Image provided by: University of Nebraska-Lincoln Libraries, Lincoln, NE
About The courier. (Lincoln, Neb.) 1894-1903 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 16, 1899)
Ttwopiw ?piw5 - ? THE COURIER. f IM MIHMIIIMIHIM Ml HIM IMMIMMMO IM MMMMIMMMCMt IIMMIMIMIMMMII IMM (Jnl seuen more popping clas till (gFitmas WONDERFUL HOLIDAY SELLING AT THEf The Heavy Business of last week demonstrates that this store is headquarters for Holiday Goods of every description in the shape of Sterling Silver Novelties, Fancy China, Jewelry. Furs, Handkerchiefs Leather Goods, etc. Commencing Wednesday store will remain open evenings. TT 1 y "X hv yteiHng gllccp at ne-Half Jewelry gtore Prices. Sterling- Silver Novelties comprising" Darners, Blotters, Files, Cutecules Letter Openers Erasers, Button Hooks, Curling Irons, Combs, etc. 50c values 25c, 65c values 35c, 75c values 49c, $1.00 values 65c, each ar ticle in separate box. 50c Ebony Toilet Articles as above, genuine ebony with Sterling Silver mounts, special 25c Ebony brush and comb sets, Sterling mounts, special $1.49 Ebony cloth brushes, Sterling mounts 98c to $2.98 Fine Silk Bristle Bonnet Brushes, Sterling silver handle 65c to $1.50 Sample line of Fine French China at 50 per cent less than exclusive Crockery House prices. - KTV SttS' WANHT 1 IPHir FANCY BOXED OHHISTMAS GIFTS READY FOR PRESENTATION. EACH IN FANCY UOX. ?Yf Gent's Muffler 85c, $1.00 fa Gent's Neckwear 50c Gent's hose 3 pair in box 50c, 75c Ladies' Hose, 3 pair in box 50c, 75c, $1.00 FANS, HANDKERCHIEFS, AND GLOVES. IMMENHE VARJETIE8. Fans of all kinds, 25c to $3.00 Handkerchiefs... 2c. to $1,75 f Kid Gloves, special for $1.00, $1.25, $1.50 I Wool Mittens 10c to 50c $ We advise etm early stxojpjpinc; next week xofswitle. MMMMHOMOMMM8aOMOHMMMMMMMMOtOMMMMM0tMtMMM00 O MMIMIMIMMMHMIMMIMMMMMMIIMMMWIIIMIMMMMM for I knew 'twould all come truel For Tom was two years older, and had seen the ocean, tool Then Tom would shake his curly head, and laugh and say to me: " Fll surely take you with me, Judge, when I go off to sea. If s your turn now." And then our tho'ts would new enjoyment find, As the colors of Tom's picture blended slowly into mine. 44 When I grow up an get to be a man," at length Fd say, "I think I'll be a lawyer first, 'cause they get such big pay. Ill try the cruel murderers, an' burgulars, an' thugs, An' men 'at set the stores afire they call 'em firebugs ' An' all of those who promise to be good, I'll set 'em free; But those who won't, 111 send 'em to the penitentiary! But after while I want to change, for I've heard people say That bigger scamps than lawyers ' . never saw the light o'.day So if asked to run for congress, I'll just give my consent, An' if I find I like it, then I'll run for president!" ' Twas just a little while ago, only a day or two, That Tom and I saw the same blue sky, and dreamed what we would do When boyhood days were bygone days of the honors to be won, Of what things we'd see, and what men we'd be when we were twenty-one. How strange it seems! How strange it seems. I look on those forgotten days through blinding mists of tears. The all I've done is spoken a in the sum of numbered years. I have hoped for toil's fruition, but can I be sure of more Than this: I once was eight years, but now I'm thirty-four? And what of curly-headed Tom, and his three-masted ship, His cargoes rich, his travels long, his jolly, world-wide trip? Did he ever make the journey, did he ever come to me And say, Come, Judge, get ready, for I'm going off to sea?" Did he ever sail to Greece, and Spain, and Italy and Rome, And then, his voyage ended, trim his sails and steer for home? My brother sailed a voyage to a shore unknown to him, But the boat was small that bore him, ' And the Captain Strange and Grim. There was no other with them when the two put out to sea; Tom took his ocean voyage, but he sailed it without me! His journey must have ended in another, fairer home, For with anxious heart I've wai'ed, but no messages have come. And just a little while ago, only a day or two, We were boys together, and played as youngsters do. . How strange it seems! R. B. Morgan. The Friend in betters. I have recently been reading the let ters of Keats and of Stevenson. There is no hero in Action of more ro mantic interest than this figure of John Keats, which, invested with extraordi nary personal attractions and set among conditions the most pitiful, tragic and unique, is presented in all its weaknesses, sublimities, extravagancies and un world liness in a volume and a half of notes and epistles. The character of the letters is entirely unstudied. Consequently, every failing no less than every attraction, is com pletely discovered and laid bare. "I cannot write," he says, "under a dis guised feeling." What would more direotly appeal to the sympathy or forbearance of those into whose hands hia writings have fallen? It is like the defenseleesnesslof a foe, the weakness of a child, either of which is its own protection. Among his earlier letters there are paesages of great froshnras and zest. A nervous gayety enters into his recitals and narrations. With whimsical earn estness he sets forth for his sister, Fanny, the story of Endymion, or builds for her entertainment, little air castles of thefuture; yet underneath everything, running through these notes of pleas antry, animation and youthful caprice, vibratea that constant minor motif, be coming finally' more and more dominant, until it ends at last in jangled chords. "Don't you think there is something extremely fine after sunset when there are a few white clouds about and a few stars blinking when the waters are ebbing and the horizon a mystery? This sort of thing has been so fulfilling to me that I am anxious to hear whether it is a faorite with you." So he reveals his temperament. The whole thing is there, together with that requirement for sympathy which was hie to excess. He throws himself upon his friends, exacting their pity, their ap preciation, and exercising over them the tyranny of an extraordinary sensibility which stood defenseless to resist the emotions it could not support. It is not possible in all his writings to discover other than an entire lack of vir ility. Passionate I find him often, en ergetic he is not uncommonly, spirited he sometimes becomes. But to the re gions of stern, imperious power he does not attain. "I feel confident," he writes, "that I should hare been a rebel angel bad the opportunity been mine." Rebellious, it is conceded, but not unyielding. Thus it is that driven by tragic cir cumstances, the figure itself of the poet is not tragic, but pathetic. It must be admitted that in hopeless and miserable extremity, he is less admirable than touching. "And now I am never alone," he cries, ."but I rejoice that there is such a thing as death." Self-comained endurance was no where bis. He better understood ap peals, remonstrances. The experience which must have dignified a greater soul quenched his courage and broke his spirit. We are left with the boobo of something exquisite roughened by fric tion. With Stevenson we come into the sun. These are letters, the offerings rather than the claims of friendship. Steven son was an artist of the emotions. In his letters also we discover the flawless expression of that warmth, that affec tionate kindliness and fearless gayety which were his birthright. His destiny was the more hopeless in that there were intervals of such intoxicating hope; it was the more bitter in that ao much of it was sweet. He took his cup and drank it, bitter and sweet, with incom parable grace, recollecting that, there was for the one, life, and for the other death. So in hia epitaph: "Glad did I live and gladly die,