8
THE COURIER.
v
Died Of tuberculous, in Englewood,.
New Jersey, on Friday morning, July,
the twentieth, 1900, Mr. Frank E.
Hyatt, aged twenty-one yean. He was
born and reared in Lincoln. He was
graduatedirom the Hick school in 1897.
In partnership with his brother he
established and conducted with great
success a confectionery store, which
burned down. He was a bright, friend
ly, industrious lad. His mother is Mrs.
Mary E. Hyatt, who has made many
friends during her years of struggle and
self-denial in Lincoln.
THE POPE IS DEAD.
Get a cheap Electric Fan at Kors
meyer's, and keep cool.
Garden Hose and Lawn Sprinklers,
the best in the city, at Korsmeyer's.
The Real Value of Musk-Teachmg in
the Schook.
If music is to be included in the early
training of boys and girls, the manner
in which it is to be done should be'quite
as scientific as the methods which may
be used in inculcating other "first no
tions" of the humanities. It would not
be fair to declare that 'nothing comes of
the time given to music as matters are
now. Still the gain is not so definite
in any direction that can be detected
but that it must occur to one that much
popular music tuition is aimless, and ex
ercised in vacuo. It the studies which
come under the head of English are far
from being everywhere administered in
the spirit which benefits them, and in
the effort to 'introduce some right, in
cipient ideas about the visual arts in
the public schools blunders are made,
that artists and men interested in liter
ary pursuits talk of and write about
these things gives hope of their improve
ment It cannot be so in music while
the best talents among musicians take
so little interest in the theoretical con
sideration of the educational influences
their art.
And, in the schools, the only serious
question which can come up regarding
ing music is that of the general effect
it may have on the rormation of char
acter. Musical rudiments are imparted
incidentally, which may be the first step
in the future development of the art as
an accomplishment or a profession.
These, however, must of necesuty be
too insufficient to count. It k what
boys and girls get into their souls by
music that counts. Germany isr of
modern countries, that in which this is
beet understood. There music is han
dled Ma farm of spiritual gymnastics.
And there the whole topic receives the
order ot attention which it deserves.
From "The Point of View," in the Fic
tion Number of Scribner's.
To dues of ten taking The Courier the
sacristioB price is seventy five
(75cesto). Regular lufacription price
aViikf per year
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Please compare address. If incorrect,
please send right address to Courier
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The Rock Island playing cards are
the slickest you ever handled. One
pack will be sent by mail on receipt ot
15 cents in stamps. A money order or
draft for 50 cents or same in stamps will
secure 4 packs. They will be sent by
express, charges prepaid. Address,
JOHW SXBASTUir, G. P. A.,
Chicago, Rock Island k Pacific R'y,
..... Chicago.
(Translated from the French of Alphonse
Daudet, by Katharine Mellck.)
The COURIER.
AsstaarOaeDelar
fawa'i dub Hagazfac
ISI1
I passed my childhood in a large pro
vincial town, cut in two by a river, very
much obstructed, very turbulent, where
I, early acquired the taste for travel and
the passion for life on the water. There
was, in particular, a-corner of the quay
near a certain foot-bridge, St. Vincent,
of which I never think, even today,
without emotion. 1 see again the sign
nailed to the end of a yard, "Cornet
Boats to Let;" the little stair that went
down into the water, all glistening and
blackened with wetting, the flotilla of
little boats, freshly painted in light col
ors, in a line at the foot ot the stair,
balancing lightly side by side, as alleged
by the pretty names they bore in white
letters on the stern, "The Humming
Bird" and "The Swallow."
Then, among the long sculls, shining
with white lead, in train to dry on the'
slope. Father Cornet, going with his
paint bucket, his great brushes, his
face tanned, wrinkled, rippled with a
thousand little dimples, like the river on
a fresh, windy evening. Oh, Father
Cornet! He was the temper of my child
hood, my unhappy passion, my trespass,
my remorse. What crimes he made me
commit with his boats! I missed Bchool,
I sold my books. What would I not
have sold for an afternoon of boating.
'AH my class Looks at the bottom of
the boat, my jacket thrown off, my cap
pushed back, and in my hair the fresh
fanning of the river breeze, I drew
firmly on my oars, wrinkling my eye
brows to give me the air of an old sea
wolf. So long as I was in the town, I
kept to the middle of the river, at equal
distance from the two shores where the
old sea-wolf might be recognized.
What triumph to mingle with that
mighty movement of barks, rafts, trains
of woods, light steamboats, which, coast
ing by, passed, separated only by a thin
thread of foam! Then there were heavy
boats that turned to take the current,
displacing a throng of others.
All at once, the wheels of a steamboat
struck the water, close to me; or rather,
a great shadow came over me. It was
the bow of a boat laden with apples.
"Have a care there, sonny," said a
coarse voice, and I perspired, I strug
gled, caught in the ebb and flow of that
waterway where the highways, crossing
incessantly at all those bridges and foot
ways, throw reflections ot the omnibus
under the stroke of the oar. And the
current, so strong under the arches and
the eddies, the whirlpools, and the fa
mous gulf of "Death in Disguise!"
Think whether it is a small .affair to
guide one's self there with an arm of a
dozen years, and no one to hold the
tiller.
Sometimes I had the good fortune to
encounter a tug. At once I locked with
the end of the long lines of boats it
towed, and, with oars motionless, held
out like hovering wings, abandoned my
self to that silent swiftness that cuts
the river in long ribbons of foam and
made the trees and houses of the quay
spin by on each side. Before me, far,
very far, I heard the monotonous beat
ing of the helix, a dog barking on one
of the boats of the tow, where, from a
long chimney, a little thread of smoke
arose; and all this gave me the illusion
of a great voyage of the true life of the
strand.
Unhappily, those encounters with the
tug were rare. More often 1 must row
and row for hours under the sun. Oh,
those full noons falling straight on the
river! It seems to me they burn me
yet Evesjfthing flaming, everything
flashing, dn that atmosphere, blinding
and resounding, that hung over the
craves and ' -vibrated to ' all their move
ments, the short strokes of my oars, the
cords of trackers raised, all streaming,
from the water, made flashes of light
HIIIMHMHKMMI III iMMIMHIMIIMlim MIMIIMI
AUG. 8t"!
JULY 31
TO
ireox,trairvB
HI 10 IN
rom all points in Nebraska within two hundred miles
of Lincoln on all railroads.
VISITORS to the Epworth Assembly will find
pleasant down-town Headquarters at our New
Store. Everything' has been arranged for your
convenience, and we shall be pleased to personally make
your acquaintance. Special Assembly Week Prices will
prevail at our establishment, and we ask you to call
whether you purchase or not.
Headquarters for
..UfcN GOODS..
I
IIMMIMIHHIMIMIIIMII
MMMIMMMMMMMIIIIMIMIIIIHCt) MIIMIMII
pass like polished silver. And I rowed
shutting " my eyes. At times, by the
vigor of my efforts, and the rash of the
water under my boat, I imagined that I
was moving very swiftly; but raising my
head, I saw always the same tree, the
same wall, before me on the bank.
At last, by much weariness, all flushed
and perspiring with the heat, I succed
ed in leaving the town. The uproar of
bathing places, of boats of wash-women,
ot floating steamboat landings, dimin
ished. The bridges stretched farther
apart over the widening shores. Some
gardens of the suburbs, the chimney of
a manufactory, were reflected from time
to time. On the horizon trembled green
islands. Then able to do nothing more,
I let myself coast along the shore, in the
midst of humming reeds; and there,
overcome by the sun, the fatigue, that
heavj heat that arose from the water,
strewn with great yellow flowers, the
old sea-wolf proceeded to bleed at the
nose for several hours. Those voyages
never had any other end. But what of
that? I found it delightful.
The terrible thing, indeed, was the
return, the arrival. In vain I pulled
the oars with all my might I always
came too late, long after the dismissal
of classes. The impression of fading
day, the first jet of gas in the haze, the
slinking home, all increased my terrors,
my remorse. The men who passed,
quietly going home, filled me with envy;
and I ran, with bent head, filled with
sun and water, with ringing of sea
shells in my ears, and upon my face, al
ready,, the blush of the lie I was going
to tell.
For every time there must be an an
swer to that terrible, "Where have you
been?" which awaited me at the thresh
old. It was that interrogation upon ar
rival that terrified me most. There,
with lifted foot upon the landing, I
must answer, must always have a story
ready, something to say for myself,
something so astonishing, so overwhelm
ing, that surprise would cut short all
questions. That gave me time to enter,
to take breath, and once there nothing
was hard. I invented disasters, revolu
tions, terrible calamities a whole side of
the town burned up, the iron bridge
fallen into the river. Bat what I found
more effective was this.
That evening I came very late. My
mother, who had watched for me a long
hour, was waiting, standing at the head
of the stairs.
"Where have you been?" she cried to
me. Tell me what puts impishness in
the head of a child. I bad nothing
ready, nothing prepared. I had come
too quickly. All at once a wild thought
came. I knew the dear woman was
very pious, a Catholic, as ardent as a
Romanist, and I answered, all breathless
with mighty emotion:
"Oh, mama it you knew!"
"Well, what? What is it now?"
"The Pope is dead."
"The Pope is dead!" said the poor
mother, and she leaned, quite pale,
against the wall. I passed quickly to
my room, a little frightened at my suc
cess, and at the enormity oi the false
hood; nevertheless I had courage to
keep it up to the end. I remember an
evening, sad and quiet my father very
grave, my mother tearful. They talked
softly around the table. least down
my eyes; but my escapade was bo well
lost in the general desolation that no
one thought of it.
Everyone vied in relating some virtue
of the poor Pius IX.; then, little by little,
the conversation wandered to the his
tory of popes. Aunt Rose spoke of Pius
V11I., whom she well remembered to'
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