but I shall take my dis
charge only from the proper author
ity, and in this ease that does not
happen to be—ahem!—Capt. Brand."
"Very good. Remember, 1 am her
father, and the rightful custodian of
our family honor. Perhaps 1 may re
sort to other and more drastic meas
ures should you continue to force
your unwelcome attentions upon my
daughter.”
“You would find me ready and will
ing to give you back as good as you
send, sir.”
"Why, you young scamp, I could
break every bone in your body, if 1
chose,” almost frothing at the mou*-h
with rage.
“Better not try It, captain. In New
York state they electrocute for mur
der, and it's a worse fate than hang
ing, which you know has terrors
enough never to be forgotten."
Charlie, acting upon the spur of the
moment, could not help giving him
this little thrust.
It was a keen one.
The other's jaw dropped, his eyes
momentarily rolled in a spasm of
agony, and the sweat seemed to break
out upon his brow'.
Charlie saw and was satisfied.
He had given the conscienceless
wretch a body-blow in return for his
vile threats.
Capt. Brand s spasm lasted nut a
brief space of time, and then he re
covered his self-possession.
There was a peculiarity about the
captain that seemed very marked—
when in a rage his eyes became quite
bloodshot, and glowed like the orbs of
a hyena upon the deserts of which he
loved to talk.
And just now they were fiery, in
deed.
The look he gave Stuart had mur
der in it, though Charlie showed no
sign of alarm.
Here, in this public place, the
man would never dare assault him.
Besides, Charlie possessed the idea
that he could hold bis own at any
time against the fellow. True, he
was smaller than the captain, but a
life devoted to occasional dissipation
must have sapped some of the aston
ishing powers which a generous na
ture had originally bestowed upon the
worthy man of many faces.
But Capt. Brand restrained himself
—reason had not quite deserted him.
He smiled grimly, and there was
a W'orld of meaning in his sardonic
look.
“Very good, my hearty! You have
chosen to throw down the glove, and
from this hour it's war to the knife
between us. You may live to rue the
day you made an enemy out of one
who held out the olive branch. De
pend upon it, Arline Brand is not for
you. A fond parent must guard the
interests of his sweet child. Go your
way, young sir; and when next me
meet it will be as foes to the death.
I wash my hands of you.”
CHAPTER XIII.
The Fateful Flour.
Charlie looked after the retreating
figure of Capt. Brand, and was in
doubt whether to take him seriously
or consider his threat a huge joke. He
soon resolved to dismiss from his
mind Capt. Brand and all he typified,
and seek repose.
Ffe gained the sanctity of his room,
and, lighting the gas, sat down to
have a last deliberation ere retiring.
All seemed capable of running in a
smooth groove, but “the best laid
schemes of mice and men gang aft
agley,” Bobby Burns tells us, and who
has not found it true in his own ex
perience?
Charlie retired. Whether he slept
soundly or not concerns us little, but
under the circumstances it is hardly
probable that his slumber was very
refreshing.
There was too great a load on his
mind.
He felt very much as a man might
who stands upon the brink of a preci
pice.
Success or failure—his whole fu
ture depended upon one little word—
was balanced in the hollow of a girl's
hand.
Charlie's previous bitter experience
had caused him to feel more or less
caution, with a shade of distrust to
waifc the gentle sex, and against this
he had to fight.
Could he have known w’hat lay be
fore him, under what fearful condi
tions he was fated to win his sweet
heart, even his bold warrior spirit
might have quailed a little.
It is just as well perhaps, that these
things are mercifully hidden from our
view—just as well that we need only
grapple with each difficulty as it ap
pears in view, instead of crossing
bridges before we come to them.
The day dawned.
There was more or less ot a bustle
in the air.
New Yora contains more sons of
Erin than probably any Irish city out
side of Dublin.
And these patriotic oxllaa never
inegleet to fittingly celebrate St. Pat
Tick’s day, no matter what the
weather may lie.
Charlie felt he must have somethin*
to distract his attention. rtemus
was not in sight, the daily paper had
l>ern exhausted, and as a last resort
he sauntered out to watch the crowds.
Never once did he wander far from
the hotel, which tact, later on, he was
inclined to believe was a special dis
pensation of Providence.
The magnet was there that held
him.
He smoked and walked, and so
the time dragged by until the hour of
fate arrived.
Charlie, the better to see and be out
of the anticipated jam, had mounted
a convenient carriage-stone standing
in front of a dwelling house half a
block from the hotel.
Great as was the excitement around
him, it seemed to he doubly Intensi
fied further along the line of march,
especially In front of the hotel.
He saw the procession break at this
point—melt away as it were.
Men ran toward the hotel in squads,
waving their arms wildly.
Was It an opportunity to quench
the thirst that frequently burns Irish
throats on this glorious holiday?
Charlie knew of yore all about
the battle of the Boyne, and how an
orange flag arouses the hatred of a
St. Patrick's day parader even as the
red flag stirs the maddened bull to
frenzy.
Had some bold and incautious soul
dared to invite immolation by thus
flaunting in their faces the color they
despised?
He supposed this must be the case.
To his surprise, however, tho ex
citement spread—the crowd pressed
madly forward, mounted officers came
galloping back, shouting out some
thing that at first he could not catch.
Never to his dying day would Char
lie Stuart forget the intense anxiety
of that moment when he seemed to
feel as though the fate of empires was
at stake—and then he heard distinctly
above the roar the stentorian voice of
a leathern lunged officer:
“Turn out! Tho avenue is Impass
able! The Windsor hotel is on fire!
Turn out!”
Doubtless that stentorian shout
sent a shuddering chill to many a
heart when those who hoard it glanc
ed up at the massive pile and compre
hended the hundreds of precious lives
that were endangered.
To none could it appeal with more
irresistible force than to Charlie
Stuart.
All his hopes and ambitions on earth
were centered there—the girl he
loved with heart and soul was far up
in the doomed structure, perhaps
asleep, under the influence of an
opiate, after a wakeful night with an
aching brow.
At first his blood seemed congeal
ed into ice.
Then it leaped through his veins
like boiling lava, fresh from the
throat of Vesuvius.
Charlie did not waste time in re
flection.
Time was worth more than money
now, worth all the world to him.
He had leaped to the pavement
like a deerhound, and dashed toward
the hotel In great bounds.
Some men would have lost their
wits, but it seemed that the greater
the emergency the keener became his
mind.
Even as he ran and elbowed his
way through the excited crowd with
irresistible force, he was mapping out
a plan of campaign.
Really there seems no limit to the
human mind—its capacity is astonish
ing—it rises to meet the emergency
regardless of what is needed.
Now, even when thus lighting his
way through the crowd, Charlie saw
the hopelessness of attempting to
reach the main entrance on the ave
nue,
The space for half a block was
densely packed with a whooping mass
of humanity, partly imbued with the
eager curiosity that always distin
guishes crowds the world over, and at
the same time a chivalrous desire to
be of use somehow.
If he desired to reach that door
he must perforce walk over the heads
of the packed crowd.
A better plan suggested Itself.
lie remembered a side entrance
which would admit him much more
easily.
Now he was at the corner.
He took one look up and around.
The picture was impressed upon
the tablets of his mempry forever.
No longer were handkerchiefs and
green ribbons waving from the
numerous windows of the hotel— in
stead, panic-stricken girls threw out
their arms appealingly and shrieked
in terror.
The wand of an evil magician had
touched the scene, and transformed it
in a twinkling.
Smoke already oozed from several
openings, proving to Charlie that his
hopes of the fire being trifling were
groundless.
It was most serious.
The holocaust of the Parisian
Charlie Bazar was about to be repeat
ed In New York; and that St. Pat
rick’s day would be marked as the
most grewsome Gotham had ever
known.
Charlie now had a better chance to
push ahead.
Already he feared he had delayed
too long.
There were many people and much
excitement in the side street, but It
was of course not to be compared
with the avenue where the crowds
had gathered to witness the parade.
Straight to the door Charlie
dashed.
A man stoad there endeavoring to
keep out those who had no business
Inside, for it is well known that dar
ing thieves will take advantage of
such occasions to ply their nefarious
trade, even If they do not at times
even create the opportunity
Ten men could not have kept our
Charlie from pushing in.
He shouted that he was a guest,
and then rushed Inside; nor did the
man, after one look at his haggard
face, attempt to say him nay.
Charlie avoided the office, where
men swarmed, and orders were shout
ed that could never be obeyed.
His business was aloft.
She was there exposed to a fright
ful death, and he felt that ho lived
but to save her!
So up ho bounded, three steps at a
time.
One thing ho must remember—the
Windsor was famous as a cavvan
sary where a stranger might easily
lose himself in the many passages.
To do so now would be indeed fatal
to all his hopes.
Ho found smoke everywhere, ana
even fancied he could hear the crack
ling of flames, though the whole place
was in such a turmoil that one could
not be sure of this.
He also met numerous persons, fly
ing this way and that, maddened with
fear.
Some hardly knew' whither they
went, and appealed frantically to this
cool-headed man beseeching him, for
heaven’s sake, to tell them where the
stairs could be found.
Nor did he fall to direct them, every
one, even while he pushed on to the
next flight.
Up, up, he wont, still finding smoke
circling along the halls, through
which women staggered, shrieking
their appalling distress.
It was a terrifying picture.
There were comical elements in
jected into it, of course, but no one
had the heart to laugh.
Charlie knew in his heart a dread
ful calamity was impending—nothing
short of a miracle could save the
great structure now, and the dayg of
miracles appear to be past.
Perhaps scores of human lives
would be sacrificed to the demon of
fire—mostly helpless women, em
ployes or guests, who had been view
ing the parade from the upper win
dows.
The mere fact that such a draught
passed through the halls from thesa
open windows would hasten the total
demolition of the whole structure and
make it more certain.
Had Charlie no sacred duty of his
own to perform, he would have gladly
devoted all of his time toward effect
ing the rescue of these terrified girls.
As it was, he could only think of
Arllne.
Her lovely face was before his eyes
and seemed to plead with him to
make haste.
The smoke was growing even more
dense, and he had to push close to
the doors to distinguish the numbers,
in order to make sure that he was on
the right floor.
At last this knowledge came to
him.
The opportunity was in his grasp.
Here the same conditions seemed to
abound—there was smoke in plenty,
frenzied maids and flying figures
darting through it all like spectres.
Charlie was somewhat out of breath
as a result of his steady climb, but
otherwise in good physical condition.
He had the number of Arline’s
rooms well in his mind—the house
had been crowded, and these wrere the
best at her service, though the clerk
had promised her a suite near the
McKinleys after that day.
What if he could have made a mis
take In any way? The wretched con
sequences almost paralyzed him to
even think of it.
Eagerly he had scanned each flying
or crouching female figure he met, in
the hope that he might thus discover
the one he sought.
But as yet he had not found her.
Even in that smoke-laden atmos
phere he knew ho could not mistake
her figure, wdiile one note from her
voice must have thrilled him through
and through.
(To be continued.)
The Talk of Children.
It has been said that children speak
the best English in the world in
that their idea is expressed in the
fewest words and to the point.
Mr. Andrew Simonds, of Charleston,
is convinced that their powers of
vernacular are superior to his talent
for intelligible description.
He was one day trying to Interest
his little girl, nearly 3 years old. by
telling her stories of the circus. Sha
loved horses and was particularly
impressed by the feats of the bare
back riders.
“Now'," he said, taking a chair by
way of illustration, “this Is a horse.
A man comes in on him and rides him
all round the ring standing up with
out any saddle or bridle. Then di
rectly another horse comes it bare
back (putting another chair by tha
first), and the man rides him, too,
Just in the same way, until at last
there are four horses, and he rides
them all round the ring at the same
time. And a row of four chairs rep
resent the four horses. Now, wasn’t
that fine?”
The little one looked up, very
grave, her eyes full of the doubt and
credulity that so often puzzle us—
‘‘Yes—he had many legs—that
man.”
“And I had to go all over that story
again, said Mr. Simonds.
True Greatness.
True greatness, first of all, Is a
thing of the heart. It is all alive with
robust and generous sympathies. It it
neither behind its age nor too far be
fore it. It ia up with its a&e, and
ahead of it only just so far as to b«
able to lead its march. It cannol
slumber, for activity is a necessity of
its existence. It is no reservoir, but a
fountain.—Roswell D. Hitchcock.
