10
THE COURIER.
IK
OMAHA LETTER.
Omaha; Ncbr.,
May JO, 1901.
Dear Elainor:
"Drip, drip over the caves,
and drip, drip over the leaves ,
As if it would never be sunshine-again."
Possibly this will reach you in a blaze
of sunlight, but the surroundings from
which it is about to be evolved are
dreary enough. The brilliant green
lawn across tho way and the shivering
vines clinging to the strings stretched
across our bow window look absurdly
unreal, like painted stage scenery, a
travesty on nature.
The rain drops come down so large
and sad, they look as it they had a mind
to freeze and hang midway. A diabolic
little wind haB someway escaped the
custody of the North and snips at the
tender things of spring like a cruel step
mother.
Our household arrangements are run
on Buch a cart iron plan that mother
shuts doyn the furnace after the first of
May, Sundays and week days alike.
She is as sensitive to the interpreta
tion of her laws as the Mayor is toward
his. We are shut Tip whether we like
it or not. I am bundled nip in a shawl
writing with stiff Angers and disfigured
by a red nose, so you need have no fear
of my annual spring poem today. I am
sure mother's conscience does not
trouble her any; she think9 she knows I
can go down and sit by the kitchen
range, if I so desire, but that is a pro
position similar to the soldier's riding
the goneral's horce. lie can do bo any
time he wants to, but the chances are
he'll never want to.
I went down to the kitchen for a few
moments, and it seemed that every place
I located myself and book, I was in the
cook's way. I moved four times and
then Phoebe said with a satirical laugh,
"Miss Pennelly sut'nily doan seem built
fer de kitchen." Would a sensitive soul
like mine, especially during the throes
of composition, need more?
When I was a little girl I used to go
away and hide after unjust treatment
and spend exquisitely painful hours
thinking how mean they would feel
when they found me dead. But I never
died. Just as I was about to expire, I
was sure to smell stewing chicken and
lemon pies, and in that way the grave
was robbed of a tender victim.
A little of that old time feeling re
turned this morning. X tried to fancy
Mother coming to find me, pencil in
hand, stiff and lifeless, struggling in
Bpiteof sympathy to the bitter end.
Like the poets and writers found starv
ed in their attics, stretched without
life across some immortal poem.
The whole idea is thrilling, but after
all I do not believe I am constructed on
heroic lines. I guess I will go down and
try a bit of tact on Phoebe.
Another day has dawned and the
family bulietine announces no change
for the better in my condition. Here is
nothing for it I guess but to force mind
to rise superior over matter and make
myself believe this is a comfortable old
world, even if the furnace is out and
spring weather failing to arrive on
schedule time.
We have had a charming small boy
visiting ub for a couple of weeks. His
mother is some distant kin of my father.
Bertram is only eight years old, but
'extremely bright and entertaining. He
is a devout little romanist, and goes
down on his knees night and morning
with a regularity which nearly paralyzes
Bob, who refuses to Bay his prayers at
any time of the night or da'.
A week ago Sunday J 'asked Bertram
it ho would go to church with us. Be
assented with a readiness and grace
which forbade tne idea of any bigotry
on. his part. The sermon was rather
too long, and I frankly confess 1 did not
have the dimmest idea what it was
about.
After we came home and bad our
dinner the two small boys came up to
my room. Bertram looked rather seri
ous, even a bit anxious, and fini lly he
Baid to me, "Cousin Penelope, what
Bible was it that man was preaching
out of this morning?"
"Why, there is only one Bible, Bert
ram; he was preaching out of that one,
of course."
"Well,'" responded Bertram with the
air of a soldier resolved to do his duty
or die, "he didn't tell it right then; he
said the disciples pushed the little chil
dren away from Christ on the Mount
and it doesn't say in the Bible that the
little children were ever pushed."
A faint color crept into the usually
pale cheeks of Bertram.
"I think, dear, the minister was UBing
his own language in telling about it,
and may just have uaid carelessly that
the little ones were pushed, don't you?"
"O, but I do not think people should
be careless about what the Bible says,
do you, honest, Cousin Penelope?"
I was saved the necessity of an im
mediate reply by the fact that Bob be
gan jumping up and down, and yelling
like a Comanche Indian. "Dr. Thomp
son is a bad minister, and tells "
I laid a rather severe hard over his
mouth in another moment, in a parox
ysm of anxiety. Dr. Thompson might
be below stairB that iuBtant for all I
knew.
When I weakly took refuge in the
easily diverted character of the childish
mind, and told Bob he might take the
candy from the desk drawer, if he would
be quiat. "You must give half of it to
Bertram," I said, "or since he is the old
est, you would better give him a little
the most."
Bob swept a glance over Bertram's
slender frame, then took Btock of his
own goodly proportions, and said glibly,
"I guess his stomac 'aint much biger
'an mine."
Needless to say Bob had the lion's
share, owiug to the fact that Bertram
insisted he only wanted a very little.
I am afraid if I had been Moses, I
should have smuggled away a few of the
flesh pots and brought them forth when
the people became obstreperous. You
know my unworthy policy of sliding out
of unpleasant situations in the easiest
way possible for myself. I am aware
that a model sister would have Bought
to point a moral or drive a lesson home,
but I did not; I called the discussion off
by a bribe. Ever since, I have writhed
internally under Bertram's inscrutable
glances. 1 am sure he looks on me as a
clever imitation of a lady, but places me
theologically only a notch above the
Bev. Thompson. There is no doubt
about a moral coward experiencing some
very low moments. There is an added
pang of mortification in my case, when
I realize that my late ones were all on
account of an eight-year-old boy.
Last Sunday's paper? Yes; I saw it
but only through the zeal of an inter
ested friend, were the musical notes,
for which the Bee is justly celebrated,
placed before me.
Funny, wasn't it? I think if there is
anything more touching than Signor
Tomaso Kelly's suggestion that I take
bromo as an antidote for my admiration
of Mr. Gareissen's voice, it is his sym
pathy for Mr. Gareissen as the victim
of such fervid admiration; he talks as if
he feared Mr. G would wither away
and be no more. Can't yon just see the
great scalding tears, which would fur
row the signor's Italian cheek, it he
were called on to Bend his respects to the
remains of Mr. G in the shape of
white flowers bearing the legend, "Be-quies-cat-in-pace?"
But my case is easy; all 1 have to do is
to take bromo not an expensive remedy,
but I can't imagine what he will advise
you to take probably would suggest
that you swallow-the staff. as a means of
bracing up. On the whole, however, 1
think the sympathy of the public is up
to Signor, as there is no remedy known
for what ails him.
You and I may simmer down in the
course of time; Mr. Gareissen is stroncr,
and he may eventually rise above the
red light of our enthusiasm, which I
must confess has silhouetted him rather
strongly against the background of the
Signor's ever pale condemnations. Did
you ever read one of his criticisms of
this man for whom he feels so sorry?
They run like this: "Mr. Gareissen was
well received in spite of the "gutteral"
quality of his tones." Now since no one
else ever noticed the "gutteral tones"
the Signor is at least entitled to the
rank oLdiscoverer in this line. Fifthly
and lastly, as the musical critic of the
Bee haB led out so magnificently in the
free dispensary line for afflicted femi
nines, I do not like to be outdone in
generosity, and will give you a bit of
advice.
If you ever find youraelf placed in
such a situation that you have to listen
to the Signor Thomaso's singing do
not waste your money on bromo get an
anaesthetic. Yours to the end,
PiNELOPE.
First Yellow Journalist I came near
losing my job the other day.
Second Yellow Journalist How so?
First Yellow Journalist Well, for a
time it looked as if that fellow I inter
viewed was going to corroborate what I
said. Town Topics.
He I told your father frankly that I
couldn't support you.
.Sh.q-rWhat did he say?
He He said he had had the same ex
perience. Town Topics.
Mr. Squeegee It's pretty difficult to
make Miss Hardy blush, isn't it?
Mrs. Squeegee John nenry, ex
plain this minute how you know that.
Town Topics.
Britislj Medical Institute.
Has Been a Success from the Start. Its
Office in the Sheldon Block, Cor.
of 11th and N Streets, is
Crowded Daily.
A staff of eminent physicians and
Burgeons from the British Medical In
stitute have, at the urgent solicitation
of a large number of patients under
their care in this country, established
a permanent branch of the Institute in
this city in the Sheldon block, corner
of Eleventh and N streets.
These eminent gentlemen have de
cided to give their services entirely free
for three months (medicines excepted)
to all invalids who call upon them be
fore June 1st. These services consist
not only of consultation, examination
and advice, but also of minor surgical
operations.
The object in pursuing this course is to
become rapidly and personally acquaint
ed with the sick and afflicted, and under
no condition will any charge whatever
be made for any services rendered for
three months to all who call bofore June
1st
The doctors treat all forms of disease
and deformities, and guarantee a cure
in every case they undertake. At the
first interview a thorough examination
is made; and, if incurable, you are frank
ly and kindly told so; also advised
against spending your money for use
less treatment.
Male arid female weakness, catarrh
and catarrhal deafness, also rupture
goitre, cancer, all skin diseases and all
diseases of the rectum are positively
cured by their new treatment.
The chief consulting surgeon of the
Institute is in personal charge.
Office hours from 9 a. m. till 8 p. m.
Do Sunday hours.
Special Notice If you cannot call
Bend stamp for question Wank for home
treatment.
THE RUBAIYAT OF HOUSE
CLEANING.
Twas long ago that
Omar sweetly sang ,
In Persian lands
his singing clearly rang
Of wines and roses
did the Persian write ,
Of other things'
my ruder harp shall twang .
Forlol the spring is here
with all its hope ,
With all its scrubbing pails
and cakes of soap ,
And women go about
with mops and brooms
And with the dirt of many
month they wildly cope .
Their heads enwrapped about
with towels white,
They get up early yes ,
when still 'tis night,
And tear the pictures
from the dusty walls
And tumble furniture
from left to right.
The carpets, too, are yanked
from off the floors ,
And new, fresh paint is daubed
on kitchen doors ,
And everything you touch
has varnish on
You count your troubles
by the scores and scores.
When home you come at night
and want to rest
You find you're quickly
in the work impressed ,
"Now, John, just put
that stovepipe up," she says ,
You go to work well,
you can guess the rest !
From wobbly ladders
you are sure to fall ,
And as from underneath
you slowly crawl ,
With sooty face and hands
and bruises blue,
")xA see what you have done ,"
she'll wildly call.
"You've simply spoiled that
carpet new and fine
And bent that stovepipe
till it's out of line,"
And then shell sit her down
and weep afew,
While you bind up your wounds
with rags and twine .
And then of course ,
the carpets you must tack ,
And in doing that you give
your thumb a whack ,
And get your knees all
stiffened up, you know ,
And very nearly break
your suffering back.
The pictures, too,
must find a newer place ,
To hang them you must help
with your best grace,
And like as not before
your work is done
A frame will fall on you and
knock in half your face .
And finally, as wearily
you grope to bed
With skinned up hands and eyes
all rimmed with red ,
You'll stumble near the bottom
of the stairs
Upon a pile of things,
and nearly break your head .
At last you'll get to bed
and fall asleep,
But through your dreams wild
scenes will wildly creep
And you will think you still
are cleaning house
And in your dreams youll
dly sigh and weep.
Ah, gentle spring, with
budding flowers and trees ,
With aching backs and
stiffened joints and knees ,
You are the gladdest time
of all the year,
I don't think excuse the slang
your pardon, please .
V. R. Dunroy, in
Sioux City Tribune,
1
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