10
THE COUKJER
BITS OF LIFE'S MOSAIC.
(Written for Tbk Cockier.)
LIFE is a strange thing. We map out for ourselves a path
strewn with flowers. We see a rosy future and with light.
' hearts we go gaily along. But some day a great high un
looked for barrier rears its walls across our path. It is as forbidding
as death. The rosy path we had hoped to tread has come to an
end. On either side. we see a thorny path. Darkness and anguish
are in the place of the flowers and light. We cannot return; life is
ever going ahead. The only way we can do is to push our way
through the thorns. Our hands may be lacerated, our brows marked
by lines deep chisled by the hand of care, but on wo must go.
And now we are apt to to weave a sable pall for the whole world.
We think that because we are in sorrow that all the world is. But
it is not so. There is sunshine and happiness everywhere. Our
little Borrows are nothing, but to ourselves. The blackness that has
entered our lives is but a tiny fleck in the great sable gown that
thiB world's sorrow wears. We are selfish. This world has witnessed
sorrows that reached sb high as heaven and as low as hell. What
are our petty little trials, our little heart aches? They are simply
nothing. Even if the shades of night settle down and we see no fay
of light at all, and even if the brown earth is heaped above our dead
bodies it is nothing. It is simply one more life gone; that is ail.
What if we must part from those we love better than life itself?
It teems as though our hearts were being torn asunder. We look
perhaps for the last time into the eyes that seem to devour ours
with the passion of love, we press our feverish lips to lips that seem
to cling to our own with a love that will never let go, and with a
wild pressure of the hand and a voice choked with tears we say
"good bye."
The days go by. We meet new friends. We love new faces. We
are wrapped up in new scenes and new occupations. The old friends
are forgotten. Sometimes we think of them as we look into the
blue of the violet or the purple of a pansy, for there wo seem to 6ee
the eyes of the long lo6t friend. Sometimes in the night the old
friends throng about our beds and we live the old scenes over again.
But the morning comes all too soon. The sweet vision fades, the
cares of the day come in and the dreamB of the night are gone and
are no more to us than the sighing of the wind.
Change is going on everywhere. So today if you stand by the
grave of your loved ones, or see for the last time a dear friend going
out into the wide world, break not your heart. There may be a
place beyond the tomb where you may meet again, but if there is
not it is no matter.
As widening circles in placid waters grow
And in their outward ripplinga meet and touch
So have the circles of our lives, in such
An outward rippling seemed to meet and flow.
And as circles when they once havo met
Seem more and more to grow as one, so pray
The circles of our lives may day and day
More closely merge 'till life's last sun is set.
Asd when our little circles break at last
Against the shining sands on heaven's beach
May our friendship bound by no small reach
In one eternal circle then be cast.
We were friends once. We had each other's confidences. We
were in touch and sympathy. But we parted. The circles of our
lives ceased to intersect. We became wrapped up in our own little
worlds and forgot each other.
For memory sometimes brings us together once more with a line
of verse, or the perfume of a flower, or a strain of an old song. The
friendship that we thought eternal was but a fading flower that
withered. The changing scenes of life shifted us hither and thither.
New friends came and took the place of the old, and so the world
goes on. Sometimes we grow hungry for the touch of the dear old
hands and a look into the dear old eyes. But this is always at
night, and night is a homesick time anyway. The morning comes,
the sun shines, and the world pours its flood of light in upon us and
we forget, forget.
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Good-bye the sun has set
Beyond the sea,
The darkness and gloom of night
Environ me.
Good-bye the grass is wet
With falling dew.
And too my eyes are wet
Recalling you.
Good-bye the wind blows cold -
Across the lea,
And my leaden heart is chilled
And dead in me.
Good-bye the decrees of fate
Are stern and sure. : -
We may weep and wail and curse '-
But must endure.
Good -bye the sun has set
Beyond the sea,
The darkness and gloom of night
Environ me.
William Reed Ddnkoy,
a;
IT DIDN'T PAY.
Ward McAllister's Book Was a Financial Disappointment.
Edward W. Bok: I was talking the other day with a New York
man who was very close in his friendship with Ward McAllister, and
he told me of the keen sense of disappointment which the famous
social leader always felt at the failure of his book, "Society as I
Have Found It." McAllisterhao great faith in his book, and firmly
believed, as he often expressed while the book was being made, that
it would have an enormous sale. To this friend with whom I was
talking he once said that he believed that the book would net him
$50,000. The actual facts of the case are that he did not make
$5,000 out of it. As such books go. it was a success, but it was not
the success that Ward McAllister believed it wouM be. He was not
a vain man, but he had a supreme bel ief that the American people ,
were simply waiting for his book, and that they would buy it by the
thousands immediately upon publication. But they didn't even
buy it by the hundreds, and Mr. McAllister never could satisfactor
ily explain its failure to himself. The edition de luxe, of which
there was printed the magical number of 400 copies, was a success.
It sold very quickly at 810, and the last fifty copies were sold at a
higher price. These books were bought by ths fashionable set, but
when it came to the great public buying the regular edition the sale
could not be found to the extent hoped for. I have often wondered
just how much of the book was really written by McAllister. Dur
ing the latter years of his life the pen becama a familiar object to
his fingers, but when his book was published he had written very
little. His individuality is unquestionably in the book, but that
could easily be retained by some clever writer who knew the man.
I have always felt that Mies Jeanette Gilder could tell more about
the writing of Ward McAllister's book than any one, if she chose.
McKEE RANKIN AFTER E. K. 6R1LEY.
E. K. Criley, formerly of Lincoln, who was in town a few days ago
negotiating for a lease of the Lincoln hotel, accused McKee Rankin,
the actor, of fraud, antPthat gentleman is most decidedly after Mr.
Criley. In a recent interview in Kansas City the actor said: "lam'
getting ready to go to TopcKa on Monday to play a week's engage
ment. We will not go far from this town, however. I am deter
mined to stay here and push this suit against Criley, the manager
of the Centropolis hotel. That man has doDo me a great wrong.
If I live until the 14th of this month I will have been on the stage
thirty-four years. I have made and lost fortunes. I have played
all over this country and abroad, but Manager Criley gave me a new
experience when he accused me of fraud. On account of this accusa
tion all my engagements have been cancelled, bo now I shall put in
the time until my case comes up in court playing in the towns
around here. We will stay a week in Topeka and from there go to
St. Joseph. In a way I am glad of the delay as it will afford me an
opportunity to put in more time on a new play I am going to write.
Should my suit be continued or appealed I may stay here until
fall."
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