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1 * %
THE WITCH MAIDEN.
I had never loved.
From my earliest years I had always
evinced a pronounced aversion for the
•‘petticoat interest,” as Kenelm Chilling
ly so facetiously dubs that sneaking re
gard for feminine charms. I took a pride
in my defensive attitude and plumed my
self on every possible occasion with my
Stoical invulnerableness and scornful in
dilierentism toward the blind god of lac
quivers.
And since 1 had just attained to the
eminently sensible age of thirty I fan
cied—aye, felt positive—that I might lie
pronounced "out of danger,” so to speak,
and that 1 need no longer fear the art
fulness of the weaker sex.
The gay and reckless period of youth
—from eighteen to twenty-eight—I ha i
passed quietly and happily, Having ex
perienced none of the "pangs of dispri d
love nor the infinite (?) bliss of an selec
tion returned.”
To insure my safety 1 had not lived
the life of a recluse and refused all con
course with the adorable fair. On the
contrary, I had first made a study of the
sex, and in order to do this effectually
and successfully I must needs mingle
with them, lavishly flatter them, hypo
critically worship at the shrines of
beauty and a meager intelligence, rush
the fashionable tunc;ions, talk society
chitchat until I felt a driveling idiocy
creeping on, and live in such epicurean
style that I finally fell a sore victim to
indigestion.
Venly, this butterfly life is not what
it’s cracked up to he, soliloquized 1—and
so, without further ado or ceremony, I
dropped out of the madding crowd and
sought the level of commonplace.
Ah, these social castes! What hollow
mockeries, what monumental lies!
The eocial wraters glisten with a clean,
sparkling surface; there are beautiful,
clear cut waves that flash a thousand
blinding lights; the white billows roll on
in magnificence of state, and the view to
one standing on the hot, burning sauds
is one of awe and a grandeur unrivaled.
But when ono leaps into those tempt
ing deeps, lured into them perhaps by
the siren voice of some false Lorelei—
what a delusion! Ach, Himmel! It is
all mud and weeds beneath. The cur
rents are cold, and they are the currents
of public opinion and conventionality.
Huge monsters clasp us in the death grip
of their savage tentacles, and these we
call avarice, jealousy, hypocrisy, ambi
tion and vainglory, each with its thou
sands of fiendish allies. Ah, it is a mis
erable specter—this social apparition!
Occasionally one comes upon a coral
cave, rich in its purity and stainless
beauty, and one wonders how such a
marvel can exist in all this ugly filth and
loathsome decay.
All honor be to him who seeks to drain
away the dregs of social sins and brings
a sweet whclesomeness to unhealthful
life! But, ye gods! what a herculean
task, what a chimerical fanaticism, holy
though it he!
Wearied and disgusted with the hor
rible sham, I quit its slimy deeps to lay
myself down upon the sun bathed shores
of simplicity and unworldliness.
Some said I had been disappointed in
love. I, a scoffer at the grand passion,
as the eternal enemy of marriage! But
what cared I for the senseless babble of
the world—1 was no longer of it. I lived
in the quiet of my own thoughts—nature
my only mistress.
At thirty t was a bachelor and—a
cynic, though by no means a misan
thrope. I took life luxuriously and com
placently. College days had come and
gone. 1 had wandered aimlessly about
’neath blue Italian skies, amused myselt
for a time in a German university and
had now, in response to an unconquer
able longing, returned to my native
clime, here to suffer the one calamity of
my otherwise tranquilly happy existence.
Had I but known to what fate my steps
were leading me! Could the impenetrable
veil of the future but have been drawn
aside and the vision of that impending
gloom been for a moment visible! Ah,
what misery spared, what heartache,
what intolerable bitterness!”
By one of those strange, inexplicable
impulses so common to us all, I was
urged to the scene of early youth. Thus
it was that in the beautifully picturesque
and popular summer resort known as
Q-, on the shores of Lake Michigan, I
found myself one glorious day in June—
one of those rare, heavenly days in that
dear month of roses.
The old place had undergone a decid
edly revolutionary metamorphosis since
I had ceased to call it home. The lazy,
dreamy atmosphere of the village had
been quickened into a more vigorous ac
tion. Old landmarks had disappeared
with the influx of wealth. Old customs
had been superseded by new flights of
fashion, and old faces had been crowded
out by the new.
In a mood of morbid retrospection 1
had been winding my way through the
tortuous paths of H- park, musing
upon the had beens and the might have
been’s. A haunt in the city of the dead
had been a favorite one with mo in the
old days, and unconsciously I found my
steps directing me along the familiar
walk. An ideal silent land it is. Som
ber, yet intensely soothing, it seems al
ways to speak a word of good cheer to
the living and bid us fear not the scythe
of the dread reaper.
Wandering over the stupendous hills
and down long ravines, I emerged at last
upon a towering cliff looking out upon
the waters of the great lake. There was
a solemnity, a grandeur unspeakable in
the view. I bowed my head in rever
ence to the creator of such marvelous
beauty. My soul was faint with emo
tion. I sank down upon the earth and
closed my eyes to shut out the dazzling
light. I fell into a half wakeful, half
sleepful dream—a dream of elysium.
How long I lay in this delicious slumber
I know not. Suddenly, impulsively 1
opened my eyes, to behold—oh, ye Fates!
—an angel from heaven. So ehe seemed
to me as I gazed into the lustrous depths
of those unfathomable eyes.
A divinity! A daughter of the gods!
She stood majestically on the edge of the
cliff, her perfect physique distinctly out
lined ligainst the clear sky. She was
clothed in pure white, with a single
bunch of wild violets at her throat. Her
features were startlingly classic; the
neck and shoulder, partly bared, were
like Parian marble, so' spotless in their ■
dazzling whiteness; her hair, unconfined,
fell in shimmering waves below L r
waist—“golden meshes to entrap the
hearts of men;" her eyes, rivaling in
color the violets at her throat, were
brimming with a heavenly light, while
a bewitching smile played about the cor
ners of her perfect mouth.
And 1? Awed, inspired by this glimpse
of an Eve in paradise, I could not move,
until, my divinity turning to go, I bound-1
ed toward hpr. But she was gone—li ma
mist she fled before me. Over’.alls end
hills 1 leaped, bruising my hands with
harsh branches and hazarding my life in
the mad chase. In vain! I had lost her.
When the realization of the fruitlessncss
of my search dawned upon me 1 sat
down exhausted to collect my scatters]
thoughts.
***** *
Good heavens! what had 1 been doing?
I, the hoary cynic, the irrepressible scoff
er of love and its bold intrigues!
Was it not all a wild delirium? it
must be. I had been duped, enslaved,
captivated by a mad, insane dream.
Away with such bosh! I will go and
eat a good dinner.
The is nothing like a well cooked dia
ller to bring one out of the realms of ro
mance into the cruelly :■ o.j 11 ,..o of
realism.
The illusion has not been dispelled.
The same phantom came to me in the
night; the same thrilling eyes looked in
terrogatively into mine; the same* irre
sistible smile challenged my daring, and
I awoke—alone. I felt out of patience
with myself. With the desire to forget
this tantalizing witch maiden I resolved
to throw myself in the crowd of pleasure
seekers at the resort.
But oh, the resistlessness of fate! Pass
ing through the flower stalls, I saw again
the form of my divinity. The eyes looked
worlds into mine and seemed entreating
ly to draw me to her. I followed to
where she stood behind huge bunches of
purple piolets; but, laughingly throwing
me a spray from a knot of flowers in her
hair, she vanished again like a will-o’
the-wisp.
1 passed my hands over my eyes m per
plexity. Surely this was no delusion.
She was flesh and blood like myself. 1
had seen her in a crowd of mortals.
Farewell, cynicism! Welcome, love! 1
am conquered.
And so. day after day l continued the
search for my witch maiden, and day
after day successfully she eluded me.
One night while sitting cm the cool
verandas of the hotel, she glided past me
—spiritlike, radiant with the reflected
light of the stars. I stretched my arms
toward her—she was gone. And yet 1
hoped unceasingly. She had looked
upon me not disdainfully, but ever with
a teasing pleasure in her eyes. 1 would
win her in the end.
Life took on a new phase. It was no
longer the dull, listless, half hearted
thing it used to be, but an eager, am
bitious, consuming fire. There was some
thing to live for—something besides the
mere gratification of my own selfish
desires. I would live fc >r her—for my
beautiful witch maiden. To make her
happy—what a < tod given mission!
New aspirations, new ideals, new hopes
came surging through my being, filling
me with a strange ecstasy—an exquisite
yearning. Happiness! Ah. now I knew
its meaning!
How I laughed at my old time scorn cl'
love, my condemnation of womankind!
I was a fool then—now I am wise.
What a heaven is open tome! Un
worthy that I am, I dare to kneel before
the throne and crave the love of its scep
ter queen—my peerless witch maiden.
*•.
It was the full of the moon. A calm
almost divine had settled upon the star •
kissed tips of the hills, while all nature
slept. Only the fond, caressing murmur
of the waters as they touched the shores
and again receded disturbed the weird
enchantment of the night.
I walked along the beach. My fancy
reveled in pictures of the future. I saw
myself in a sumptuous home, surrounded
by all the elegancies and luxuries of life
—my sweet witch maiden, the guardian
angel over all, the dear companion of my
joyous hours, the sympathizer of every ■
thought, my solace in all earthly trials.
* if * «- j
A sudden splash in the water and a
cry of distress. 1 look up; I see—a
nymph bathing in the moonlight. She
has dared too far into the deep; she is
struggling to keep her head above tho
waves. It needs hut a glance to reveal
her to me. It is the witch maiden. I
make one desperate plunge; she is in my
arms—my own, my beautiful Undine; I
clasp her to me with fierce ardor. The
long golden masses of hair, dripping and
sparkling with the spray of the lake, coil
about my neck.
But her arms liaug limp; her face is
pale and expressionless. 1 lay her ten
derly upon the beach, chaff her cold
hands and rain passionate kisses upon
the velvet lids that cover her purple eyes.
I implore her to speak. Breathlessly I
wait the return of consciousness. Slowly
the wondrous orbs open and look be
wilderingly upon me. She rises—again
she is close in my embrace—my heart is
pom nut its burden of love.
In .. .rrotlike voice she exclaims, with
a furious scratch at my eyes: “Great
guns! Hain’t you never got no mercy on
nobody?”
«- * * * * ,
I walk slowly back to the hotel. I am
shivering with the cold and the shock of
—ach Gott! I get to my room, mechan
ically change my clothes, pack my lug
gage and walk down stairs to pay my
bill. As the clerk hands me a receipt
she walks through the room, glancing
back at me over her shoulder with the
same mischievous laugh in her eyes.
I have just enough energy, just enough
curiosity to gasp, “Who is she?”
Unfeelingly, unsuspiciously, comes the
dread answer, “Our dishwasher.”
Farewell, level Welcome, cynicism! j
—Ethel Soper in Detroit News.
MURFREE’S HEROISM.
“There is not a particle of heroism
about you, Ulysses," said Mrs. f.i . . rot
as she brushed out her back hair in (rent
of the dresser glass preparatory to r ir
ing for the night. "Not a pa. tide,” .- lit
emphatically repeated. “What on < a. !i
your mother was thinking about when
she named you I can’t imagine. I am
sure that I never saw a man more un
like liis namesake. 1 have known you t<
be positively cowardly at times.”
Ur. Murfree looked up in a weary
way from the corner where he sat. “I'm
sure, my dear." he began.
“No, you’re not,” snapped his bottei
half, giving the pincushion a whack
with the hairbrush to emphasize lie:
words; “you are not sure; you are neve:
sure of anything—you only think. Bah
I hate a man who ‘only thinks.’ ” And slit
jerked the tangles out of a refractory
auburn lock with additional force.
“When Mrs. Jenks was telling tonight
about that paragon of a husband of here
I was simply consumed with envy. It
shows how much to believe in names.
Look at you two men; look. I say!"
“Yes, my dear,” responded Mr. Mur
free. pulling off his b<K>ts in a resigned
way, “I’m looking.”
“Bah!"retorted his wife, “I mean you:
names—Ulysses Murfree, Peter Jenks—
just t hink of t he difference, and yet Pe
ter jenks knocked a burglar down stairs
this week with one fist: one, 1 assure
you; and you—you arc afraid to go call
ing on the Simsongibbers after dark be
cause they keep a dog.”
"Well, my dear," feebly expostulated
Mr. Murfree, "it is a very large dog and
1”
Here Mrs. Murfree suddenly turned
around, and through lips containing sun
dry hairpins, combs and such trifling ax
tieles hissed, “Don't talk to me!” in
such an impressive and disgusted man
ner that Mr. Murfree subsided at once
and proceeded to finish pulling off his
socks.
He was not disturbed again until the
moment came for retiring, when, con
trary to their usual custom, Mrs. Mur
free turned the gas entirely out, leaving
the room in darkness, save where a streak
of moonlight fell through the window,
open for ventilation.
Now, if there was anything that Mr.
Murfree hated it was to have the bed
room gas turned off at night, but know
ing the defiant state of mind which
prompted his wife to extinguish it, and
fearing to provoke another outburst he
climbed sadly into bed, and lay cogitat
ing a plan whereby he should be able to
shoot a burglar in the dark should one
chance to visit his abode that night.
“I don't see how I could do it." he
sighed, turning uneasily.
"Are you ever going to lie still and let
a person sleep?” snapped the partner of
his joys and sorrows as she flounced
over, dragging half of the comfortable
with her. and thereby causing small
chills to chase one am ither down her hus
band’s vert ebra?.
Mr. Murfree laid still.
He held his breath, figuratively, until
the deep; not to say sonorous, breathing
of Ills amiable companion told that peace
and quietude had folded their downy
wings upon the bosom of Mrs. Murfree.
Tlieh he sighed again.
“I do hope no one will come tonight,”
lie? murmured sleepily. “Dear me—if—
1”— And here his thoughts floated
vaguely off and lie realized no more.
Quiet fi ll on the room for a time,
broken only by the musical sounds from
the alcove, where slept the pair, and an
occasional snap as the willow rocker,
objecting to the strain of the day, tried
to contract to its former shape.
Just as the city clock was striking 1 i
Mr. Murfree awoke with it start and
looked in a dazed way up into the dark- i
ness.
\V hat s tne matter with me? lie mut
tered, a sensation of uneasiness creeping
over him. “I think—ha! What's that';"
And, broad awake now, with the cold
perspiration starting from every pore, lie
became conscious of a faint rustle in the
room, the cause of which the heavy por
tieres draping the alcove prevented him !
ascertaining.
Cautiously he reached under the mat
tress for his revolver, and to his horror 1
found that, after cleaning it on tlie pre
vious day, he had carelessly forgotten to
replace it in its wonted spot.
“Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” he chattered to
himself, trying to keep cool. “No re
volver, no nothing, and a burglar, sure us
fate. Samantha was right; 1 am a cow
ard. What on earth shall I do? If 1
wake Samantha I will never hear the last
of it; she will nag worse than ever; be
side.'. she is sure to yell, and then we will
all bo murdered.” And the jxior man
shook so that the springs creaked and
sent him into a fresh fit of trembling.
Rustle, rustle, it came again, and then
a soft thump and a clink.
“He’s got my pants,” ejaculated Mr.
Murfree to himself as he cautiously sat
up in bed and tried to calm himself.
Thump.
“1 can’t stand this any longer,” said
Mr. Murfree in a whisper, beginning to
get huffy. “I’m a fool. No wonder
Samantha said so. 1 will certainly find
out what is outside of those curtains,
and this time Samantha shan’t have a
chance to brag over me. Perhaps I shall
be able to do something for once.”
Keeping well away from the separa
tion between the portieres he carefully
let one foot out of bed.
As it touched the floor the rustle
sounded again, and so near that Mr. j
Murfree ir irly lost his balance with
fright, and found himself on his feet the j
next moment shaking with alarm lest
he had provoked the marauder's atten- j
tion to the alcove or awakened the sleep- j
ing Samantha.
But, no; all was quiet, and as soon as :
he plucked np a sufficient amount of
courage he peered cautiously through
the curtains.
With difficulty he repressed an excla
mation of horror.
The moon's rays fell across the dresser,
bringing out each article on it with a
weird distinctness, and just in the
shadow before the cbeval glass was the
stooping figure of a man.
Ho was evidently searching the upper
drawer, and Mr. Murfree gasped for joy
as he distinguished on the top of the cab
inet to the right of the glass the missing
revolver.
"If 1 can only reach him.” said Mr,
Murfree to himself, "jump on him as he
is bending over, and secure the revolver
before he recovers himself—it’s u good
plan and the only one. I’m getting kind
of riled; I don’t believe I’m such a cow
ard after all.”
With a mighty effort he braced him- (
self and advanced cautiously, keeping
his eyes on the bent figure.
In the uncertain light the man looked
unnaturally large and heavy, and seemed
each second to be on the point of rising.
Indeed, as Mr. Murfree reached the cen
ter table he thought all was over, and
shrank down behind it despairingly.
But fortune was kind; the burglar still
searched busily, and Mr. Murfree, gath
ering himself for a grand effort and
nerved to tl«9 point of desperation, made
a flying leap, and lauding with terrific
n,.ve upon the burglar’s shoulder!
gabbed the revolver, yelling. ‘‘Police!
tuieves! oh”
Over lie went, bumpety bump, and as
he found himself prostrate on the floor,
with a chair and something soft and thick
over him, he finished his exclamation
with “-it!”
“Oh, Ulysses! Ulysses!” screamed Mrs.
Murfree, tangling herself up in the bed
clothes in her efforts to rise. “Help!
Where are you?”
Mr. Murfree was on his feet in a flash,
holuing in his arms the harmless cause
of his fright and disturbance, Mrs. Mur
free's fur cape, which she had hung over
the chair back, in front of the dresser,
and which, with its high shoulders and
collar, had looked in the dim light, like a
stooping figure.
Men think quickly sometimes, and Mr.
Murfree realized the situation with re
markable speed, and being on his met
tle determined not to be made a fool of.
Knocking Mrs. Murfree’s jewel case
from the dresser as he fled he rushed out
of the room pellmell, stepping on the
cat, the author of the mysterious noises
that had first awakened him.
With a savage kick he sent her ahead
of him, as he flew down the front stairs.
and banged the front door ojx;n and shut.
Then he panted breathlessly up again,
sinking on the top stair, sore, bruised
and mad, just as his wife succeeded in
lighting the gas.
“Burglar,” lie gasped.
“Where, oh, where?” the screamed ex
citedly, half helping, half dragging him
into the room.
“Gone,” he managed to say; “knocked
him over—got away—front door—see
there?” pointing to the jewelry strewn
around the floor.
Mrs. Murfree gave one look, and then,
with that faithful sense of obligation to
the tradition of her sex which the aver
age woman seems to possess in an emer
gency, she proceeded to faint away.
Mr. Murfree dumped her into a chair.
He was too weak to hold her, and besides
he felt a fiendish exultation in glorying
in his superior strength of mind, so when
slic recovered he was picking up the
cleverly scattered trinkets with as bored
an air as lie could assume.
“Wliat tire you scared of?” he said
scornfully. “Man's gone; I'm here; 1
rather think 1 have protected you even
if 1 am a coward. Perhaps you will
kindly leave the light burning after this
so that I shall not l>o obliged to struggle
for rny life in the dark,” and ho wiped
from his forehead a few drops of blood
trickling from a scratch he received in
his encounter with the large pin on his
cape burglar, making liis face as gory as
possible with the small amount of mate
rjai.
Veritably the tables were turned.
Mrs. Murfree looked at him a moment
in a hysterical way, and then falling on
his neck alternately implored forgive
ness and wept over her former severity,
calling him her hero and all Ihe de
lightful names which Mr. Mur free's soul
was thirsting for.
“I'll never say such mean things
again,” she sobbed, “never, never."
“There, there,” said her spouse,
straightening up and putting on a pa
tronizing air to conceal the nervous
shaking of his muscles—scarce over their
recent shock. “You sit down and I will
search the house, so that we can feel
easy during the remainder of the night.”
So that while Mrs. Murfree hid behind
the bed curtains for fear of another visit
or, her Ulysses went out into the hall
and stayed five minutes in a dark corner,
returning with a serious air and the as
surance that all was well.
Locking their door, the couple ouce
more sought repose, but both were too
excited for sleep.
“Won’t I just gloat over Mrs. Jenks,”
exclaimed Mrs. Murfree as she convul
sively patted the pillow info a more ac
commodating shape. “Oil, Ulysses. I'll
tell every woman in the block.”
Just then the ludicrous side of the
thing struck Mr. Murfree, and he stuffed
the comer of the sheet in his mouth and
shook convulsively.
“What's the matter, dear?” cried his
wife. “What's the matter, Uly?”
As soon as he could sjieak ho mut
tered, “Only a chill—don’t bother about
it—guess I took cold.”
“Shan't I get you something hot?”
asked his spouse anxiously.
“Nonsense," he replied, controlling
himself with difficulty; “just go to
sleep. I'm tired.”
“All right, dear.” responded she; “1
do hope yon won't be sick. It’s very
funny, Ulysses, that the policeman on
onr beat didn't hear anything or come
running up to the house when that
dreadful man made such a noise at the
door. Dear me, if I didn’t know you *
had a chill I should think you were
laughing.”
And Mr. Murfree was.—Carolyn Wade
in Buffalo News.
An Industrious Woman.
Mr. Honeymoon—Did yon sew that
button on that coat, darling?
Mrs. Honeymoon—No, sweetheart; 1
wouldn’t find the button, but I sewed up
the buttonhole. Is that all right?—Texa*
■liftings.
