THE COURIER.
fuuior Xeni-
The warm gleam of an April bud ahoce
bright from a vivid blue sky. Now and
then, little, white, fleecy clouds floated
over the sun and net a shadow for a
moment. a
John Upham was plowing a ten acre
field with two old mules and his neigh
bor's plow. One cf the mules was a
dirty white and held his ears down over
bis eyes. The freeh smelling earth clung
to John's heavy boots ae he stumbled
along the rough ground after the plow,
and the warm sun shone on his back.
He stopped at the end of the furrow,
and, straightening himself, took off his
big straw hat and drew his shirt sleeves
across bis forehead and brushed back
his damp gray hair. His faded blue coat
was torn at the neck and hung down on
one side. He leaned against the plow
handle and looked about him, breathing
the fresh air in deeply. Far away on
each hand stretched rich pastures and
patches of dark earth made ready for
planting. Directly below was a more
advanced line of hanging woods divided
by fields of furrowed crops. Beyond
this was the valley where the woods
grew thicker as if they had rolled down
and hurried together from the patches
left smooth on the elope. Through the
valley. John could see the brook running,
full almost to over-flowing with late
rains, and overhung by low stooping
willows before it reached the woods.
John looked uneasily at two small boys
who trudged across the field to the
woods with fishing rods over their
shoulders. Then he turned around and
looked up at the house, a quarter of a
mile away. The door was open and he
could Bee his wife etanding on the back
porch with a broom in her hand. He
knew that she was cleaning house that
day, and bad his sister Belinda Ann
there to help her. From where he was
he could see the red and white checked
apron she wore and the buff neckerchief
over her broad chest. He could not see
but he knew perfectly well just how
firmly her thin lips were set and how
very smooth her gray hair was brushed
back into a tight little knot behind, and
the two deep lines between her eye
brows which were always so plain when
she was working bard. He wondered
longingly to himself if the two boys
who had just passed would catch many
fish. He wouldn't mind a little fishing
himself. When he was a boy he had
had the best luck of anyone in the vil
lege. He believed he'd like to try bis
hand at it again some day. Today, for
instance, was a perfect day for fishing.
It would be clouded over beautifully by
afternoon and would rain tomorrow.
Yes, and the field not seeded; not even
half plowed. He cast a scared took
toward the house and started his mules
forward quickly. Back and forth he
went across the field with the Bun on his
back and then on his face and
the damp earth clogging his boots.
He gave a wistful thought to the brooks
running through the young shadows of
the spring woods, and to the Btill trout
pools and glanced timidly at the sun
which was covered more and more by
the thickly collecting clouds. Through
the pale green of the willows, he could
see the silver gleam of the water and he
turned his mule's heads toward the barn.
"I'll water 'em," he said softly. "They
need waterin," and he unhitched them
from the plow. As he went he saw
Abel Jones in a field away to the right,
busily planting grain. John turned his
head resolutely away and went on to
the red barn.
He tied the mules securely intheBhed
by Borne hay, and unhooked from its
cobwebby corner in the hay-loft, an old,
much worn, fishing pole. He examined
it anxiously and then, carrying it
straight in front of him, walked rigidly
back to the field. Once he glanced fur
tively back toward the house but saw
no one and went on a little faster, even
breaking into a short run. As he passed
over the freshly-plowed earth, he gather
ed long fishing worms and put them into
an old tobacco pouch which he found in
his pocket He leaped forces like a boy
and hurried over the rough ploughed
fields and pastures, on to the woods.
He knew exactly where to go and he
thought to himself that it was very un
likely that any of the boys in the neigh
borhood had ever come across the place
be knew of.
Inside the wood everything was quiet
and full of Spring. Many little grass
flowers, violets and lilies were in bloom
and the lichens clung thick to the tree
trunks.
John Upham flung himself on the
mossy bank between two great gnarled
oaks and dropped his line quietly out
into the dark pool in front of him. He
Bat up very straight, watching it for a
moment. Then he fastened the handle
securely to a low limb and clasping his
hands beneath his head, he lay at full
length on the bank with the fitful gleam
of punlight falling through the leaves;
he pulled his jjreat hat over bis fore
head, and drowsily watched the quick
darting water-flies and the slowly mov
ing bait with half-closed eyes.
"I'm glad John's takin' hold bo and
gettin' his plowin' done so good and
early this spring,' Mrs. Upham said to
Belinda Ann. "Joneses and Prsscotts
ain't more'n got their's done and I just
made Johu pitch right in. He's workin'
real hard at it. He's behind the ridge
now, J guess for I ain't seen him fur an
hour. Might be such a thing that be
got it half planted this afternoon though
I wouldn't be surprised if it rained
before night, "and she scrubbed vigorous
ly at the kitchen floor.
Harriot Cooke.
THE FATHERLAND.
Where is the true man's fatherland?
Is it where he by chance is born ?
Doth not the yearning spirit scorn
In such scant borders to be spanned?
Oh, yes ! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free I
Is it alone where freedom is,
Where God is God ad man is nun ?
Doth he not claim a brother span
For the soul's love of home than this?
O, yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free !
Where'er a human heart doth wear
Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves,
Where'er a human spirit strives
After a life more true and fair,
There is the true man's birth-place grand,
His is a world-wide fatherland.
Where'er a single slave doth pine,
Wher'er one man may help another
Thank God for such a birthright,
brother
That spot of earth is thine and mine I
There is the true man's birth-place grand,
His is a world wide fatherland.
LowelL
'Oh, its all very well for you girls to
talk,' said Archie. "We fellows are the
ones who will have to suffer in war. You
won't run any risks."
"Oh, won't we," said Polly. -How
about when we go in bathing next sum
mer with the harbors full of torpedoes
and mines? What do you suppose would
happen if we stepped on one?" Harper's
Bazar.
Republican How long do you think
that this war will last?
Leader Well, about half a century, I
suppose.
Republican Fifty years! Why, that's
absurd!
Leader 0,1 don't know! The civil
war lasted us for thirty-seven years,
didn't it?
k1
The secret of success in nearly everything' lies in the
material and workmanship. Fine marble, chiseled by a
poor sculptor would be a failure, poor material used bya
fine workman would not live. It is the excellent material
wjich goes into the SHAW PIANO which makes it so
durable. It is the fine and most scientific workmanship
that gives it its rich, refined appearance, most beautiful
tone and responsive touch. No apprentice can get a posi
tion in the Shaw Piano Co.'s factor'.
lAfKTViS ?&H0 CO.
Western Representatives, 130 So 13th st.
PAR5PA ROSA.
Many years ago a poor widowed wom
an, leading a hard life of unending labor,
was called on to part with the one thing
dear to her her only child. Mother
and daughter had toiled together for
fifteen years, and the only bit of sun
shine falling into their oark lives was
that shed by their loving companionship.
But the girl had always been weakly.
Under the heart-broken mother's eyes
she faded and wasted awa with con
sumption, and at last the day came
when the wan face failed to answer with
a smile the anxious, tear-blinded eyes of
the mother. The poor young creature
whb dead.
For many months the pair had been
supported by the elderly woman's sew
ing, and it was in the character of em
ployer I had become acquainted with
Mrs. C. and her story. By an occasional
visit to the awful heights of an Eaet
Side tenement, where they lived, by a
few books and some comforting words I
had won the love of the dying girl. Her
grateful thoughts turned ia her last
hours to the small number of friends
she possessed, and she besought her
mother to notify me of the day of the
funeral and ask me to attend.
That summons reached me upon one
of the wildest days proceeding Christ
mas. A sleet that was not rain, and a
rain that was not a snow, came pelting
from all points of the compass. I piled
the glowing grates; I drew closer the
curtains and shut out the gloom of the
December afternoon; I turned on the
gas and sat down, devoutly thankful
that I had cut all connection with the
wicked weather, when an instalment of
it burst in upon me in the Bhape of
Parepa Ro3a. She was Euphrosyne
Parepa at that time, and the operatic
idol of the city.
And even as we congratulated our
selves on the prospect of a delightful
day together, here came the summons
for me to go to the humble funeral of
the poor sewing woman's daughter. I
turned the little tear blotted note over
and groaned.
"This is terrible," said I. "It's just
the one errand that could take me out
today, but I must go."
And then I told Parepa the circum
stances; and speculated on the length of
time I should be gone, and suggested
means of amusement in my absence.
"But I shall go with you," said the
great-hearted creature.
WHAT II TAKES 10
MAKE A N PIANO
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So she re wound her throat with the
long white comforter, pulled on her
worsted gloves, and off in the storm we
went together. We climbed flight after
flight of narrow, dark stairs to the top
floor, where the widow dwelt in a miser
able little room not more than a dozen
feet square. The canvas-back hearse,
peculiar to the twenty five dollar funeral,
stood in the street below, and the awful
cherry stained box, with its ruflle of
glazed white muslin, stood on uncovered
trestles in the centre of the room above.
There was a mother, speechless in her
grief, beside that box, a group of hard
working, kindly-hearted neighbors sit
ting about. It was useless to Bay the
poor woman was prepared for the in
evitable end; it was cold comfort to
speak to her of the daughter's release
from pain and suffering. The bereft
creature, in utter loneliness, was think
ing of herself and the awful future, of
the approaching moment when that box
and its precious burden would be taken
away and leave her wholly alone. So,
therefore, with a sympathizing grasp of
the poor, worn, bony hand, we sat silently
down to ''attend the funeral.'
Then the minister came in a dry
man, with nothing of the tenderness of
his holy calling. Icier than the day,
colder than the storm, he rattled through
some selected sentences from the Bible,
and offered a sat form of condolence to
the broken-hearted mother. Then he
hurriedly departed, while a hush fell on
everybody gathered in the little room.
Not one word had been uttered of con
solation, of solemn import, or befittinsr
the occasion. It was the emptiest, hol
Iowest, most unsatisfactory moment I
ever remember. Then Parepa arose,
her cloak falling about her noble figure
like mourning drapery. She stood be
side that miserable cherry-stained box.
She looked a momeut on the wasted,
ashy face, upturned toward her from
within it. She laid her soft, white hand
on the forehead of the dead girl, and
lifted up her matchless voice in the
beautiful melody
"Angels ever bright and fair,
Take, oh take her to thy care."
The noble voice swelled toward heaven,
and if ever tbe choirs of paradise paused
to listen to earth's music, it was when
Parepa sang so gloriously beside that
poor dead girl. No words can describe
its effects on those gathered there. The
sad mourner sank on her knees, and
with clasped hands and streaming eyes
the little band stood reverently about
her.
No queen ever went to her grave ac
companied by a grander ceremony. To
this day Parepa's glorious tribute of
song rings with solemn melody in my
memory as the most impressive service
I ever heard.
