THE LAKESIDE MUSINGS. BY TEN EYCK WHITE. ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE. CHICAGO : RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY. 1884. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, BY RAND, McNALLY & CO., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. CONTENTS. PACK A Daughter's Sacrifice 222 A Foiled Editor 245 A Mediaeval Romance 151 A Modern Parable 38 A New England Romance 219 An Iconoclastic Papa 74 An Ohio Romance 187 A Parisian Romance 49 A Sacred Relic 226 A Safe Proposition 243 A Sea Tale 76 A Social Question Settled 15 Assisting the Deserving 50 A Woman's Speech . 33 A Yule-Tied Tale .169 Bertha's Sacrifice 126 Better than Working 221 Blanks Between the Stars 46 Boston Extremities 12 Boston Voluptuousness 213 Camille 270 Couldn't Back 185 Couldn't Lose Him 207 Croquet Problem 235 Deathless Devotion 276 Didn't Figure on Papa 7 Didn't Get In 270 East Lynne Reconstructed 107 Entering Journalism 52 Exposing his Weakness 182 Far in the Future 135 Fifine's Marriage 145 (3) LAKESIDE MUSINGS. Fishing and Matrimony - 216 Forgave Her Parent - 258 Girls do not Sweep 181 Haunted by the Speech 202 Herbert's Death 273 He Bluffed and Won 79 Her Dearest Wish 240 Her Fatal Foot 176 Her Sensitive Soul - 128 Her Tender Voice 29 Hiawatha's Wooing 119 His Chilly Blood.. 249 How Harold Died 227 How He Won Her 85 How She Saved Him. 252 How to Regain Him 196 How to Write a Christmas Story 154 Humor to Order 43 Improved Poetry 97 Improved Undergarments 57 Increased Her Value 140 " L' Assommoir " in Long on Dogs 159 Love and Cooking 208 Love's Stratagem. 36 Love's Test 246 Met the Dog ^ 173 More Precious than Ever 237 Myrtle Got There 262 Myrtle's Reward 9 Naming the Baby 129 Not Wise Enough 174 Obituary Gems 194 On the Brink 157 On the Eve of Matrimony 229 Our Girls 277 Overwhelming Odds 280 Poetry on Tap 254 Points on Etiquette 137 Saved by a Jack- Pot 333 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. PAGE She Got the Hat 19 Social Romance. 267 Social Topics 192 Songs for the Fireside 104 Sunrise and Sealskin Sacques 161 Tender and True 218 The Beautiful Snow 27 The Broken Vow 178 The Bud of Promise Racket 163 The Daughter's Resolve 231 TheFatal Dream 58 The Loves of the Mulcaheys 21 The Maiden's Gift 90 The Modern Balaklava 61 The Modern Obituary 31 TheOld, Old Story 93 The Other Mozart 25 The Perils of Oratory 41 The Poet's Fate 73 The Pork-Packer's Awakening 86 The Power of Poetry 117 The Result of a Raise 260 The Siren and the Sucker 123 The Society Reporter 271 TheStoryof Atalanta 66 The Story of Charles 203 TheStoryof Lucy 62 The Test of Love 70 The True Saxon Spirit 141 Under Different Circumstances 93 Views on Art 8l What He Could Stand 101 What Rupert Wanted 94 What Shall we do with our Pianos ? 2io What She Neglected 132 Why He Wept 200 Why She Grieved 167 Why She Loved Him 265 Why they Parted 188 Wooed but Not Won 144 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. DIDN'T FIGURE ON PAPA. " I am very rich, my darling," she said softly, punctu- ating her sentences with sweet, warm kisses. " Already I have $100,000 worth of 4 per cents, in my name, and when the leaves are turning red in the golden October days and the fields are laughing in the rich abundance of a bountiful harvest, I shall cut off the coupons, and when papa dies he will leave me nearly $200,000 more. Yes, my sweetheart, I am a very happy girl," and a fair young head nestled confidingly on the shoulder of the strong- limbed, hazel-eyed young man to whom this avowal was made. He looked tenderly down at the brown tresses and the invisible net that bound them to the fair fore- head. Gently lifting the beautiful face to his, he pressed a passionate kiss on the full, red lips, that seemed only made for osculation. Turning his head away, Herbert Ainsleigh appeared for a moment to be wrapped in thought. Then, kissing Miriam with a rich, warm, two-for-a-quarter kiss, he said: " Do you love me, Birdie? " She gave answer by placing her soft, white arms around his neck, and throwing herself madly on his shirt front. " Do not hug so hard, darling, an' you love me, or my (7) 8 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. collar-stud will raise a carbuncle on the back of my neck," he said in low, mellow tones. " It is only the deep, passionate longing of my love, Herbert; it recks not of carbuncles. But you are right. Too much pressure on the cervical vertebra will cause an exostosis. My professor of anatomy told me that." " And we will be married in the fall, my sweet? " " Yes, Herbert, in the rich, hazy, sensuous days of Indian summer, when the low note of the farmer's boy seeking the lost cow is heard as he sits on the vine-embowered stile and blasphemes until the fire-fly leaves for a cooler spot. You must take all my money, Herbert; it must be yours to do as you will with it, to attain the glorious fame that awaits you; for I know that my love's name will some day be known through the length and breadth of the land. Surely, you have an ambition? " " I have," said Herbert, kissing her while she caught her breath. " And you will not let any false pride stand in the way of using my money to attain the height you fain would reach? " " No, darling, I will not. You say you have $100,000 in 4 per cents. It is enough. To-morrow I will act, and in less than a day my name will be as familiar through- out the world as that of England's proud Queen." " Oh, Herbert, what will you do? " "I shall purchase Maud S." ******* Two minutes later a human form fell with a dull thud on the front porch of the haughty pork-packer's resi- dence. It was Herbert Ainsleigh. The old man had fired him out. LAKE SI DP: MUSINGS. MYRTLE'S REWARD. At sunset on a beautiful day in June a solitary horse- car might have been seen ascending the brow of a hill. As the dappled palfrey which drew it bravely on reached the crest of the eminence and paused for an instant be- fore beginning the downward journey, the intelligent beast gave a snort of terror, and sprang so suddenly to one side that the helmeted knight in whose womanly- white hands were gathered the reins was yanked violently over the brake, and most of the air knocked out of his system ere he could regain his position abaft the dash- board, and again head the terrified charger in the direction of Western avenue. "By my halidom! " quoth the knight. "St. Julien must have seen an oat." It was true. Some roystering son of Blue Island ave- nue, going home with many a flagon of bock beer beneath his corselet, had with wasteful hand thrown by the road- side no less than several oats, at the sight of which the neighing steed which so gallantly breasted the brow of the hill at the opening of this chapter, was stricken with the terror that always comes to beasts when that which they have ne'er before beheld comes suddenly within the vista of their gaze. "Curses on the horse! he has broken my "suspender! " exclaimed Roderigo O'Rourke, eighth Duke of Wexford, as he wound the lines around the brake and spliced his pants with a string;. In a corner of the car sits Myrtle Hathaway, her pure, passionless face with wine-red lips pressed closely 16 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. to the window. She is pure as the driven snow, and chaste as an ice-wagon. Two years ago she was the petted idol of doting parents the pampered child of luxury and unlimited confectionery but one soft, sensuous day in summer, when the fields were laughing in the golden glory of an ample harvest, her father came home and said to her in tear-choked tones: "We must sleep in the woodshed to-night; this house is no longer mine. All that I possessed has been lost forever." Myrtle did not question him, did not seek to intrude upon the sacred precincts of his grief, but went silently away and blew in her last quarter for ice-cream. George W. Hathaway did not long survive the horse- race that swept away his fortune, and in the fall they buried him in the sun-kissed cemetery beyond the beer garden, away from the noise and turmoil of the great city. But Myrtle, although accustomed to every luxury that credit could purchase, was possessed of a brave heart and large feet, and had gone forth to battle with the world and earn her own living. " I will gain my daily bread," she said; but after learning that making seventeen shirts for eight cents was the most lucrative operation open to her, she had concluded to change her subscription to the tri-weekly. On the opposite seat of the car from Myrtle sat Bertha Redingote. The girls had moved in the same social circle in the days when Myrtle lolled idly in the lap of luxury, but now that she sat on one knee Bertha did not recognize her. But Myrtle cared not for this. " Let Bertha flaunt her prosperity and grenadine polonaise in my face, if she will," she had said, " the time may come LAKESIDE MUSINGS. \ i when I shall again be heading the procession, and if it does, I shall have a pool or two on myself." " Leavitt street," said the conductor, his voice arousing Myrtle from the reverie into which she had fallen. Both girls left the car. On the corner, his choke-me-to-death collar looking wierdly white beneath the fitful glare of the West Side gas, stood Ethelbert de Courcey " Good-bye, John," the boys called him, because they said that name was easier to remember, and had a Cook county tinge to it. He was a good young man almost too good to be true and very rich. His wealth made him the object of maneuvering on the part of designing mothers with marriageable daughters, but thus far he had escaped unscathed. Both girls knew him. Bertha advanced with a witching Ogden avenue smile on her face, as if to claim his company in her homeward walk; but he heeded her not. Advancing quickly to Myrtle's side, he said: " May I see you home, Miss Hathaway? " "Yes," replied the girl, the pink suffusion of a blush hustling rapidly over her cheek as she took his arm. On the way to the humble pie-foundry where she fought the bedbugs, they talked upon the current topics of the day the cable-cars, how Maud S. would drive to the pole, Mr. Beecher's indigestion, etc.; but presently Ethelbert's voice sank lower, his tones became more tender, and he told the blushing girl the story of his love of how he fain would make her his West Washington street bride. When he had finished, Myrtle looked up into his eyes those eyes so tender and true and, with a little happy sob, called his bluff. 12 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. BOSTON EXTREMITIES. " Do you like apple fritters? " The November sun, strangely beautiful in its deep crimson glow, was sinking slowly into a mass of dull gray clouds that were piled up in the western horizon, and casting such a bright, aureate glow on the landscape as to remind one of the fabled time when the gods played with blocks of gold that filled the world with their daz- zling gleam. Gwendolen Mahaffy sat at the window of Distress Warrant Castle, and, gazing wistfully out at the scene which nature mother of all art had pictured in such vivid colors, asked of him who stood beside her the question with which this chapter opens. Very beautiful was Gwendolen a calm, pensive beauty that witched men with a subtle influence and kept them blindly following the ignis fatuus of a hoped-for love that could never exist; kept them willing vassals to a passion that finally left them ghastly wrecks on the wind-swept sea of shattered hopes. It was this beauty this fatal four-flush beauty that kept Harold Nonesuch by Gwendolen's side. Her brow, broad and white, her skin, delicate as a young rose-leaf, with the faint flush on her cheeks, baffled description; but it was in her eyes, large, dark, and shadowed by their lashes until their violet depths looked black, that her chief beauty lay. But what was beyond poet to phrase or artist to reproduce was her deep, intellectual nature and appetite for pie, softened by a spirituality of soul that would often make her stub her toe when she thought about it. Hers was a loveliness like that of a delicate LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 13 tropical flower, which blooms but to perish in all its beauty too fragile for the storms and sins of earth, too soilless and sacred for this life. Gwendolen had often thought of this as she lay in her bed at night watching the stars that seemed like sentinels keeping a silent vigil over a sin-stained world, and then, when perhaps all the household were sleeping, she would get up and eat cold toast. There was ever a wistful yearning in her heart for the unknowable an eager seeking for something, she knew not what, that seemed forever and ever just beyond the back fence of her soul. And so the years had gone on in their silent march to the tomb of the ages, until Gwendolen, standing on the verge of womanhood, had received from Harold None- such the greatest compliment that man can pay to woman an offer to try and settle for board. Never for an instant had she suspected the deep passionate admiration that this man's soul held for her, and of which he had just spoken in tones that were tremulous with hopeful expect- ancy. And then, mastering by a mighty effort the shock that his unexpected words had caused, she had answered him with the question, so wierd in its realism as to be almost grotesque, that appears above. For an instant Harold seemed dazed by the girl's words, and stood silently beside a marble statue of Psyche, striving to repress the terrible grief that threatened to master every emotion of his being. As he stood there, the long evening shadows slanting across the sward and the purple mists of Indian summer crowning the hills with their royal haze, he felt that life without the love of this woman should be a Sahara of grief, an endless desert of disappointed hope and crushed ambition, over which I 4 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. the scorching winds of sorrow and anguish would ever blow with pitiless fury. And then, just as a sob was welling up from his vest, he felt a pair of soft, warm arms twined lovingly around his neck, and close beside his own there was pressed a cameo face that seemed in its spirituelle beauty like a vision from another world. There were tears in the violet eyes that looked into his so pleadingly, and the curves of the drooping mouth were tense with the agony of an all-powerful sorrow. For an instant neither spoke, and Gwendolen was the first to break the silence. "You must have known, Harold," she said, in tones that were hoarse with agony, " that for months my heart has been in your keeping, and you must also have known that my love is no ephemeral passion no let-me-take- your-slate-pencil-and-you-can-chew-my-gum-at-recess affection that is here to-day, and to-morrow where is it? And yet, despite this fact, which I so freely acknowledge, and of which I am more than proud, I can never be your wife." "Why not?" he asks, in tones that are almost a sob. "Because," answers Gwendolen, "I have cold, Boston feet." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 15 A SOCIAL QUESTION SETTLED. " Is the society editor in? " asked a rather pretty lady, as she swung the door of the editorial rooms gently open, one summer afternoon. Nobody noticed her for a moment. But finally, the trotting-horse statistician, who was explaining to the dramatic critic why " Muldoon's Picnic " was a greater drama than " Daniel Rochat," became aware of the presence of one of the gentle sex, and waved his some- what profuse hand in the general direction of a chair, the movement being understood as an invitation to be seated. The young lady accepted the proffered hospi- tality, and remained silent. " It's no use talking," continued the horse editor, resuming his conversation with the dramatic critic, "you ducks that come raw from a college and fall against a newspaper office, thinking that you are too fly for any use, are just as liable to make a break as anybody else. If ' Daniel Rochat ' is a good play, I'm a Chinaman, and that settles it. Now, look at the heroine that Henderson girl. She's gone on Dan, ain't she?" The dramatic critic admitted that such was the case. "And Dan," continued the horse editor, "is just loony about her. Everything is lovely. The old lady doesn't buck-jump or drive on one line, as old ladies are apt to do when anybody wants to marry a girl of theirs, and there is no old man to steer clear of, or dog to poison, or anything that generally makes it tough work for a fellow to catch a girl these times. They get the word trotting 1 6 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. level, and go down to the quarter-pole like a double team, don't they? " The critic nodded assent. " What does Dan think what has he got a right to think? He says to himself: ' Here is a girl that it will do to buy pools on. She ain't going to break, or strike a pace. A man can go through life with her at any gait he likes, and if somebody knocks a spoke out once in a while, or pinches him a little too close to the pole, she won't dive into the fence and break her check-rein, and like enough get distanced.' That's the kind of talk Dan gives himself, ain't it?" "It is possible that you are correct," replied the critic, "although I must confess that at Yale "Never mind about Yale; we are on Dearborn street, this afternoon," said the repository of information con- cerning Maud S. " What I want to get at is that Sardou was chewing on the wrong apple when he wrote the play. This Henderson girl is mashed on Dan and wants to marry him. They paw around for a couple of acts, and finally the date for the performance is fixed. The fellow with the red sash he joins 'em according to the civil code. Then the girl says the race is a mile and repeat, so to speak, and expects the preacher to marry 'em again. Dan says, not much; no preacher in his. Girl cries and grabs him by the neck, and bur- rows in his shirt front with her nose, but Danny doesn't weaken. ' No parson for me,' he says. ' I love you fondly, madly, but I am not a chump.' The girl bursts out crying and leaves him. Next day Dan wants to hedge, and says he'll go the whole racket, church and all. Then the girl says she's changed her mind and LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 17 doesn't love him any more. Now, in 'Muldoon's Pic- nic ' " "Excuse me, gentlemen," said the young lady, "but which one of you is the society editor?" "We don't keep one on this paper, Miss," said the horse critic, "but the entire outfit takes a crack at that style of journalistic labor once in a while. Is there any- thing we can do for you?" "I was going to ask," said the girl, "if it would be too much trouble for you to give me some hints as to the proper way to receive and dispose of guests at a wedding; how the supper should be served, and-so-forth." " You want to know what is en riggle and recherchy, as the French say," remarked the horse man. "We can give you the correct pointer. Are you the blushing bride?" "Yes, sir," said the girl, in a rather weak voice; "that is " "Oh, I understand," said the horse editor. "I appre- ciate your feelings. I was once young and bashful myself. Now, about this wedding. The receiving part is easy. After the nuptial ceremony is concluded, you and Mike " " But his name isn't Mike," said the young lady. " His name is " " Oh, I know all about that," said the equine journalist. " Of course his name is Adelbert, or Reginald, or some other dry-goods-clerk nonsense, but in giving advice we always allude to the sucker as Mike, and call the bride Hannah. It saves time. Now, after you and Mike are married, you want to jog along home and plant your- selves at the back end of the parlor. Better have a !8 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. floral bell, or something like that to stand under, because it is considered the correct thing, and makes a better toot ensemble, as the French say. Then, the guests, they get in line and go by you on a slow walk a kind of we- buried-him-sadly-by-dead-of-iiight clip, and you shake hands with each one and say, 'Thanks, awfully'; and they look at you and Mike as if you were a couple of prize cattle, and feel sorry for you." "And the supper?" said the young lady. " Oh, yes, the supper. Well, at some weddings they feed in the dining-room, and at others each guest sits on a chair and has his lunch brought to him. Now, I always advise the use of chopped feed at weddings bring on the ham sa'ndwiches and ice-cream at the same time. They can't eat the sandwiches first, you know, because if they do the cream will melt, and if they throw in the cream to start with the sandwiches will act like Banquos Ghost they 'will not down';" and the horse reporter winked vigorously at the dramatic critic, in order to attract the attention of that person to his able joke. But the critic was trying to smoke a cigar that the ad- vance agent of the whale had given him, and did not look. "Of course," continued the biographer of Goldsmith Maid, "it would be better if you could give each guest a box-stall and throw the feed in early in the evening, but this is not often practicable, so you had better keep on the old racket." "I am sure I am very thankful,' sir, for the interest you have taken in this matter," said the girl, "and I shall follow your advice. Which is the way down stairs, please?" LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 19 "There are two ways," replied the horse reporter. "You can jump down the hatchway, or take the stairs. Our elevator never runs." SHE GOT THE HAT. It was a gray-haired editor Sat silent in his room, And strove with shears and pen and brain To work him up a boom. In came a charming, blue-eyed maid, Her hair a silv'ry sheen; Full many a young and manly heart This girl had smashed, I ween. She stepped up to the editor And said, " Good sir, I hear That to the tales of injured wives You lend a willing ear." "Just so, my bonny lass," he said, " Sit ye in yon arm-chair; Tis sad a man should club a bride So new, and fresh, and fair." " No, no, good editor," quoth she, " Not under club I quake. And you're a horrid, nasty thing. To make so bad a break. " My hubby, as of sour mash Or life, of me is fond, And every eve his manly arm .My waist encircles round. 20 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. " His cruelty consists in this: He absolutely says That I shall never, never, wear The new hat, called ' The Fez'! " And with these words a silent tear Coursed down her pearly cheek. Heaven knows the brawny editor As any child was weak. " The heartless villain! " cried he out, ' ' To wound a tender heart : Small wonder that you weeping sit; But I will take your part." " Go hence unto your wicked spouse, And say to him that I Have sent by thee these warning words- Then notice him ki-yi. " Say that, unless he gives you leave The gaudy ' Fez' to wear, My columns tell of how he fought The tiger in his lair." The happy bride went sailing forth She made the awful bluff; The husband fell upon his knees He could not say enough. The " Fez" was bought, and often now The editor, so gray, Smiles blandly as it past him goes, Bound for the matinee. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 21 THE LOVES OF THE MULCAHEYS. "So, Constance has given him the shake?' "Yes." " Tis well the Lady Gertrude hath not heard of this, else were it better for Reginald that the broad demesne o'er which he rules so haughtily held lightly in its grass- covered bosom his pallid corse. The proud, vindictive spirit of the Mulcaheys will not brook an insult, and, by my halidom! 'twere well for the young Lord of Tomp- kinsville that he wear a steel corselet o'er his perjured heart this night ere the steel-shod hoofs of his palfrey are heard crossing the drawbridge that leads to the Castle Mahoney. Mark you this, Wilifred, 'tis not a light offense that one, e'en though he be young, and rich, and handsome, step in between a Mulcahey and the one he loves." It was Miriam McCarthy, eighth Duchess of Conne- marra, who spoke these words, and Wilifred O'Brien gazed at her with a sad earnestness as she leaned grace- fully over the back-yard fence, her sunny countenance flecked here and there by a dash of soap-suds, whose delicate whiteness brought out in bold relief the vivid colors on her roseate complexion. Wilifred was a pale, intellectual youth, and prided himself on his noble an- cestry. Once he had said to the Jones boy (whose folks had always lived in this country): "I am the descendant of a noble race. The blood of three kings flows in my veins." But the Jones boy had only laughed in his coarse, brutal way, and replied that some day a man would come along with a flush and capture the three 22 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. kings. Wilifred had brooded over this and other evi- dences of the barbarism that was continually outcrop- ping in the lives of the poor, plebeian Americans whom he was compelled sometimes to meet, and his naturally sunny disposition had become so soured that he would often put down the hod and mutter strange oaths to him- self, taking no heed of aught that was passing in the busy world around him until a chunk of plaster from the hand of the head bricklayer flew merrily in his direction, and he hastened to relieve the Duke of Galway, who should have been two places below him on the ladder. He loved Miriam McCarthy with a wild, passionate, soul- melting love that, like the mighty glaciers of the Alps, bore on its outward surface no indication of the tremen- dous force within. Two years ago she had first seen him as he walked with his proud, County Antrim stride along the streets amid the blare of trumpets, the rattle of drums, and the graceful and fiery prancing of the tem- porarily-off-duty omnibus horses, as the United Sons of Hibernia swept with stately grace past her ancestral home on Archer avenue. " I do not care," she said softly to herself, blushing as she spoke, " if he has got his grandfather's plug hat on; to me he is all that is noble, and manly, and pure, and good." Two weeks later they had plighted their troth, and were now looking forward with all the rosy hopefulness of youth to the halcyon days when they would be forever bound together by the holy tie of matrimony, and a dim- pled babe coo forth merrily its dulcet cries when the colic came like a thief in the night and the paregoric bottle had vanished into the deep mystery of the hereafter. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 23 "Are you going to the wake this evening?" It was thus that Pizarro McGinness, the young Earl of Ballyhooly, spoke to Miriam McCarthy two hours after the above conversation had taken place. "Who's the corpse?" asked Miriam, a bright smile illumining her features at thought of the unexpected society event which had come to her. "Cecil Clancarty," replied Pizarro. Miriam's heart beat a great throb. " So, then," she thought, "this proud beauty who won my brother's love two summers ago, only to cast it aside when the picnic season was over, as carelessly as papa slings his dinner- pail into the corner when he returns in the gloaming from the horse-railway barns, is dead? She did not care, when my golden-haired Rupert came home full as a tick and carefully placed his boots on the etagere, before retiring. The poor boy's heart was breaking for love of her, but she laughed his suit to scorn; and now she has died amid all her follies, and sin, and six-button kid gloves." Then, mastering the emotion which momentarily almost over- came her, Miriam turned to Pizarro and said: "What happened her?" "Aneurism of the heart, I believe," was the reply. "You don't say so!" exclaimed Miriam. "I always said she would kill herself some day, the way she pow- dered and painted." "Well," said the young man, a trifle impatiently, "will you be there to-night?" "Yes, I'll come." "And may I escort you home?" " I will see you later on that point," was the witty res- ponse; and, with a light, merry ha-ha-villain-I-scorn-your- 24 LAKESIDE MUSINGS proffered-suit laugh on her lips, Miriam sprang lightly from the ash-barrel on which she was seated, and began to shoo geese out of the front yard. ******* " I can not allow you to go home with me, Mr. Mc- Ginnis," said Miriam, as she left the wake. "Why not?" "Because my betrothed, Mr. O'Brien, has told me that you are lacking in the suvoir vtvre, which every truly-cul- tured gentleman should possess; in other words, you are a 'far down.' " "If I had him here," hisses the young man through his clenched teeth, "methinks my wealth of box-toed boot would toy with his custom-made pants awhile." "Would it, indeed?" said a voice from the steps of a neighboring sour-mash emporium. " Then defend your- self as best you may." Each man spat on his hands and sailed in. As they rolled around on the sidewalk, Miriam shrank in terror to the side of the building. The men fought as only those nerved by desperation can fight. Suddenly they disappeared from view, a dull thud being the only clew to their whereabouts. One glance, and the girl saw all. They had fallen through a coal-hole. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 25 THE OTHER MOZART. It is the 20th day of July a day when the sky is one cloudless sheet of azure, and the sun shines down upon the brown earth with an intensity that promises to change the tasseled corn in one day from golden yellow to harvest brown. Vivian and Myrtle are walking slowly down the grassy dell where blossom in rich abundance delicate lilies of the valley, pink orchises, old-fashioned bachelor's-but- tons, blue veronica, and golden celendine, wild convol- vulus and sweet honeysuckle. They are strolling hand in hand now, having but just left McMurtry Hall, whose turrets and buttresses gleam in the morning sun with a brightness and cheeriness that form a striking contrast to their solidly sullen appearance as they beat off the snows of January or the fierce rain-storms of the early spring. For nearly a twelvemonth these two have been betrothed. It was in the soft, sensuous days of the Indian summer that Vivian had told Myrtle his love. He remembered the hour well. It was the day after Maud S. had beaten the record, and Vivian was broke. When a little boy sitting on his father's knee, his tangled yellow hair falling like a golden halo on the ancestral vest, his sire had told him that time waited for no man. Vivian remembered this, and when he had grown into sturdy manhood, and Maud S. started against the record, all his pools were on time. He learned too late when the cold, green waves of adversity were rolling over his soul and some luckier sucker had all his money, that an adage was no better than any other pointer. But in those 2 6 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. sad, bitter days the love of Myrtle had come to him as does water to the parched traveler through the desert, and beckoned him to the mystic dreamland of a pure affection. He had been a wild, reckless boy, not bad at heart, but with a scornful contempt of the hollow, glit- tering world of fashion in which he moved the beauti- ful women who trifled with men's hearts as a child plays with pretty toys, the bright smile that concealed a can- kered heart, or the merry laugh that hid from all the world a beaten four-flush. Into this life Myrtle Mc- Murtry had come like a revelation. He had seen her at a soiree dansante given by the Chicago Historical Society, and noticed her bright, ingenue face, as she stood, fair and stately as a japonica, against the wall. They were introduced by Bertie Cecil. " Do you love music? " she asked. "Passionately," replied Vivian. "I can whistle 'The Skids are Out To-day,' perfectly, and I never heard it be- fore last week." " How quite," said Myrtle. "Altogether too-too," was the answer, in low soft tones that made the girl feel instantly that he loved her. "They tell me you are very wicked, Mr. Simpson," said Myrtle, as the sound of a Strauss waltz floated in from the ball-room. " Is it so? " "Well, I have always tried to keep up with the proces- sion," was his answer. " I suppose you will hate me for that?" "Oh no," responded the girl quickly. "It is the namby-pamby men that are distasteful to me. I like a man whose blood runs wine, not water." Vivian did not answer. " If she had said sour mash LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 27 instead of wine," he murmured to himself, "I could have a front seat in her affections." "Do you like Mozart?" she asked, suddenly. " No," said Vivian. " I lost eighty dollars on him when he was beaten in a mile-dash at Saratoga last week." "Can I ever love this man?" asked Myrtle of herself as they parted that night. " Can I give my soul to one who doesn't know the great composer from a three-year- old colt?" ******* Two weeks later they were betrothed. THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW. Oh! the snow, " The Beautiful Snow! " Filling the papers where'er we go; Over the latest news, over the "ads," Over the cut of the last liver pads; Solid, Leaded, Knocked into " pi," " Beautiful Snow " evermore meets the eye. Flying to kiss the waste-basket's cheek, Lunched on by goats in a frolicsome freak. " Beautiful Snow," coming in by each mail, Makes every editor quake and turn pale. Oh! the snow, " The Beautiful Snow!" How all the people that wrote it, blow; Claiming each verse as their own priceless gem- Nemesis waits for the last one of them. Writing, Lying, Always on hand, 2 8 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. As proud as a colt in the rear of a band; And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Sniff the air in disdain when a poet's around. The town is alive, and a mighty poor show Would be given the author of " Beautiful Snow." How the wild crowd goes swaying along, Each with a copy, well kept, of the song; How the smart critics mount four flights of stairs, Tackling the editor in squads and in pairs. Puffing, Blowing, Up-stairs they go To tell what they know about " Beautiful Snow." " Constant Subscriber" is there from Racine, " Reader," "Scrutator," and "Vindex," I ween. Then to them all speaks the editor bold: " Don't get rattled; it's you, and not me, that's been sold. " Once I was pure as the snow but I dropped; Dropped like the snowflake until I was stopped; Dropped, till the sidewalk and I coalesced; Dropped, as the red sun was sinking to rest. Cursing, Snorting, Dreading to rise, With anguish at heart and with tears in my eyes. Mourning the fate that had landed me there, Chilled by the blasts of the keen winter air. Merciful God! what a terrible blow To slip and fall down on the beautiful snow. " How strange it should be that this beautiful verse. 'Stead of making men better should make them all worse! How strange it would be if, in Christmas-tide's glow, We should find the real author of " Beautiful Snow" Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone; LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 29 Would we give him a crust, or a well-polished bone? Not much! we would instantly kill him, and then Wrap him up in the work of his misguided pen. Let us get out our shotguns and cheerfully go On a hunt for the man that wrote ' Beautiful Snow.' " HER TENDER VOICE. "But papa! " "Not another word," said the eighth Duke of Blue Island Avenue, as his dinner-pail fell on the floor with a decisive clank. " Your mother hath erstwhile told me of this foolish passion of yours for Rudolph McCloskey, but by my " Stepping hastily to an ebony desk inlaid with, dirt, the Duke glanced for an instant into a large book that lay there, and then resumed his position in front of the/att- teuil upon which Beryl was reclining. "By my halidom!" he continued, "I will bend this haughty will of yours to my own, for never shall it be said that a daughter of the house of Perkins allied her- self with one far beneath her in the social scale. No," he said, his features whitening with passion as he saw the girl, an insouciante expression on her pure young face, re- garding him with a half-scornful, half don't-care-whether- school-keeps-or-not look " I will prevent this marriage of which you speak so confidently, though it cost me my fortune and my life. What ho! Without there! A horse- car! " A liveried servant ran at once to the front yard and signaled the Warder, who was seated in his tower at the 3 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. castle gate. Presently a horse-car was seen in the dis- tance. Nearer and nearer it came, but still the Warder made no sign. At last, when the car was nearly opposite the castle moat, the vigilant servitor threw a handful of oats on the track. The car stopped. ******* When Beryl heard her father swear by his halidom that he would prevent her marriage, her heart sank within her, and into her eyes there came a wild, haunting, I- shall-not-get-a-new-polonaise-this-spring look, that told all too plainly of the horrid fears that beset her soul. But amid all the tumult of her mind she did not for- get to act. Looking hurriedly at an almanac, she saw that it was December. The eastern sky was gray with snow-clouds. Should her father miss the car, Rudolph would be safe from his anger for a week, perhaps longer. In an instant, her mind was made up. Running with frantic speed out across the lot, over the bed where the cabbages had nestled so cozily in the warm June sun- shine, she soon reached the entrance to the grounds and was peering with anxious face through the portcullis. The car-horses, a magnificent pair of bays, were eating the oats. Beryl could plainly see that ere they had finished their meal her father would be there. But she did not hes- itate, and in an instant the sad, sweet strains of a childish melody she had learned at school were floating out upon the air, and mingling with these echoes was the crash of timber and the wild jangling of bells. Beryl turned away with a satisfied air, saying softly to herself, " He is saved. ' The car-team had run away. LAKESIDE MUSINGS, 31 THE MODERN OBITUARY. "Want an obituary?" A rather short man, whose naturally cheerful face wore a look of studied grief that was in strange contrast to the ruddy glow of his cheeks, stood in the doorway and propounded this interrogatory in a cheery tone of voice. "Has another old citizen passed away?" inquired the horse reporter. " I never knew one of them to die," he continued, "but every little while a passing away occurs." "The deceased," said the man in the doorway, "was certainly an old resident, and I may say that for purity of" "Oh, I know what you are going to say," interrupted the horse reporter. "You were about to remark that, 'for purity of purpose, strict fidelity to the principles that ever guide the man of honor and probity in dealing with his fellow-men, our friend whose loss we mourn stood preeminent among his business associates.' Isn't that it?" "That is certainly the tenor of what I had in mind, but there are other things to be said about the deceased. He was an aff " "You bet he was," said the horse reporter. "I know all about that, too. ' He was an affectionate husband, a kind parent, and nowhere will his loss be more keenly felt than within the hallowed spot where human love is ever strongest, human sorrow ever the most poignant the sacred precincts of the domestic circle.' Ain't that it ?" "Well, I certainly did intend to say something like LAKESIDE MUSINGS. that," replied the short man, "but that wasn't all. In the hum " " That's right," again interrupted the friend of Maud S. " ' In the humbler walks of life, where Poverty boldly stalks, where Crime is found, and where Disease marks with its gaunt finger countless victims whose lives would otherwise be bright and joyous, our friend who is now no more was often to be found, giving freely of the means with which a kind Providence had endowed him to alleviate the sufferings of those whom misfortune had ever held within its iron grip.' Doesn't that about cover what you were going to tell me?" "Yes," said the short man, "that's something like it; but now that Death ' "You're right again. 'But now that Death has stilled with his icy breath the heart that such a little time ago was pulsating with all the vigor of healthful manhood, and laid prone beneath his silent but irresistible blow the rugged form that had withstood so bravely the assaults of time, there is nothing left to us but a pallid tenement of clay frail emblem of the proud structure so instinct with life teaching to all of us with mourn ful directness the sad lesson that in the midst of life we are in Milwaukee no, in death, I mean and that this sad event should impress upon us all the necessity of being prepared to jump town no, that ain't it should impress upon us all the necessity of being pre- pared to meet with a clear conscience the summons that calls us away from a life of turmoil and trouble to one where white-robed Peace stretches forth her broad wings, where sorrow and strife are unknown, and where our departed brother now awaits our coming.' LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 33 How does that size up with what you were about to re- mark?" "Why, that's it exactly," said the visitor, a sunny smile overspreading his countenance. ''You've got it down pretty fine, haven't you?" " I should surmise that I had," replied the horse re- porter. "I dropped into this obituary racket early in the action, and if anybody can ring one in on me he can have the bun." "I guess I won't print this obituary," said the visitor. " The deceased was only a New Jersey man, anyhow, and they say he never more than half provided for his family, and went to lodge about five nights in the week. Some said he removed to this State from the Penitentiary, but I don't know anything about that. He's dead, anyhow, and dead men can't do anybody much good, can they?" "Not a great deal," replied the horse reporter. "Well, so long," said the short man. "Bon jour," responded the horse reporter. "I don't know what bon jour is, but I heard the literary editor say it the other day, and he's far too fly to make any mistakes." A WOMAN'S SPEECH. " Kiss me, darling." Richard Irwin had toiled slowly and wearily up the two flights of stairs which led to the poor abode, whose scanty furniture had grown still more scanty as want and poverty clutched with iron grip his whole existence, as if they would throttle even the faint ray of hope that 3 34 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. sometimes sprang up in his heart, and looked long and lovingly into the pale but beautiful face of the girl who had given up parents, home and everything that had made life happy, to become his wife. And as she stood there, her soft, white arms twined lovingly around his neck, and her deep, hazel eyes upraised to his, he saw that she had been weeping, and around the wan, droop- ing lips that in the happy bygone days were so often raised, pouting merrily the while, to be kissed by his own, there were traces of pie. Richard Irwin shuddered as he drew the lithe, yield- ing form still more closely to him, and as her head nest- led confidingly on his clavicle his face was bent forward and he wept bitter, scalding tears of pain to think that his wife, Clyde Stiggins, Boston born and bred a girl who habitually read Emerson, and whose essay on the theory of horizontal cleavage in red sandstone was only excelled by her paper on the fauna of the pliocene period should be reduced to eating pie in the morning. And while he was wrapped in these painful reveries, Clyde raised her head from his bosom. One glance told her all. "You are suffering, my darling," she said. "Can you not tell me, your wife, of your sorrow? " "It is nothing," Richard replied, kissing her tenderly. "Lemon pie, too," he murmured, in hoarse, agonized tones, as his lips left hers. "My God! this is terrible." " But mastering his emotion in an instant, he turned again to Clytie. " It is of no use, sweetheart," he said. "I have walked the streets for weeks vainly searching for work. Winter is coming on, and what is to become of us is more than I know." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 35 " It is always darkest before the dawn, my precious," she murmured, "and, no matter what betide, I have you" and drawing his face to hers she kissed him in a wild, passionate, grab-the-chair-if-you-want-to-stay-there man- ner that reminded him of early days on the North Side. "But you can't eat me" he began, and then stopped suddenly, saying softly to himself : "I don't know. It might come to that. Lemon pie in the morning" and he sank into a chair. Just then a noise, as of some one dragging himself slowly and wearily up the stairs, was heard. Presently it ceased, and a messenger-boy kicked open the door, and walking to where Richard Irwin sat, handed him a tele- gram. He tore open the envelope with trembling hands and. read the message, the boy looking over his shoulder to see that everything was all right. "We are saved, Clytie," he said in low, broken tones. "Your father is dead, and all his mackerel fishery is yours." "Yes," murmured the girl, kneeling beside the chair on which her husband sat. "We are saved, Richard saved by a canthopterygian fish of the scomberoid family. Its body is fusiform, its first dorsal fin continu- ous, and its branchiostegal rays are seven in number" and then, looking up suddenly, she saw that the man she loved so well, and for whom she would have sacrificed her life, was lying cold and pulseless across the chair. She had talked him to death. 36 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. LOVE'S STRATAGEM. "Pass the cake." These words, spoken in imperious tones by Rosalind McGuire, floated diagonally across the parlor to where Pansy Perkins was seated on a fauteuil conversing with George W. Simpson. Pansy was looking even lovelier than usual, the gaslight, softened and made less garish by the tinted shades through which it came, bringing out in all its beauty the peachy complexion for which the Perkinses of Perkinsville had long been noted. " Were you ever in Marietta, Ohio? " she asked, bend- ing her face as she spoke so close to that of George that a little vagrant tress of her sunny hair swept across his forehead, making him feel as if he had suddenly taken hold of the handles of an electrical machine. " No," he replied, " I never was in Marietta, but I have an aunt who used to live in Cleveland." " How strange," said'Pansy. "My father once knew a man who had been in Cleveland." And so they chatted on, unmindful of the fact that just across the room there sat a woman beautiful, but with cold feet, whose eyes were never taken from them, and in whose heart the fires of jealousy were raging in all their lurid fierceness. Rosalind McGuire loved George W. Simpson with all the passionate fervor of a high-born woman whose heart, attacked in vain by countless suitors, suddenly pours out unbidden all the hidden treasures of its love. Such a love is terrible in its intensity, and only those who have seen a three-base hit made in the ninth inning can realize the agony to which a woman, loving LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 37 thus, is subjected when she sees the object of her passion bending tenderly over another and whispering words that can never be recalled. The sight of George W. Simpson making love to a girl who didn't have an invisi- ble net to her name was more than Rosalind could bear, and she went into the supper room. " Put some oysters near that hole in the wall," she said to a waiter, pointing with her jeweled hand to \hzportiere through which she has just passed. The man did as he was told. In a moment George and Pansy entered the room. "Would you like some oysters?" he said. "Oh, yes," replied Pansy. "I think they are just lovely." George placed before her a platter of Sevres ware on which the mollusks where heaped, and as the first one disappeared with a dull thud Rosalind smiled a cold, Boston smile, and felt that her hour of triumph was at hand. When the oysters were gone, Pansy looked up with a glad smile. "You are very kind, Mr. Simpson," she said, "and I shall not soon forget this night." " But the happy look had faded from the man's face, and his riant mouth was quivering with pain. " My heart is broken," he said softly to himself as he reached for a biscuit, "but it is better so than after I had told my love. If she eats that way at a party, what kind of a record would she get at home! " Ah! what indeed? 38 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. A MODERN PARABLE. A certain man went down from Chicago to Ohio, taking with him a return ticket, lest he fall against a Cincinnati wheat speculator and be robbed of that wherewith he would fain buy flour and gum shoes for his family, in the season of cold which cometh on those who live in Chi- cago from the tenth to the fourth month, and find him- self amid sinners and publicans, whose mercy is strained, even so fine that it would bother you some to discover it. And when he had reached Cincinnati he went to an inn, and gave to the landlord thereof three pieces of silver, saying, "No monkey business with me, Charlie; lam from Bitter Creek." And he who kept the inn marveled greatly, and said unto himself: "These be strange men that come from Chicago; never are they to be bilked by a hotel bill, and he who endeavoreth to outwit them is invariably headed off." But, nevertheless, he bethought himself of a Poker Game which was that night in the inn, and laughed to himself with exceeding great joy. Then arose the landlord and went unto the place called Bar, where of a certainty he should find the man from Chi- cago, and, approaching him, said: " There be in this inn, even in the third story thereof, a small party of prominent citizens which do play at the game called Draw-Poker. Perchance thou might, after much travail, secure a seat among them." And when the host of the inn had spake these words a witching smile did play around the lips of the Chicago man, and he answered, saying: " I am yet young, and of LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 39 a certainty far from mine home and family, and fearful lest I fall among thieves." But the landlord rebuked him, saying: "In this party whereof I speak are only Business Men, two being Colonels and one a Judge. Would you not think it an honor to play with these?" And the Chicago man was overcome, and said softly: "I should twitter," which being interpreted, means that he should blush to giggle. So they went up in that which is called Elevator until three stories were below them, and the landlord knocked softly on the door of a room in which a light gleamed brightly. And the door opened. And when the Chicago man had seated himself and bought of chips an hundred shekels' worth, he spake not, but drank heartily. And it came to pass that after many deals one of the Colonels did bet seven shekels; where- upon bet also the Chicago man a like amount, and did vanquish the Colonel, who had that which is called two pair. And when this had occurred thrice, the Colonel said unto the Judge: "He is playing them close to his stomach." And it was so. But presently there came to the Colonel a hand of ex- ceeding beauty and strength, being four aces. And he who held them was filled with glee and knew not fear, placing in the centre of the table great quantities of shekels. And when it came to that which is called the draw, the Chicago man took not of the cards, saying he was content. But the Colonel drew one with great boasting, telling, with intent to deceive the others, of how he would bet, if perchance he made a full, which is 4 o LAKESIDE MUSINGS. a hand of great strength, and capable of overcoming threes, or even a flush, but which can not prevail against fours. And having said these words, he wagered heav- ily of silver and gold, all of which the Chicago man did cover, and even betted more, whereupon put the Colonel also his watch and diamond on the table, and wagered them freely. And when all had been betted, the Chicago man said, " Straight flush," even as he spoke gathering unto himself all the treasures which the table held. And when he had placed in his pocket all the shekels, and in his shirt-front the diamond, and had adorned himself with the watch, he became suddenly sleepy and said: "I am too full to play well to-night. I will go to my bed." And he went. But those who were left did beat their breasts and cry out, saying: " How are we knocked around and par- alyzed by this stranger who cometh from Chicago and dresseth not in fine raiment, but who has of money great store and will wager it lavishly on a hand which can not be overcome. It were better we had remained this night with our wives and children. To-morrow night, how- ever, we will again play with him at the game called Poker, and compass him about with a cold deck, so that he shall be overthrown and cast down in spirit." But they wist not what they said. For in the morning the stranger departed from out their gates and came back to his wife, who fell upon his neck and kissed him. And he did kiss her on the cheek, saying; "Mary, you can order that sealskin." And she made answer and said: " Charlie, you're a darling; kiss me again. " LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 41 THE PERILS OF ORATORY. "Do you love me, Reginald?" The supper in connection with the/>/<f champetre given by Stuyvesant McGuire in honor of the igth birthday of his only child, was over, and the spacious parlors were filled with the younger portion of the assemblage, by whom they had quickly been devoted to the worship of Terpsichore. Reginald Mulcahey and Aphrodite Mc- Guire had been gliding through the soft, sensuous meas- ures of a Strauss waltz, and as the music ceased they had strolled into the dimly-lighted conservatory, where, as they sat with clasped hands, her pure, sweet face looking lovingly into his, the question with which our story opens had been asked. "Do I love you, my little one?" responded Reginald, as he imprinted a large Eighteenth Ward kiss on the ruby-red lips that overhung the drooping, sensitive mouth. " Your heart, that unerring and ever vigilant monitor of the soul, must tell you in words far plainer than any utterance of mine, that without the inspiration of your love my life would be as dreary and aimless as the editorials in a Cleveland paper, and the days drift wearily by without one gleam of light to brighten the dreary horizon of my existence. You surely can not but know, Aphrodite, that before I knew you I was a wild, reckless man, and that when your love burst upon my sin-seared soul a sweet joy stole over my being a sense of calm, peaceful rest, such as the storm-tossed mariner feels when the glad sunlight comes in golden glory through a rift in the leaden clouds that have so long 42 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. o'erspread the horizon and looked upon the wind-swept sea in sullen glee, or comes to the belated traveler when the soft, mellow light of the unexpectedly-open saloon bursts upon his enraptured vision. My love for you and the knowledge that it is returned has given me an aim in life an aim, I may say, with a large A. With your bright face as a beacon light, my course shall be as unswerving as that of the majestic and eternal sun, whose fervid rays are even now kissing the limpid waters of the Pacific." " Say no more," interrupted Aphrodite. " I believe you fully." An hour later Reginald has just finished a polka with Juliet Mahaffy, and is standing near the conservatory discussing with her the question of whether a blue dog or a red tree with a chrome-yellow cow standing beneath it is the most suitable to be painted on a tea-cup, when the sound of voices reaches his ear. Glancing carelessly into the conservatory he sees Adelbert Quirk leaning over Aphrodite McGuire as she stands near the bay window, carelessly plucking to pieces a blush rose which she holds in her left hand. Adelbert is speaking very earnestly, and as Reginald listens he hears him say: "Your heart, that unerring and ever-vigilant monitor of the soul, must tell you in words far plainer than any utterance of mine, that without the inspiration of your love my life would be as dreary and aimless as the edi- torials in a Cleveland paper, and the day drift wearily by without one gleam of light to brighten the dreary horizon of my existence. You surely can not but " "Curses on the reporter!" said Reginald, in hoarse, LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 43 passionate tones. " He has sold us both the same speech " and with a face convulsed with passion he passed rap- idly into the supper room and again tackled the mince pie. HUMOR TO ORDER. It was a jolly editor Who said unto the man That writes the live-stock items: " Make an effort if you can Your matter to enliven, Like a true American. A r ork up a funny paragraph About the butting goat; Say that his fav'rit luncheon Is a winter overcoat. No matter what the subject is, Adorn it with a joke; Right in your line would be that of The pig within a poke. " Forth went the faithful live-stock man, But not with joy and hope; He knew that with the price of hog And cattle he could cope, But, having reached that point, beheld The limits of his rope. However, he came back when Xight Her sable pall had spread O'er all the earth, and to the wait- Ing editor he said: I've followed your instructions, and Of items have a score 44 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. All funny, and the first one will Most surely make you roar." The editor sat quickly down, Nor to his vassal spoke. The night was wild, one almost heard The raven's mournful croak The editor was ready for A very able joke. As Sitting-Bull," the joke began, " Was once upon a raid, He came upon some cattle, and To Scar-Face-Charley said: ' Please hold my pony, while your Chief A pearly tear doth shed, Nor interrupt my grief, or I Will on you put a head.' 1 For full an hour the warrior bold Indulged in saline wo; The other scalpers stood around In serried rank and row. 1 Now silent be,' said Scar-Faced-Charles, ' Give the old man a show.' But finally up spoke the chief: My comrades brave,' said he, ' You know that several moons ago My daughter, Laughing-Flea, Was buried 'neath the branches of Yon sturdy old oak tree; I sorrow ever for my child, Nor comforted can be. ' When I came up this hill to-day And saw the oak that rears Its haughty front that's braved the blast For full a hundred years, LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 45 I noticed that some cattle were At grass in yonder dell. To tell the truth, my faithful men, Your leader felt like h 1. I know I wept like any child, But it was not for grief A joke came o'er my senses, and My solemn thoughts were brief. Just wait, my boys, and hear it from Old Sitting-Bull, your Chief. ' Above my pretty daughter's grave The grass grows very green Just notice that, and then the force Of this joke will be seen. I saw the maiden's final home, The cattle grazing near The grassy grave, the cattle don't You tumble? hence these steers! The saying is an ancient one, /fine illce lachrimce; That's Latin, but you Injuns Haven't brains enough to see The very able joke that I Have builded up for thee.' " ***** " Depart in peace," the editor Remarked unto the man That did the live-stock markets; "In the coming days you can Get up the Lakeside Musings Here's your scissors and a pot With which to cut and paste the jokes From other papers got." 46 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. BLANKS BETWEEN THE STARS. "Oh my! Is this the place? " A good-looking young lady stood in the door of the editorial room and looked carefully around the apartment. "I want to see an editor," she continued "the one that writes those lovely articles in the Sunday papers about 'Satin de Lyon will be much worn this fall,' and 'Cape May fashionables do not consider striped bathing- suits fashionable,' and all those other sweet editorials about people who are going away for the summer, and everything like that, you know." " I guess you are looking for the society editor," said the horse reporter. "He is out just now, but if you want to know when Goldsmith Maid trotted in 2:16^ or what the two-mile record was in 1872, I could tell you all about it. What was it you wanted to see the society editor about? " "Well," said the young lady, "I really hate to tell you about this matter, but mamma said the best way would be to go right to a newspaper and see what I had better do, because ever since papa died we haven't had any man to put us right about such things, and mamma thinks just as I do, that in a case like this a man would be ever so much more apt to decide right on what was best to do, because women, you know, always let their feelings run away with their judgment, and frequently make mistakes in matters that perhaps affect their whole future existence. I told mamma that it seemed awfully queer to me to talk to a strange man about any such LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 47 thing as this, but she said editors were persons of great experience, and since dear papa was dead it would be a good deal better to find out what some man of experience thought about it before I went any further." "Were you able to talk when papa hit the last hurdle?" inquired the horse reporter. "Oh, yes; I was nearly nine when he died." "Your father must have left a large property?" "Well, he did," replied the girl, "but what made you think so?" "Oh, nothing," replied St. Julien's friend, "only I have noticed that lucky men are generally rich." " Well, of course I don't know anything about that," said the young lady, "but anyhow mamma thought I had better see some of you gentlemen about my affair. I am in love, you know, with a young man, and we are corres- ponding right along, but he doesn't seem to progress any about what I am thinking about, you know, and mamma says that probably my letters aren't quite tender enough, and it seemed to me that an editor ought to know about anything like that." "Did you ever try the blanks-between-the-stars racket?" asked the horse reporter. "The what?" " The blanks-between-the-stars racket. That's a daisy, and unless this young fellow is pretty fly the chances are that you will land him on the first throw. I have seen some pretty wise young men go against that deadfall and get caught not dry-goods clerks or any such tissue- paper ducks as those, you know, but boys that had been out after 9 o'clock for several consecutive nights, and 48 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. were supposed to be right in the front end of the pro- cession all the time." "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," said the young lady, "but I will try this "Racket," suggested the reporter. "Racket," continued the young lady, "if you will tell me about it." "Well," said the horse reporter, "the next time you write to Ethelbert, or whatever his name is, you just give it to him strong about the deathless passion that your heart holds for him a heart that has never before known what it was to be tortured by doubts and fears that the one on whom the priceless treasure of its love was set might prove unfaithful to that love, unworthy of the trusting heart which gave it birth. This will wake him up pretty well, and then is the time to find out where he lives. Say that without his love life would be an arid waste upon whose burning sands lay the whited skeletons of Love and Hope. That the days on which no letter comes from him are as the blanks between the stars seeming all the more dark and cheerless because of the brightness on either side." "Do you think that would have the desired result?" asked the girl. "If it doesn't, replied the horse reporter, you are lucky to lose him." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 49 A PARISIAN ROMANCE. Camilla was a scrub-girl in a large hotel in Paris. She loved Pierre, a young Gascon who blacked the boots of the guests. Pierre did not know this. Often she stood at the head of the back stairs and watched him scraping the mud from the shoes and humming softly to himself the song that he had learned when a boy. There was no hydrant in the little hallway where Pierre had his office, and often when the rush of travelers was great Pierre would have hard work to furnish enough saliva to prop- erly moisten the blacking. At these times, when he had gone to borrow a chew of tobacco from Fauche"ry, the night clerk, Camille would run quickly down the stairs and spit in the blacking-box. "It will save Pierre's lungs," she would say to herself, " and perhaps some day he will know of my love." Then she would go back to her scrubbing again. Always she thought of Pierre. One day she was at work in the fourth story of the hotel, cleaning a window-sill. Unconsciously she kept scrubbing away at the same place. Lisette, the boss chambermaid, came along. She did not like Camille, because the latter had once charged her with wearing striped stockings after they had gone out of fashion. " What are you doing? " said Lisette. " I am scrubbing," answered Camille. " I should remark," said Lisette, with a brutal laugh. "See, you have worn the paint off that window-sill. What will the landlady say when I tell her of this?" Then she passed on. A big tear slowly rolled down Camille's nose. "I 4 5 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. shall nave to pay for painting that window," she said sadly, "and it will take half my dot. Pierre is too proud to marry a penniless girl. O how I suffer." She was sadly silent all day, and seemed in a bewild- ered state, even declining to look at a fashion magazine which Fifine, a second-floor chambermaid who loved Ca- mille dearly, had found in one of the boarders' rooms. The next morning Camille was at the head of the back stairs, looking at Pierre as he cleaned the boots. Pres- ently Lisette came into the hallway where he was seated, and began talking to him. Camille leaned eagerly over the balusters to catch their words, but could hear nothing but a confused murmur. Presently Pierre became dem- onstrative, and attempted to kiss Lisette. She struggled coyly for a little while, but at last became passive. Just as his lips were about to touch hers, something came swiftly through the air and felled them to the floor. Camille had fallen over the balusters. ASSISTING THE DESERVING. "Could you find room for a Christmas story?" The editor, a man of kindly heart, looked quickly up from the work at which he was engaged, and saw by his side a girl of perhaps nineteen, perhaps thirty. It was she who had asked the question. It was not exactly a pretty face that looked so appealingly into that of the gruff, overworked editor, but there was in it such a look of sweet womanly purity, such a pleadingly-wistful expres- sion in the soft gray eyes, that the editor felt his heart go LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 51 out in pity toward the little miss whose cheeKS the Ice King had kissed into rosy bloom. " So you have written a Christmas story, my lass," he said in a cheery voice, " and would like to have it appear in the paper to-morrow? " " Yes, sir," replied the girl, in a voice whose rippling sweetness only served to link more strongly together the chains that were fast encircling the editor's heart. " Papa has been very sick for nearly three months now, and we are so poor, and I thought that perhaps if I wrote a story you might be good enough to pay me something for it not much, but enough to buy some trinkets for the children, little Ethel and Reginald, so that they would not think Santa Clans had deserted them entirely. If you knew how hard I have tried to get employment, and how I have cried myself to sleep many and many a night be- cause I seemed so helpless, so utterly alone in this great world, I am sure you would not think me bold in coming here as I do." There was a suspicious moisture in the editor's eyes when the little maiden had finished her story, and he sat for an instant in silence, thinking how his nine-year-old Tom, and fair-haired Grace, with the roguish ways, and sweet little Myrtle, who put her soft, white arms around his neck so lovingly every evening, were waiting at home for his coming, and of how their merry shouts would ring through the house when the morrow came and each tiny stocking was found filled with candies and toys. And then he thought of the beautiful young wife, the love of his early manhood, whom two years before he had laid away in the cold, cruel grave that claimed her for its own. And further still, his thoughts went back until they 52 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. came to a time when he was a little boy, and mother his own loved mother, who used to wear out a trunk strap on him every winter was alive, and how she would kiss him good-night, tenderly, and then heartlessly drag him out of bed at 9 or TO o'clock in the morning on the feeble pre- text that the girl wanted to clear up the room. His blue- eyed sister was alive then " Caramel Carrie," they used to call her and it came back to him this winter's day as he sat there in his office, how madly she loved him, and was so solicitous for his health that she would get mother to put him to bed early on the nights her beau was coming. He might have gone on for hours with these reveries, had not the pleading voice of the girl aroused him with the words: "And can you make room for my story?" The editor was on his feet in an instant. " Make room for it, my dear? Why, of course I can" and taking three or four communications on the Guiteau trial out of the waste-basket, he placed the girl's Christmas story in the hole thus produced. " You have made a better man of me," he said to the girl, "and I am going to let you ride down in the elevator." ENTERING JOURNALISM. "Can I come in?" A young man whose clothes were suspiciously new, and upon whose face there was a complacent, self-satis- fied expression, stood in the doorway of the editorial rooms and propounded the above interrogatory in a very loud and declamatory tone of voice. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 53 " I suppose you can," said the horse reporter, " unless you are afflicted with some constitutional malady which prevents your putting one foot in front of the other, or have got a pair of hobbles on. There have some daisy fellows come up here lately, but you are the first one that wanted to know whether he could go through an open door." " I didn't mean exactly that," continued the young man. "What I wanted to know, was, if I could come into the room for a few minutes." "Certainly, you can; only don't say anything to the effect that we ought to have a pleasant summer after such a rainy spring, or you may find yourself a pallid corpse in the donjon keep beneath the moated turrets of the castle. If you are looking for the Hawkinsville Clarion or the Gnindy County Palladium, you will find them in that pile of papers over in the corner. If you are aweary, and fain would woo the drowsy god, ask the man in the next room for the Boston Advertiser. A Boston paper will make insomnia flee away as the black wraiths of despair and desolation vanish before the golden rays of hope. Don't mistake yon haggard paste-pot for a cup-custard, because in its contents there is a generous admixture of deceased cockroaches that but a few short days agone were members of happy family circles now, alas! sun- dered by the cruel hand of a darksome and unrelenting fate." " I don't want to read any exchanges," said the young man. " The object of my visit was to see the principal editor the one who makes engagements with jour- nalists." "The what?" 54 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. "The editor who makes engagements with journalists." " Oh, you mean the man that hires the hands. He's in the other room. Do you want a job?" "Well," said the young man in a rather haughty man- ner, " I have some thoughts of entering the journalistic profession." " You mean that you want to hire out as a deck-hand on a newspaper, don't you?" " Perhaps that is your way of expressing it, sir," said the young man, "but our professor of rhetoric always told us that " "Oh, you're a college graduate, are you?" said the horse reporter. " I thought you had a kind of I-shall- now-go-forth-and-take-charge-of-affairs air about you. I suppose you graduated last week?" "Yes, sir," was the reply, "and I may say that my oration " " I know all about it," interrupted the horse reporter. "You spoke a piece about 'Life's Mission,' or 'Our Country's Future,' or something like that, and when you had finished it the young lady in the percale dress, whom you have been taking to the weekly meetings of the Pla- tonian Literary Society for the last two years, sent a big bouquet up to the platform for you, with a little piece of rose-tinted note-paper in the centre of it, with ' From one who admires Genius ' written on it. And then a lot of Teutonic musicians blew themselves black in the face playing the Star Spangled Banner. And in the evening you went to the President's reception with the female ad- mirer of Genius, and on the way home you told her that, now you were about to enter upon a new sphere of ac- tion, to go forth and to battle with the world, and carve LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 55 for yourself a niche high in the temple of fame, you felt that you must tell her how your whole existence was wrapped up in a pure, holy love for her a love that would never falter or fade as long as life remained. And then she laid her head trustfully on your manly breast, and sd^d that she would not try to conceal from you the fact, ever present in her heart, that you were the one man in the wide, wide world upon whom she could freely bestow that most precious of all gifts the tender, true and all-absorbing love of a pure woman. But in about five years, things will look different. There are now more young men who started out to carve a niche high in the temple of fame chasing large red steers over the arid plains of Texas, or delivering mackerel to the first fam- ilies, than you can shake a stick at." "But surely, sir, you do not mean to insinuate that a college education is in any way a hindrance to the ac- complishment of those ends which it should ever be the aim of all who have the welfare of their country at heart to bring about?" "That's just the trouble," said the horse reporter. " You college graduates always start out with the idea that it is your mission to manipulate the entire universe, when, as a matter of fact, the most of you wouldn't do to leave in charge of one small back-yard. Because a young man knows all about the square of the hypoth- enuse, and can reel off chunks of Roman history, it does not necessarily follow that there is a wild competition among business men for his valuable services. If the employers of America never go lame until their legs give out from running after college graduates, there will be the soundest lot of underpinning on record in this coun- 56 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. try. Erudition is a fine thing, but you can't get much board on it in this town." " But, sir," said the graduate, " the annals of every coun- try in which the highest civilization has obtained, show that it is the men of letters who shape the destinies "There you go again!" said the horse reporter* "Talk- ing about shaping destinies, and all such gruel as that. Don't you worry about destiny. The chances are that, even if you were to fall over what you don't know and break your neck to-morrow, somebody would look after the destiny-shaping business all right. Your best hold for the next year or two will be checking off barrels of A i sugar for some wholesale grocery house over on River street. Destiny won't get left any, in the meanwhile." " Then you do not think I will be able to make my mark in the journalistic profession?" "You might," replied the horse reporter, "if you were to go up-stairs and fall over some type, but not otherwise at present." "But I might do some preliminary work," suggested the young man; "write some sketches and things of that kind." "Yes, you could do that." "What would you suggest for a nom de plume?" "Well," replied the horse reporter, "I should say that 'Affable Imbecile' would about fill the bill for you." "Good day, sir. I will keep my eye on journalism and await an opportunity to join its ranks." "All right," said the horse reporter; "but in case the street-car conductors get up another strike you had bet- ter remove your optic from journalism and head for the car-barns." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 57 IMPROVED UNDERGARMENTS. It was a Vassar graduate, of form and feature fair. That came unto an Editor who sat within his lair Her face of pure Madonna type, a silver sheen her hair. "I know, sir," said the lovely maid, "that journalists who seek To reach the pinnacle of fame and sit astride its peak, Must strike out from the trodden path and virgin conquests seek. " What broader field can ever be before your vision laid Than that in which are seen alike the matron and the maid The holy sphere of Womanhood true Womanhood?" she said. The Editor his eagle eye cast stealthily around. No voice was near, nor heard he then of welcome feet the sound; Nor did he weigh, so scared was he, eight ounces to the pound. " The thralldom," said the graduate, "in which our sex is held By Fashion's rigid laws, no doubt, you often have beheld. Now I will break those galling chains, and Health to Beauty weld. "And ere again upon the earth doth softly beam the moon, Your facile pen shall tell the world of Woman's greatest boon My patent non-reversible, self-acting chemiloon." Up sprang the pallid Editor. " Hence, horrid fiend! " he cried. " I had a friend, a winsome lad, who took himself a bride A maid of culture, birth, and blood, and property beside. ' But hardly had the honeymoon its blissful zenith reached, When she began to argue, and forever more she preached That hygienic night-shirts were of cotton made, unbleached. " He bought the fatal garment, and (the- bare thought makes me sick) At once imagined that he was a well-disguised bedtick. His reason fled, and now he is a chemiloonatic." 5 8 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. THE FATAL DREAM. Summer in Coshocton. The soft, rhythmic, sensuous swaying of a pair of striped stockings which hung in graceful fashion from a clothes-line that flecked the horizon in the rear of Brierton Villa and lent a warm tint to the turquoise bloom of the dreamy Italian sky that looked down in all its azure beauty that August morning, attracted the attention of Cecil Dare, as he walked listlessly up the gravel path leading to the little rose-embowered summer-house in which he was to meet Clytie Corcoran the proud, stately beauty to whom all these broad acres with their wealth of golden grain, orchards nodding with the weight of rosy-cheeked apples, and the old slab-sided family cow that had kicked Clytie's father into the great Beyond, of which we know so little and are not wildly anxious to find out more by personal exploration would belong when the two months that must elapse before she became of age, had passed. As he walked slowly along, his hands clasped behind him in such fashion that the large, gaudy bone-spavin on the third finger of his right hand, which was all that was left to him of his college education as a third-baseman, did not show, one thought was in his mind, one care in his heart. But it was a bitter, bug-in-the-cream-pitcher thought, and, strive as he might to put it away, to forget even for an instant its haunting presence, the attempt was of no avail, and this man, proud in the possession of buoyant health, great physical strength, and mental vigor of no ordinary kind, felt that unless relief soon came to him, death, or even life in St. Louis, would be LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 59 preferable to his present state of misery and haggard agony. "Are you dreaming, darling? " And as Cecil Dare looked up in surprise at the sound of the voice whose tones he knew so well, Clytie Corcoran stood by his side, and be- fore he could answer her question she had placed her shapely arms around his neck and pressed with her dewy lips upon his cheek a warm, throbbing, there-is-no-danger- as-long-as-you-grab-the-chair kiss, that seemed to him ike a benediction. "And you are late, too," continued the girl, looking more beautiful than ever as she stood there, the sun-glints that came down through the white-crowned blossoms of the apple trees seeming to kiss the coronet of golden hair that lay in simple, door-knob fashion on the queenly head, while the wind sweet breath of morning brought to her dimpled cheeks the rosy flush that only perfect health and the right kind of face-powder can give. " You are nearly three minutes behind time, and if you knew how dreary and desolate those moments have been to me, how my heart has been tortured by agonizing doubts and fears, I am sure you would not, if you loved me, ever be so cruel again." "Forgive me, my precious one," said Cecil, in low, murmurous tones as he bent lovingly over the girl and pressed a cold, calm, Historical Society kiss on a brow that was fair as the cyclamen leaves in the woods around them; "I will never be late again." "And I will never leave you," said the girl, "when the maddening ecstacy of our love has found fruition in marriage. I will always be by your side until death " "Hold! do not speak of death," cried Cecil, drawing 60 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. her still more closely to him. "I had such a terrible dream last night; such a dreadful, eerie dream, that I shudder even now when I think of it." "What was it, sweetheart?" asks Clytie. "I dare not tell you," he answers, his voice seeming almost like a moan, so greatly is he affected. "But you must tell me," she persists; "surely you can trust me, your future bride, with any secret.' "It was nothing," he says, trying to laugh away the horror that even the thought of the dreadful vision had called up to his face. "But I insist on knowing," she says, "and if you do not tell me I shall know that you do not love me as you say; that you do not trust me fully, religiously, implicitly, as I do you. Oh, Cecil, this is not kind of you; indeed, it is not! I have lain my whole heart bare to you, given to you the one and all-absorbing passion of a pure woman's first and only love. I have had no secrets from you. I have told you everything, even about the corn on my little toe. Is it not so?" And as she stands looking up to him with wistful eyes in which the mists of sorrow are gathering, he feels that to doubt her love, to refuse her any confidence, would be worse than a crime it would be a sacrilege. "I will tell you, then, precious one," he says, "but you must be brave very brave." " I will," she answers. "I dreamed," he said, "that we were married, but had become very, very poor too poor, in fact, to keep even one servant, and that you, my bonny little blossom, that had never before known want, or sorrow, or suffering, were obliged to do all your own household work." LAKESIDE AfUSINGS. 61 "But there is nothing so terrible about that," interrupts Clytie. "I am young and strong." "Wait," he says, in a ghostly whisper. "I dreamed that on the first day of our poverty you made some pie apple pie and told me nothing about it And Clytie sees his face grow paler, as all the horror of the scene presses upon him. "Well?" she says, interrogatively. " I ate a piece of the pie," he continues, "and can you not guess?" "My God!" shrieks the girl, in an agony of grief, "how long did you live?" "Fifteen minutes" and, kissing her tenderly, he said: "We must part forever, Clytie. It would be wrong to take such chances. Am I not right, sweetheart ? " Looking into his face with a yearning, passionate expression that showed how her heart was being riven by this terrible experience, she said, with clenched hands and lips that were white with agony: " I should smirk to twitter." A MODERN BALAKLAVA. Up the stairs, up the stairs, Up to the skylight, Came a young graduate All in the twilight. ' ' Gosh ! how my legs do ache, These stairs will take the cake. " Up to the editor's room Climbed the third -baseman. 62 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. He is at last at top, Only too glad to stop And rest his weary limbs On a plush sofa. His not to reason why, His but to keep up high; His but to keep his eye Peeled for reporters. He went into a room, Where, in the gathering gloom, Sat a man writing. " I want a job," he said, " Latin and Greek I've read." Up to the editor's desk Stepped the ex-senior. Flashed the good club in air. On the young head so bare Clattered and thundered. Gently they took him out, He has gone up the spout, Nobody blundered. THE STORY OF LUCY. After Lucy had grown up to be a Young Lady, she was quite good looking, and wore a great many nice clothes. She had been to Boarding-School, and when she came home had forgotten how to do any work. But she could play "The Maiden's Prayer" and "The Bat- tle of Prague " on the piano very Nicely while her Mother LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 63 was hanging out clothes in the back-yard Monday after- noons. But although Lucy could do all this, her Papa did not seem to be satisfied, for he was a person of no Culture, who said girls ought to know how to Cook and be of some Earthly Account around the house. He would say these Cruel Words to Lucy sometimes, and then she would go up-stairs three steps at a time, Slam the door of her room, and Weep Bitterly. But before evening came and it was time for her Young Man to Show Up, the tears would all be gone, and she would put powder on her face and go down into the Parlor about 8 o'clock looking Pretty Slick. And when the Young Man came she would run to the door with a Radiant Smile and have such an ingenue look on her face that the Young Man would never suspect her of sometimes getting very Angry and slamming things around. And after Lucy and the Young Man had sat in the parlor about three hours and Whiled Away the Evening he would start for home, and she would go with him to the door and kiss him On The Quiet. One evening while Lucy was waiting for the Young Man, her father came into the room. Just then she began to sing a song called "Will My Darling Come Again? " When she had finished, her Father looked at her steadily for a moment, and then said: "I don't think he will, if he ever Drops on your Warble." I do not think that was just the remark for Lucy's Papa to make. He might have said that her Darling would probably come if she sent two policemen and a Requisition after him, or some harmless thing like that, LAKESIDE MUSINGS. but to give a girl such a Racket about her singing is hardly Square. After Lucy returned from Boarding-School and began Laying Pipe to secure the Young Man of whom I told you in my last number, she coaxed her Papa to let her take lessons from a Singing Master, and pretty soon she could Vocalize quite well, and loved dearly to sit in the Parlor and Turn Herself Loose at the piano. Lucy was very partial to Sentimental songs, and seemed to be a Little Gone on those that had rather sappy titles, and the words to which did not mean anything in particular. She would hustle around the Music Stand for awhile, and then Come to The Surface with a lot of such Truck as "Angel Voices Now Are Calling," " Darling, Kiss My Eyelids Down," "When the Brown is On the Heather," and so forth. To hear Lucy singing " Tread Lightly, for Mother is Sleeping," while her Mamma was out in the yard with her mouth full of Clothespins, was worth quite a journey, but Lucy never seemed to think of the Incongruity of such proceedings. She would Wrestle with the piano every day, while both her Parents were working hard, and never think that Idleness is the Mother of Matinees, and that the Singing Girl gathers no Boss. One beautiful summer evening she was Having Her Hoot as usual, and had got far enough into the pile of music so that she was singing Sentimental Songs. Fi- nally she started on the one that begins, " I Am Sitting in the Glen," when suddenly her Papa, who had been try- ing to read the Paper, turned to his Wife and said: " How much do you think it would cost, mother, to move LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 65 a fair-sized glen about nine miles, and fix things so that it couldn't come back?" Then Lucy began to cry, and said that her Papa' was a Brute. One evening Lucy's Young Man did not keep his en- gagement to come and help her Hold down the Sofa, and she was very angry, because the Young Man gener- ally brought along a box of Candy, and Lucy could make it Look Tired about as easily as any girl in town. So she sat down at the Piano and began to sing. Af- ter she had given the folks a Sample of "When the Roses Bloom Again," "Only a Pansy Flower," "Empty is the Cradle," and a few other Gems of Melody that would make a man feel like committing Murder, her Father said that perhaps she had better Quit, as he didn't care about having the Patrol Wagon making useless trips on such a cold night. Lucy made no reply to this remark of her Father's, but only slammed the music down pretty Hard, probably to show what she could do in case she should ever Get Real Hot s Then she began to play the Piano, starting in with "The Battle of Prague." When she had finished the piece her Papa went across the Room to where his oldest son was sitting and handed him Fifty Dollars. "Why, Papa," said Lucy, "what are you giving James all that money for?" "Your brother bet me Fifty Dollars," he replied "that you would Knock Out the Piano in the First Round, and I am giving up the Bundle." Then Lucy began to Cry, and said that her Father and Brother were Nasty, Horrid Things. But they only 6 66 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. laughed at her, and when she had gone up-stairs her Papa said to James: "Let us open a Small Bottle." frlen are very Curious Creatures, children. They will frequently open a Small Bottle, and then go home and tell their Wives that times are too hard to buy a new Bonnet. But sometimes these men Lose Their Grip, and turn up about Thirteen or Fourteen o'clock at night, hav- ing had to hire a Hack to get home in, and then some- body gets a Sealskin Sacque. THE STORY OF ATALANTA. " Would it be too much trouble for one of you gentle- men to tell me where I can find the literary editor?" said a nice-looking young man as he entered the editorial rooms. "No trouble at all to tell you where he is," replied the trotting-horse reporter; "the main difficulty would be in your getting there to interview him. The literary editor is at present breasting the sun-kissed billows of the limpid lake at least, that's where he said he was going. He is a yachter." "A what?" asked the young man at the door. "A yachter sails around in a boat, and talks about shivering his timbers, and belaying his tarry toplights, and all such things as that. You bet he's a daisy naviga- tor always carries a compass in his pocket, and takes ob- servations every sunny afternoon before he starts for home 'getting his bearings,' he calls it calls going LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 67 around a corner, 'jibing,' whatever that is, and always re- fers to his overcoat pocket as a 'mizzen hatch.' I'll bet he can distance a Rear-Admiral the first heat, when it comes to lugging out nautical terms. Our marine re- porter is a pretty nifty boy on such matters I guess he would recognize a bobstay if he met one walking up the street but the literary editor would make J. Fenimore Cooper and Capt. Mayne Reid think they were born in Iowa and had never been nearer the sea than Keokuk. He's a two-tenner, and no mistake." "What is it you call him?" again asked the man at the door. "A yachter." "You probably mean a yachtsman," suggested the visitor. "Probably I do," was the reply, in a somewhat dis- appointed tone of voice. "A man can't make a peep around here but what some duck picks him up on the pronunciation of a word, and they have done it to me so often that I expect before the summer is over they will be trying to give me pointers on Goldsmith Maid's pedi- gree, or some other little thing that every school-boy ought to know." " I wished to see the literary editor in regard to a poem which I would like to see in next Sunday's paper," said the young man. "Did you write this poem yourself?" asked the horse reporter. "Yes, sir," was the reply. " I thought so," continued the admirer of Iroquois. " I thought there gleamed within your starry eye that weird, haunting look that enables us to drop on a. 68 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. poet the minute he shows up. What is your poem about?" "Atalanta." "I don't think that's much of a subject," said the authority on overhead checks. " Atlanta is only a sec- ond-class town, anyhow. Why didn't you wind up your muse for a few stanzas about Chicago, or Deadwood, or some place where things are lively. That would give your intellect a chance. You could just take off the bridle and cut her loose, on a subject like that." "I rather think you misapprehend me," said the poet. " My little effort does not relate to Atlanta, Ga., but to a person in classical history concerning which you are doubtless in ignorance " and the upper lip of the poet curled in fine scorn. "Oh, you mean Atalanta, do you, instead of Atlanta?" replied the horse reporter. " How thoughtless of me to make such a mistake. I suppose you know all about Attie, and the big steeplechase she was in? " "Well," said the poet, in a hesitating manner, "of course I am familiar with the classics, but it has never come under my observation that Atlanta was ever the heroine of any such episode as the one to which you allude." " Didn't know she was on the turf, and won the liveli- est race ever run in Arcadia? " "No, sir, I did not," replied the poet. "Then you are not so sweetly fly as I took you to be," said the horse reporter, "and I will give you a few point- ers on Grecian history, and sweep away with the dimpled hand of Knowledge the cobwebs of ignorance that ob- scure the horizon of your powerful mind. Atalanta was. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 69 the daughter of lasos, a high-rolling old Greek, a de- scendant of Areas and Clymene, the daughter of Minyas. When Attie was born the old man made a great kick. He was anxious for a male heir, and when his wife gave birth to a daughter things were pretty warm on the street where he lived. ' No such racket as this for me,' said lasos. ' I don't propose to put in the balance of my life buying sealskin jackets and six-button gloves for this girl.' So he put the little girl on the top of a mountain, where a bear suckled her, and she was found by some hunters, who reared her, and she followed the chase for a living. Finally, old man lasos discovered that the beautiful huntress was his daughter, and took her home. When he wished her to marry, she consented on condition that her suitors should run a race with her a kind of weight-for-age handicap on the following terms: They were to run without arms, and she was to carry a dart in her hand. Her lovers were to start first, and whoever arrived at the goal before her would be made her hus- band; but all those whom she overtook were to be killed by the dart. As Attie had lots of speed and was dead game, pretty much all the tony boys in Arcadia were soon lying on the race-track with a stick through their livers; but one fellow I guess likely he was a ringer finally beat her. His name was Meilanion, and he was a regular masher. Venus just went loony about him, and had given him three apples from the garden of Hesper- ides. So when Meilanion started in the race with Ata- lanta, he just whooped himself until he reached the quar- ter pole, and then he dropped one of the apples. Ata- lanta stopped to look at the beautiful fruit, and Meilan- ion got a long lead. He played this game at the half ;o LAKESIDE MUSINGS. and three-quarter mile poles, and then scooted down the homestretch at his best lick. Atalanta gave him a good race, but he finally beat her half a length in 2:24^, and then she married him. That's a correct summary of the race, sonny, and you can bet on it" and the horse re- porter smiled affably. THE TEST OF LOVE. "I should blush to twitter." These words were uttered in a half-laughing, half-seri- ous tone by a beautiful girl of nineteen who stood on the veranda of a turreted villa and looked with eager, wistful gaze toward the West, where the setting sun was gilding with its expiring rays the green-topped hills and heather- hedged vales which lay between Jackson Hall and the great lake on whose blue bosom idly floated a fine fleet of lumber hookers. Turning quickly from her contem- plation of the golden halo which the setting sun cast over the earth, Miriam Jackson spoke to her father, saying: "Are you going to Kenosha this evening, papa?" "No, darling," was the reply, the voice of the pork- packer instinctively assuming a more tender tone as he addressed his only daughter, " not Kenosha some other station on the North-Western Road." And springing lightly into a coupe which drove up to the door, he kissed his hand to Miriam, and was gone. "At last," she said softly to herself, "at last he has gone, and left me alone alone with my thoughts. And LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 71 what are those thoughts? what can they be, except of George and my love for him that love which has gilded my heart with its bright, beautiful rays of hope, as the morning sun gilds the Alhambra Palace. Oh, George, without your love I should indeed be a desolate girl.' When Miriam was started, she could go quite a clip. ******* Over the closely-trimmed lawn, whose velvety surface gave forth no sounds as his feet pressed heavily upon it, came a young man a strong, handsome fellow in the full flush or straight flush whichever suits the reader best of early manhood. Miriam did not see him, but the faith- ful watch-dog did, and came bounding forth from his ken- nel, grabbing the young man blithely by the seat of the pants, and galloping away in merry glee to the back-yard with his mouth full of gents' furnishing goods. Fortu- nately for George W. Simpson, the jocund day was swiftly waning, and gray-hooded night was spreading her sable mantle o'er all, including his pants. Stepping still more softly over the lawn, he was on the porch seated in a chair, before Miriam was aware of his presence, and it was only when he spoke her name in the low, dulcet tones that one only acquires by living in Chicago and trying to talk while a tug is taking some vessels through the river, that she knew of his presence. Running quickly to him, she knelt by his side, and placing her fair young face close to his, said: "Is it you, darling?" George never deceived a trusting heart. "It is me," he said, admitting his identity and lack of familiarity with Lindley Murray at the same time. " I was so awfully afraid you wouldn't come," continued the girl, "and papa acted as if he never would go, and 72 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. really and truly, I began to think that perhaps you had missed the train, and then again that maybe you didn't love me at all, and ever and ever so many dreadfully hor- rid things, that I was almost ready to cry. But you are here now, aren't you, darling? " With a rib-cracking hug the young man testified to his presence. Then looking tenderly into the blue eyes, and kissing fondly the red lips, he said: "Are you sure you love me, little one?" "Sure! " exclamed the girl, starting to her feet. "Are you sure that you exist? are you sure that the sun will rise to morrow?" George Simpson did not reply. He had lived ni Chicago many years, and had long since quit betting on sure things. "So sure, ' said Miriam, "as yon planet that shines so brightly in the eastern horizon will be there when another day shall have run its course, so sure is it that my love for you will never, can never, fade or falter." George liked this. He didn't know what horizon meant, and was a trifle hazy about planet, but when Miriam talked about the day running its course, he was at home. He visited a running-course every summer, and generally got his money on the wrong horse. "I must test her love," he said softly to himself, and turning to the girl, he said: "And would you prove your love, my own?" "Would I, my darling? Try me; that is all I ask." Bending low over the tiny pink ear, George Simpson whispered into it a few earnest words. A rosy flush suf- fused Miriam's cheek as she rose, and without a word led George to her father's room. "In there," she said, "are pants till you can't rest." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 73 The door closed behind him with a heavy clang. Five minutes later he emerged, clad in a pair of trousers be- longing to the haughty pork-packer. Miriam had proven her love. THE POET'S FATE. It was a solemn-looking gent Said to the boy that ran The elevator: "Canst thou tell Me where I'll find the man That puts into the paper The item 'bout the snake? For I have one, my gentle youth, That's bound to take the cake. Full oft the elevator boy Had heard men talk thus queer, And knew 'twas but a ruse to get The editorial ear, And pour into its tiny shell Bad epics about Spring, Or else, perchance, remark that Time Was ever on the wing. He gazed upon the stranger man From out his clear blue eye, And said: " Methinks, my gentle sir, You're playing rather high; But turn into yon hallway, And open wide the door " Then to himself this wicked youth Laughed till his sides were sore. 74 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. It was the dreadful poet's lair In which the stranger went, But quickly came he out again, On other things intent; For, lo! the faithful bull-dog On his new pants had lunched, While the machine that makes blank verse His ribs had sorely punched. AN ICONOCLASTIC PAPA. They sat alone in a deeply-shaded recess of the bay window, Violet Caryll and Adelbert Jones, while just be- yond them through the filmy lace curtains of marvelous texture and priceless worth could be seen the forms of the merry dancers as they swept languidly by in the sen- suous measures of the waltz, fair young faces laid trust- fully against shoulder-blades, and beautiful forms en- circled by strong, manly arms that would gladly have held them forever and sheltered them from the storms that life, however fair it seems, must bring to all. Nearly a twelvemonth ago these two, sitting in the window, had plighted their troth. Violet Caryll was the only daughter of a purse-proud millionaire, and accus- tomed to every luxury that money could purchase, while Adelbert Jones was only a poor book-keeper, with no chance to steal anything and get ahead in the world. He had come to the soiree dansante given by Violet's father in honor of her nineteenth birthday, and had wandered LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 75 with her to the bay window, where, secure from observa- tion, they might talk of the all-absorbing passion that bound their hearts together in the silken fetters of love. " I have been thinking of you, darling, all the day," said Violet in a low, sweet voice, the very modulations of which told better than words of how her whole being was wrapped up in the love she bore the strong-limbed young man whose eyes looked into hers with such a ten- der expression. " I have not been here at all, but away, away I hardly know where. Only in the land that my footsteps have lingered in all day, I never cried for love that did not come, nor felt hungered for love's own gifts, nor felt lonely nor desolate, nor afraid. Because, beneath the turquoise skies of my mystical dreamland, in the rose-laden air, love was always with me; love, with strong arms, and clinging kisses, and deathless tender- ness. And I knew no loneliness, nor sorrow, nor heart- break." "But you do not doubt my love, sweetheart," he mur- mured, bending over her with lover-like tenderness and kissing softly the wine-red lips that overhung the sensi- tive, drooping mouth. "No," she said, looking at him with proud, love-lit eyes, while a winsome smile lent additional beauty to the fair face. "I do not doubt you for an instant, only when I am lonely and sad, and then I think that some one more beautiful than I may win you from me. I know that I am not beautiful, Adelbert, and in my jealous mo- ments it comes to me with a great throb the power of beauty over a man. Soft, pearly flesh, rounded curves, sweet red lips, velvety eyes all the magic and marvel of tint and texture of outline when I think of this, I say, 76 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. I am in utter despair " and the proud girl crushed with cruel force between her white, tapering fingers a flower- pot that stood with others in the window. The noise at- tracted the attention of her father, who was passing by, and he pushed aside the curtains and entered. ****** * "How much will a new window cost?" said old Mr. Caryll to his agent the next morning. "Did he take the sash with him?" "Yes." "About fifteen dollars." * * * * * * * Two years later Violet Caryll married a man who owned two steam barges and a tug. But her heart was desolate and her young love blighted. A SEA TALE. It was night on the water. The black waves with their foaming crests beat with sullen roar against a rocky coast, seeming to chant in thunderous tones the requiem of those who had perished in the treacherous bosom of the deep. In the little cottage that stood near the promontory known as "Rupert's Leap" (so called because a hardy fisherman named Rupert, when under the influence of liquor, offered to bet that no one was sucker enough to jump from it into the sea), sat an old man and a girl, the latter just budding into womanhood and striped hose. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 77 "Tis a wild night without," said the fisherman, as he listened to the weird music of the gale as it howled dis- mally over moor and woodland. The old man had been to a Wagner concert once, but came back with the re- mark that there was no use in paying two dollars for what you could get at home any time the wind blew. "Yes, grandpapa, the north wind is abroad; heaven help the poor sailors that must face it! " "Fifteen years ago this spring, Miriam, your father's good ship, the Mary Ann, of Gopher Creek, went down with all on board." "Why didn't some of them get off?" asked the maid- en; but her query was unheeded. The old man was listening intently, every nerve strained to catch the faintest sound. " I knew it," he suddenly exclaimed. " Did you not hear that faint boom just now?" "Yes," said the girl, "but I thought it was Logan's." " Jest not, girl, at such a time as this. Fellow-crea- tures are in danger. The life-boat must be manned." And putting on his oil-skin coat, the brave old veteran started out into the raging tempest, leaving the girl alone with her thoughts and a plug of tobacco that, in his excitement, her grandsire had left. Down to the cliffs went the old man. The villagers were already there and had lighted a bonfire, by whose fitful glare could be seen a vessel a finely-insured craft lying crosswise on a reef about a mile from shore. A few of the crew could be discerned clinging to the main- top-yard, one of whom seemed to be the captain, as he had the anchor in his hand and was apparently giving orders, 78 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. " If the spritsail-yard holds the bobstay in place, they may yet be saved," said Gaffer Johnson, peering anx- iously in the direction of the stranded ship. " 'An it parts, what then? " asked a young man who had pushed his way from the outskirts of the crowd to where the old heads were assembled. "Heaven help the underwriters," said Gaffer, senten- tiously. " But something should be done to save those unfor- tunate men," said the youth. " Have you no plan?" But none could be thought of. The ship was evi- dently breaking np, and soon nothing but broken frag- ments would be left of the once stanch hull. Word had been sent to the nearest life-saving station, but would it arrive in time? The suspense was dreadful. Suddenly the noise of wheels was heard, and amid the nearty cheers of the fishermen a foaming horse galloped up to them with the precious life-line and cannon be- hind him. By this time two of the five men at the mast- head had become exhausted and dropped into the seeth- ing torrent below, never to rise. By the gray light of morning which stole slowly over the eastern hills, the three almost exhausted sailors saw the approach of the life-saving apparatus and took heart. Huddled together in the cross-trees, they looked like tiny things, instead of brawny men of giant strength. With the life-saving crew came renewed activity. The cannon was quickly loaded, and the bomb that was to carry the precious line to the wreck placed carefully in its mouth. Old Tom Gassaway, who had killed more whales (around the stove) than any other man in Nan- tucket since his father died, stood with the lanyard in LAKESIDE MUSINGS 79 hand. Carefully he sighted the cannon, and at length was ready. It was a moment of awful suspense. At last he fired. When the smoke had cleared away, all eyes were turned in the direction of the ship. A cry went up. Tom's aim had been a true one. He had shot the men off the mast. HE BLUFFED AND WON. " I prithee do not go." Reginald Mulcahey turned as these words, spoken in tones that were tenderly thrilling, fell upon his good right ear, and advanced slowly up the plank sidewalk that led from the portcullis to the front steps of the ter- raced castle of Ethelbert McMurty, eighth Duke of Blue Island Avenue. "I thought you would speak to me, Lady Constance," he said, to a tall, shapely maiden of nineteen summers, who stood on the veranda of the castle. " I thought you could not send me away forever without one word of hope one little, tiny, Democratic-vote-in-Iowa hope. I know full well that in the dreary, dismal, New-York-/^/- editorial future, which rises up before me like a black- winged spectre of the night, there can be naught in my life but desolate days whose hours shall pass with leaden feet, and black, bitter nights, when I shall toss around restlessly in a poker game, thinking only of the love that has gone from me forever. We may never meet again. Constance probably never shall, unless I begin going to So LAKESIDE MUSINGS. . the matinees but I should like to feel that, although you can never love me again, never let me buy candy for you, there is still in your heart a kindly feeling, a tinge of pity, for one to whom your sweet face has for many, many years way back before the White Stockings won the championship been a beacon light to guide him safely o'er the wind-swept sea of North Side life. Am I hoping for too much?" And the beautiful brown eyes that had witched so many hearts from behind the ribbon counter looked into those of Constance McMurty with a wistful, pleading, don't-untie-the-dog-if-you-love-me look that would have melted a heart of Chicago beefsteak. For an instant the girl did not reply. A look of pa n, as if some sad memory had been recalled by Reginald's words, or a corset steel got loose, passed over her face; and then, regaining her composure by a mighty effort, she placed a tiny gloved hand on the young man's shoulder, and spoke in low, measured tones, that showed, far more than could any words, the terrible intensity of the agony that this separation was causing her: "For two years, Reginald," she said, "I have loved you with a deep, passionate, all-absorbing love that would make your head swim if you only knew about it. I have looked forward with pride and joy in my girlish in- nocence and enthusiasm to the day when you should lead me to the nuptial altar, and crown the sweet spring-time of my life with the golden glory of a love that should last forever. I had whispered to myself that I should make you a faithful, loving, always-have-breakfast-in- time wife. There has come to me often a vision of a happy home, where I should pass my days in happiness and stocking mending. But the vision has gone, the LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 81 beautiful blue sky, with its fringe of rose-tinted clouds, has passed away, and in its place I see an angry firma- ment, across which drift the leaden clouds of despair. And so it is best that we should part now, before supper, and let the dead past be its own undertaker." Reginald saw that all hope was gone, that he was cer- tain to be left on third base. " Good-bye, Constance," he murmured. " I must go now, because I want to stop on my way over town and buy my sister a sealskin sacque." The girl turned quickly and looked at him earnestly. " Do you mean what you say?" she asked, in hoarse, anx- ious tones. " I do," was the reply. " And would you buy your wife a sealskin sacque ? " "Certainly," said Reginald; "two of them, if she liked." A happy smile spread over the girl's face. Twining her arms around Reginald's neck, she placed her tiny bead on his shoulder, and then the little rosebud mouth puckered up with a sweet, beatific pucker, as she said, in tender tones : " You may call again this evening. Heaven intended us for each other." VIEWS ON ART. "Good day, gentlemen." A rather pretty young lady stood in the doorway of the editorial rooms, and paused in graceful expectancy after announcing her presence. 6 82 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. "Do you object," she continued, "to my talking to you gentlemen a little while on a matte: which may be of interest to you?" "I don't," replied the horse reporter. "If any person can gain instruction or amusement from a chaste conver- sation with me, they are welcome to do so. Heaven fore- fend that I should, by the thoughtless refusal of an in- nocent request, embitter forever a life that would other- wise be bright and happy. What direction would you like to have the conversation take? 1 know some daisy stories concerning the trials to which early missionaries in Africa were subjected through neglecting to take mos- quito bars with them; and a corker about a man in Ohio, who, forgetting that his wife was born in Boston, said he would sooner own Goldsmith Maid than be the author of Emerson's works." "It wasn't anything of that kind I desired," said the young lady, blushing very prettily. "The purpose of my visit was to call your attention to a work of art I am engaged in selling," and she unfolded a picture which represented two boats lying alongside of each other on a placid sheet of water, one containing a young man and the other a young woman. "Is that the work of art?" asked the horse re- porter. "Yes, sir." "What's the name of it?" "The title is 'On the Lake,' and it is considered a very fine picture," continued the young lady. " I suppose so. I see the young man has got hold of the young lady's hand. What's that for?" "Why," said the visitor, blushing violently, " he is LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 83 that is, I suppose they seem to be why, the man is making love to the young lady." "Oh," said the horse reporter, "he is seeking to win her young affections, is he?" "Yes, sir," replied the fair art merchant, " I suppose that is it." " But what's he lying down on his stomach in the boat for? Has he got the colic? " "No, sir," was the reply, followed by more blushes. "His position is one of negligent ease, made so by the artist in order to more fully carry out the thoughts sug- gested by the picture." " Well, I don't know," said the horse reporter. May- be you're right, but it doesn't look natural. I guess he's sort of scrouching down that way in case the girl's father should happen to be over there on the shore of the lake, with a gun. Was this picture drawn from life?" " I do not think so," was the reply. " It is generally the case, in pictures of this character, that the subject is an ideal one." "I suppose the young man's name is Cholly," contin- ued the horse reporter. " He looks as if it might be. He has got one of those you-may-kiss-me-but-don't-tell- papa mustaches, and a pair of whither-are-we-drifting pants. You can just bet that his name is Cholly, and the chances are that he will go bycicle-riding as soon as he gets ashore. So they are making love, are they?" "Yes, sir," replied the young lady. "Of course I don't know " " Oh, certainly not; Chicago girls never do, but a man who tried to travel on what they miss wouldn't get far away. 1 guess from the way they both look the sort of 84 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. steer-found-in-the-corn expression on the girl's face that Cholly has asked her to be his bonnie bride. Think so ? " " It would certainly seem that he is about to declare his passion," said the young lady. " Yes, it looks as though he was going to take the fatal step. I'll bet he feels pretty corky about it, too. The girl has probably been giving him penwipers, and slippers that fit somebody else, and silk suspenders with storks embroidered on them; and like as not she has sent him a couple of plaques, on which are painted some green cows standing pensively under blue trees the work of her own fair hands. I knew a young fellow once whose girl sent him a dozen handkerchiefs. He was a highly- educated young man knew so much Greek that he couldn't earn his board. He acknowledged the gift, and said that every time he used one of those handkerchiefs he thought of her. The girl wrote back that his words were very dear to her; that she was always sure of his love, because in Chicago everybody had catarrh, and as long as the handkerchiefs held out he would never have time to let his affection for her waver. " " Would you like to buy a copy of this picture? " asked the young lady. "I think not," said the horse reporter. "I don't go much on the ideal, even in art. The kind of pictures that we need for the salon or boudoir are those that treat of real life. The fleeting fancy of a poet's brain, limned in living colors by the painter's brush, is all right enough, but what really catches the average citizen is something that treats of actual life, such as ' Rebecca at the Well,' or 'The Brush on the Homestretch.' Art fhat is to be pop- ular, must treat on popular subjects." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 85 "Perhaps," said the young lady, unrolling another picture, which represented a pair of lovers standing mder a tree, "you might like this. It is entitled 'One Heart, One Thought.' " t " No," was the reply. " It's too ideal, again. If you could get up one entitled 'One Heart and Four Spades,' it would sell well in Chicago. Such a picture would ap- peal to the artistic nature of our most prominent citizens." " Good day, sir," said the young lady. " I am much obliged for your courtesy and advice." " Don't mention it. Come in again, and I will let you look at some of our prize stories." HOW HE WON HER. It was a West Side maiden, of features fair to view Tip-tilted nose, small mouth, and eyes of purely azure hue That sat within a room where taste and art had been combined To harmonize each article, from cuspidor to blind. But yet, despite this showing of comfoit and of wealth; Despite the fact, all plain, that she was in the best of health. The maiden heaved a sigh that shook her very diaphragm, And murmured in despairing tones: " A wretched girl I am. " My cruel, cruel papa, of adamantine heart, Hath harshly said that George and I forevermore must part, Unless a thousand dollars he can furnish in the morn Oh, dear! I wish with all my heart I never had been born." 86 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. " Why do you weep, my darling? " a sweet voice whispers, and At once she feels as chipper as a colt behind a band. An arm her waist encircles, on his shirt-front lies her head; " To-morrow morn," he says, "I'll have the money or be dead." "Oh, George," the maiden whispers, " I beg you be not rash; My heart is all your own, true love is measured not by cash." But even as he presses on her lips a pulsing kiss, She feels that with the currency she'd still enjoy the bliss. The morrow comes, and after the sun has sunk to rest And painted with its rays the gold and crimson-tinted West, George Simpson boldy enters the house wherein reside Her parents, and the girl who soon will be his bonny bride. " Here, sirrah, is your money," he says, and placeth there The ransom of the girl for whom his last year's clothes he'll wear. " Whence comes this sum? " the maiden wildly asks him in her glee; George murmurs in her pearly ear: "I bet on Jay-Eye-See." THE PORK-PACKER'S AWAKENING. Arthur Ainsleigh rose wearily from the bed on which he had tossed restlessly during the long watches of the night, and scanned with eager eyes the morning paper of the previous day, which his landlady, a kindly soul, had left in his room. When in health, Arthur was as handsome a man as one could wish to look upon. Reared in the lap of luxury, and dandled carefully on the knee of the same party, he had been cast, by the disappear- ance of a bank cashier, upon the mercies of a cold and pitiless world when just about to enter upon a life whose LAKESIDE MUSINGS, 87 horizon was undimmed, except by the rose-tinted clouds of prosperity which flecked its uttermost rim. But Arthur was not of the kind that gives way to despair. Although deserted by those who had fawned upon him in the days of prosperity, he had confidence in his own pure soul and strong heart. A position as book-keeper in a shooting gallery had sufficed to keep him from act- ual want, but an attack of fever left him penniless, and, save for his landlady, friendless. While reading the paper, an advertisement for a young man to act as private secretary met his eye. He an- swered it, and the next day received a reply, telling him to call at a residence in the fashionable quarter of the city that evening. He was on hand at the appointed time, and was shown by a liveried servant into a sump- tuously-furnished parlor, where sat a fine-looking man of fifty, who turned his head as Arthur entered. "Mr. Ainsleigh, I presume?" he said. "Yes, sir; have I the honor of addressing Mr. Stuy- vesant McGuire?" "That is my name; sit down. But why do you wear a business suit when calling upon a gentleman in the evening?" "My claw-hammer coat is in hoc" responded the young man. "Humph ! you are honest." It is needless to detail the conversation between the two men. Suffice it to say, that Arthur was engaged as private secretary to Stuyvesant McGuire, pork-packer and politician, and was to be a member of the household. The next day he entered upon his duties, not having seen the other members of the family, a wife and 38 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. daughter. He met them at supper. Alberta McGuire was just twenty, and full of the budding beauty of young womanhood. Her hair was a deep, rich brown, which, in the sunlight, had a tinge of gold in its high lights, while in its shadows it was almost black. Her eyes were deeply brown, and so tender, so soft, that no man ever failed to admit their power. Her nose was small and straight too small, almost, to be easily blown and she was a perfect picture of proud, patrician beauty. Arthur and Alberta soon became friendly, but of course it was only the friendship of a superior for a servant for Artie was only her father's secretary. One evening the entire family were in the parlor, when Bertie Cecil, a society young man who sought in marriage Alberta's hand, called. After some desultory conversa- tion, Alberta asked Bertie to play, and, going to the piano, he rendered Beethoven's ninth symphony that beautiful remedy for driving cats out of the neighbor- hood in a thoroughly artistic manner. Alberta was in raptures, but Mr. McGuire did not seem pleased. Turn- ing to Arthur, he said: "Can you not play?" Now was our hero's chance. Going to the piano, he struck a few chords softly, choosing that inexpressibly tender and melancholy key D flat minor. Then he ran through a few modulations, and glided into " The Skids are Out To-day." As he sat there, the memory of the days when he had sat before the old familiar instrument in his father's house came over him the days when he might have met this woman as an equal, and have told her of the love that was growing in his heart and he played with a depth of feeling that astonished even him- self. When he had finished, Alberta simply said, " Thank LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 89 you," but the tone of her voice was tender, and there was a suspicious moisture in her eyes. Arthur went to his room, bowed himself to his labor, and wrote on into the waning night, until his brain reeled, his eyes burned, the letters danced before . his eyes, and his nerveless hand refused to hold the pen. Then he went to his bed ; but only to dream of those queenly eyes and that proud head, crowned with the coronal of gold-brown hair. The next day Alberta was more friendly, and even showed him a blue dog which she had painted on a tea- cup. "Are you aesthetic?" she asked. "No," responded Arthur. "I'm a New-Yorker by birth." The pink suffusion of a blush stole into her cheeks at these words, but she only said, "An rwoir, Mr. Ains- leigh," and Arthur responded in his cheery voice, "Over- the-river-to-you." That night he was again requested to play the piano. His selection was a double song-and-dance arranged for the piano by Liszt, and was a bit of music that Arthur loved. On that night its sadness stole over his mind like an echo of his own thoughts. He forgot where he was, who were around him; he played as his feelings swayed him, and his music was filled with the voice of tears. He did not remember himself or his surroundings, until the old gentleman's snore awoke him to a knowledge of his surroundings; then he saw that Alberta had bent her head forward over the keys, and was choking with a storm of sobs. She sat down at the piano, and he stood beside her. They played one of Chopin's nocturnes, a soft, tender tone-poem. As the music ceased, Arthur saw that Al- LAKESIDE MUSINGS. berta's eyes were full of tears. Almost without knowing what he did, he leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. She looked up at him quickly, with a startled glance; then she bent down again, and her whole form shook with sobs. "Forgive me," he said; "I am mad; I will go." He turned to leave her, but she laid her hand upon his arm. "Don't go," she said, in a very low voice. "You bid me stay? Alberta, you know that I love you, and you are not offended ?" " Offended ! " she said, looking up at him, with her great eyes full of tears. "Oh, Arthur ! " He caught her in his arms and pressed her to his heart. Their lips met in the first, long, passionate kiss of love. ******* When Arthur recovered consciousness he was lying near the curb-stone, and the cold, gray light of morning was slowly stealing over the North Side. The haughty pork-packer had awakened at the wrong time. THE MAIDEN'S GIFT. "A sad Christmas, indeed." It was a pretty face, albeit stained with tears and weary with watching, that was raised from the snowy-white pil- low that lay upon one end of the fauteuil, as Beryl McCloskey spoke these words. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 91 As the girl sat there, the firelight just touching the disordered masses of bronzed hair, and bringing into strong relief with its full flashes the pale, sad face and slender form, the French clock on the mantel struck eleven. Beryl knew by this that it was nearly five o'clock. " I wonder if there is another girl in all the wide, wide world as miserable as I am? " she exclaimed. " I, who have everything to make me happy health, a pleasant home, loving parents, and everything that money can purchase. And yet, I am miserable, oh, so miserable!" "You can never be happy, my darling," said Mrs. Mc- Closkey, who had stepped quietly into the room through a portiere, "until you strive to make other lives brighter, other hearts glad. It is only when we have brought sunshine into homes that have been bleak and dreary and desolate for the want of it only when we have seen eyes that were dimmed with tears, sparkling with laughter that the true meaning of happiness comes to us, and it is a revelation indeed." " You are right, mother," said Beryl, the look of dis- content leaving her face even as she spoke, " and your words have taught me a lesson that I trust will not soon be forgotten." And rising from the fauteuil, she stepped to the dressing-case and began working the powder-puff. " Why, where are you going, my darling? " asked Mrs. McCloskey, as Beryl began to exhibit unequivocal symp- toms of getting dressed. "To-morrow you will know all," was the reply; and af- ter turning the hands of the French clock back seven hours, the mother returned to her boudoir. ******* 9.2 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. In a little cottage which stood at the head of Huckle- berry Hill, lived the widow Perkins and her only child, a daughter. Pansy Perkins, although born to struggle with poverty, was endowed with a beauty of face and figure such as rarely falls to the lot of any girl. Having been eighteen years old for three consecutive summers, she was just budding into womanhood just crossing the boundary line upon one side of which stands youth, with rosy cheeks and laughing eyes, and on the other matur- ity, with all its mellowed charms and ripened graces. Presently there was a knock at the Joor, and Pansy an- swered it. The visitor was Beryl McCloskey, the heiress of Brierton Villa. " I have come to see you to-night, Pansy," she said, " because it seems to me that to a girl who is almost alone in the world, Christmas time must bring with it many thoughts and recollections that are far from pleasant." "That is true," replied Pansy. "Two years ago last Christmas I fell down while skating and broke my bustle." "And so," said Beryl, scarcely heeding the interrup- tion, " I resolved that one Christmas, at least, should be to you a time of happiness, and that is why I have come here to-night. You know that, apart from my father's fortune, I am rich in my own right, and you must not refuse my gift, which you will find in this little package. Always be kind to your mother, Pansy, and try to make her life pleasant." And turning Beryl was about to leave. " But what is your present ? " asked Pansy. "I have," said Beryl, smiling sweetly as she spoke, "given you my second-best bang." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 93 THE OLD, OLD STORY. A poet, young and hearty, Went merrily his way Aloft unto the sanctum of An Editor so gray. " I have me here an epic," Remarked the laureate. "Which I would like to have you print At some convenient date." * * * * The poet's lovely widow Strews flowers o'er his tomb; The wily Editor still keeps A bull-dog in his room. UNDER DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES. Two sat down in the morning time, One to sing and one to spin; All the men listened to the song sublime, But no one listened to the dull wheel's din. The world has forgotten the singer's name Her rose is faded, her songs are old; But far o'er the ocean the spinner's fame Yet is blazoned in lines of gold. Two sat down in the evening time, One to eat and one to pay; The cream was good, and the freezer she cleaned, Although the bottom was far away. The world has forgotten the young man's name His cash is minus, his heart doth ache; But far o'er the ocean the ice-cream girl Says to herself . "I take the cake." 94 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. WHAT RUPERT WANTED. "Come hither, Beryl." Stuyvesant Nutwood spoke in kindly tones to his daughter, and yet the girl noticed, or imagined that she did, a slight tremor in his voice; but, thinking it was due to the involuntary loosening of his false teeth, gave the matter no further attention. She crossed the room to where her father was sitting in his great arm-chair beside the window, and as the sunlight from the western sky streamed in upon him, falling like a golden benediction over the gray head, and seeming to smooth away the wrinkles in the rugged, honest face, she felt how blessed indeed she was to have so kind and loving a parent one whose only ambition was to make her life peaceful and hap- py and see that care and sorrow were ever warded from her by watchful eyes and strong arms. Twenty years before, when Beryl's mother was dying, she had placed the little baby girl, whose entrance into this world had been the cause of her death, in Stuyvesant Nutwood's arms, and there, with the icy breath of death on her brow, had asked him to guard the young life tenderly, to shield it from harm, and he had promised that through his act no sorrow should ever cloud their daughter's life. Mrs. Stuyvesant then died. And so, Beryl had grown up on her parent's farm al- most without society, but not without education, for every year she had attended the seminary at Acornville, four miles away, and in her eighteenth year had gradu- ated with all the honors, and a percale dress. And then she had gone back to the farm again, but somehow her LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 95 life there was not as satisfactory as before. In spite of all her father's kindness, and the motherly care of Aunt Ruth Higgins, a widowed sister of her father, who had been his housekeeper for fifteen years, there were times when Beryl felt a sense of ennui, mixed with an indefin- able feeling of restlessness, that would cause her to wander aimlessly around the place in a reverie until re- called to things of this world by stepping on her ankle. But though she strove to conceal, even from herself, the real cause of this feeling, her heart would ever and anon give a great throb as she thought of Rupert Hollings- worth, a young man with whom she had become ac- quainted while attending the seminary, and who was now a struggling lawyer in a western town. There had been no words of love between them, but on the day Rupert graduated they had met for the last time, and, standing beneath the shade of a grand old oak that guarded the entrance to the college campus, Rupert had taken Beryl's hand in his, and said to her, while his dark-brown eyes seemed looking into her very soul: "You will not forget me entirely, Miss Stuyvesant?" "I shall never forget you," she replied, with grave earnestness, "as long as I live." He had once stepped on her corn. When Beryl had crossed the room, her father motioned her to a seat by his side, and as she cuddled up cozily on a hassock, and, placing her arms upon her knees, looked up in his face with a wondering expression .in her great blue eyes, Stuyvesant Nutwood felt a great thrill of sorrow in the knowledge that one day this beautiful girl, with all her wealth of love and bandoline, would leave him forever go out into the world as the wife of one 96 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. whose every smile would be to her a morsel of joy, whose every loving word a source of sweet content. " I have received a letter from Rupert Hollingsworth, Beryl," he said. The girl gave a sudden start, and a wave of crim- son swept over the pure, sweet face, but she did not speak. "Can you not guess," he continued "what the purport of his letter is?" Beryl could no longer look in her father's face. She knew full well why Rupert Hollingsworth had written. His frank, honest nature, and the broad culture of his mind, caused him to take such a noble, lofty view of duty that he would not even address the one whom he loved most dearly, and to win whose heart was the great and overpowering ambition of his life, until he had first gained her father's consent to such action. He had gone away only two years before in all the vigor of his glad manhood, and his splendid talents had gained for him success where others had failed. And now, crowned with the laurel wreath of victory, he had written to her father for permission to urge his suit with her. She knew all this full well, and yet when her father asked her the question to which her heart had already given answer, she did not reply. 'You could never guess, little one," said Stuyvesant Nutwood, a merry twinkle in his eyes, "why Rupert has written. Do you think you could?" A deeper blush overspread the pretty face. "But I will tell you," he continued, "because you were at college together. Still, perhaps I had better be silent." And again the laughing light came into her father's eyes. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 97 "Tell me, papa," whispered Beryl, no longer able to conceal her eagerness, "why he has written." "He wants something," was the reply. "Can you not guess what it is?" Every fibre of Beryl's being is throbbing with expect- ancy now. The sun has passed from sight, and great bands of rosy light that stream up from below the hor- izon's rim cast a strange halo over the silent earth. Beryl feels the solemn influence of the twilight hour, but no word comes from her lips. "Can you not guess," repeats her father, "what Rupert Hollingsworth desires?" For an instant she does not reply. To answer the question in the affirmative would seem bold and forward, and yet can she deny, even to herself, a knowledge of what Rupert desires? So, she simply says to her father: "Tell me what he wants." Bending tenderly over his daughter, Stuyvesant Nut- wood whispers, with infinite pathos, in her ear: "Twenty-five dollars to get home with." IMPROVED POETRY. " Which editor do I wish to see? " asked a young man who was smoking a cigarette and wore a hat about the size and shape of a table-spoon, as he opened the door of the editorial rooms one April afternoon and gazed about him in an inquiring way. Well," said the trotting-horse reporter, ceasing for an 7 98 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. instant his labors in connection with a sketch of the life and career of Parole, " you look as if you really ought to see the editor with the club, but probably I am mis- taken. As a general friend of humanity, however, I would advise you to shoot the torch." " Do what, sir? " inquired the young man. " Shoot the torch put out that dizzy little street pipe." " Do you mean this cigarette? " asked the visitor. " That's it," was the reply. " You just drop that thing, or else sherry yourself round the corner. We get enough cigarette smoke from young ducks that come around here Saturdays with society items." The young man threw away the cigarette. " I wanted to know," he said, " who it would be proper for me to see in regard to a poem." " Oh, it would be proper enough for you to see any- body," replied the biographer of Parole. " There is nothing inherently improper in a poem except the fact of its having been written. I suppose your verses are something about ' The spring is coming, Myrtle dear, O meet me by the creek/ or something like that some- thing slushy and sloppy, that jibes in naturally with wet weather and muddy roads?" "Well, not exactly," said the poet. "But perhaps I might read it to you?" " Perhaps you might if I were chained to a post and couldn't get away, but not otherwise. I am too sweetly fly, too weirdly on to your racket to allow myself to be played for a Chinaman. You will have to hunt up some- body with a more Macoupin County look in his clear blue eye if you want that poem listened to. I am sorry, LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 99 my winsome chump, but you are bowling on the wrong alley." And the life of Parole was again resumed. " I wish you would let me read this poem to you," said the child of genius in the doorway. "There is only one stanza." "Well, cut her loose," was the reply. The poet produced a sheet of paper and read as follows: " Meet me in the glen, dear, Where the moonbeams bright On the nodding daisies Cast their silver light. Pluck for me a flower Twine it in your hair I shall know you love me If I see it there." "How do you like it?" asked the poet, as he finished reading. "Oh, it's good enough,! suppose," was the reply, "but we've got too much daisy and glen poetry on hand now. And then, all that kind of verse is only a sort of literary bran-mash, after all. Now, no young man with a head as big as a pin would go around asking girls to meet him in a glen when the moon is up. That's no way to act, if you really want to lassoo the affections of an inno- cent maiden, because when a girl has eaten a good, square supper she doesn't feel like tramping around a glen and picking flowers to stick in her hair. Any such scheme as that would rumple up her bangs too much, and like as not tear her invisible net. And then, there aren't any glens around Chicago glens flourish best in the country, where the cows go to sleep on the sidewalk, so you can fall over them when you come home late. Now, I suppose this poem of yours was intended for the eye of some par- loo LAKESIDE MUSINGS. ticular young lady, some Cook County Juliet whose papa keeps a soulless dog that declines to share the front yard with you. Isn't that about the size of it? " And the horse reporter winked vigorously at the poet. "Well, yes; that is, I" "Oh, I know all about it," interrupted St. Julien's friend. " You are a little bashful about it a kind of Eighteenth Ward maidenly reserve. Well, that's a credit to you I would give seven dollars if I could blush like that. But you are on the wrong tack. Quit writing to this girl about glens and moonlight and roses. If you must express your sentiments in verse, whoop her up a chanson in a style she can understand; something like this, for instance: ' Meet me on the corner Where they sell ice-cream; Life shall be for you, love, Like a blissful dream. ' Cling to me, my darling, As vine hugs the oak, And when you're done eating I shall be dead broke. ' "Now that ought to land her," said the horse reporter, " because, as a rule, girls are very partial to pathos and ice-cream mixed you can bet on that." "Can I?" said the poet. "Well, I'll try your plan, sir." " That's the daisy racket to catch a girl," said the horse reporter, in cheery tones. " Love and shady glens are all right, but when it comes down to business I want a pool on the young man that buys ice-cream." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 101 WHAT HE COULD STAND. "I want to see an editor," said a slim young man who wore very light pants, a hat about the size and shape of a peanut-shell, and a collar that seemed to be always reaching for his chin without quite getting there, as he opened the door yesterday afternoon. " If it's anything about a delightful reception was held last Thursday evening at the residence of our well-known fellow-citizen John Smith, or Miss Beatrice Perkins will spend the autumn at Mukwanago you'll have to take it into the other room," said the horse reporter, "because the society editor is out editing a chicken-fight this after- noon, and the orders are to turn all the social gruel over to the janitor. To-morrow is window-cleaning-day." "I came up to see," said the young man, "whether one of the editors would have any objection to giving me some advice on a matter in which I am deeply interested. I may say that " "You're in love, aren't you?" asked the horse reporter. "I know you are, anyhow," he continued, without giving the visitor a chance to answer. " There is a sort of ner- vous, hesitating, cat-found-in-the-wrong-back-yard air about your actions that gives you away at once. What's the trouble? Girl gone back on you?" "I think not," replied the young man. "I can not believe that any one has usurped my place in her affections." "Done what?" "I say I do not believe her love has faltered?" "You mustn't have such a Boston way of talking," said 102 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. the horse reporter, "or we shan't be able to get along well. The girl hasn't weakened, you say?" "No." "How's tne old man? Have you corralled him?" "Do you mean the young lady's father?" asked the visitor, a look of mild astonishment passing over his countenance. "Certainly I do," responded the reporter. "How do you loom up in the parental horizon?" "The father of the young lady does not object to me," was the reply. "Well, then, what's wrong. You have the girl on your side, and her father is agreeable. It looks to me like a walk-over for the money." "I hardly think you understand the matter," said the young man. "My trouble is that the young lady does not seem fitted to become the wife of a man who wants a helpmeet. She doesn't seem to have any practical ideas regarding life." "Sort of a girly-girl, isn't she?" said the horse repor- ter; "always talking about the ideality of the ideal, and all such mush as that, and wants to know if the silvered pencilings of moonlight among the verdure-clad trees are not weirdly beautiful. I've seen that kind. They're daisies to keep away from." " I think you have the right idea," replied the visitor, "although your style of expressing it is somewhat crude." " It's a pretty tough case," said the aamirer of Maud S. " These girls that are so eternally gesthetical are generally first-class feeders, though I've noticed that. The silvery moonbeams never seem to take away their appetite. I LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 103 guess you'd better try the reckless-dissipation racket that ought to fetch her." " Try the what? " "The reckless-dissipation racket. The next time you call on Myrtle, or whatever her name is, you want to plant yourself on the sofa with a sort of weary, man-been-read- ing-a-Milwaukee-paper look, and put your hand up to your forehead. Then, when she asks what's the matter, you say that her manner of late has been so cold that it must be that she does not love you, and that the thought of losing her was so maddening that you have been indulg- nig in reckless dissipation. If she doesn't sling herself around some then, and say that she will never, never leave you, and how could you ever doubt her love, and all that, I'm no judge." And the horse reporter assumed a Benjamin Franklin look. "I will act on your suggestion," said the visitor, taking up his kiss-me-quick-before-I-go hat, and looking out in a friendly way over the high-water collar. "How much dissipation do you think I ought to indulge in to produce the proper effect?" "Well," replied the horse reporter, "I should imagine that if you were to play about two games of billiards and drink a strong lemonade, it would constitute for you the wildest kind of a debauch." 104 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. SONGS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Little Mabel Merton, Gliding o'er the ice, Says unto her lover: " It is just too nice." Twenty minutes later Birdie starts for home; Busted is her bustle, And her tortoise comb. Husband's lost his collar-button, Hear the dear old creature swear 1 I am in the other bed-room Doing up my nut-brown hair. George has got his papa's fish-pole On this sunny Sabbath day. His return will be the signal For a woodshed matinee. Hickory, dickory, dock, Mabel had walked but a block; An orange peel Under her heel Showed the red stripes in her sock. A foolish young man in Cohoes Played poker whenever he chose; His conservative brother Is living in clover, While Jim wears his last summer's clothes. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 105 A bashful young man in Wyoming Was telling his love in the gloaming, While saying ta-ta, Up came her papa O'er his boot the young man was soon roaming. The red leaves of Autumn are falling, Cold sweeps the rude wind o'er the plain; Soon Mabel and George will be holding The parlor arm-chair down again. Hickory, dickory, dock, Take your girl out for a walk; She'll eat ice-cream. And suddenly seem To want more, ere you get 'round the block. A bashful young man in Cohoes Couldn't muster up pluck to propose; He finally did. But his young face he hid, And turned red as a new pair of hose. A lady in Carondolet Heard her husband say that he would bet Forty dollars to ten There never had been A mile in 2:13 made yet. She sent her young brother around, Who quickly the other chap downed, Whacked up with his sister, Then pleasantly kissed her, Saying: " Man-, you bet we're all sound." 106 LAKESIDE MUSINGS Little Birdie Blue-Eyes Sitting in the sun, While her older brother Fooleth with the gun. Soon a loud explosion Wakes the echoing wood; All that's left of Birdie Is her worsted hood. A dashing young man in St. Paul Loved a maiden exceedingly tall; Two nights in the week He would muster up cheek And make the fair creature a call. One day her pa shouldered his gun And went to discover the son Of a sea-cook who would On a young heart intrude And say he was only in fun. He met the young man in a store, And blew him out through the front door; A father-in-law jury Let him off in a hurry, But the boys shunned that girl evermore. Get out mamma's rubber boots And a hose; She will wash the kitchen windows, Though half froze. Do not let her catch a cold, For our parent's getting old ; We don't want her to be talking Through her nose. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 107 Tie her head up in a towel, Let her put on father's blouse; Send the children to the country Mamma's ready to clean house. A wicked old man in Monee On an orange peel stepped, and then he, With a wild, ringing whoop, Flew off the front stoop, Saying, " !" with a very big D. A bustle and a bang On the arm-chair gently hang, The toothbrush on the soap dish put away; Some pearl-powder on the stand, Clocked hose in her little hand Mabel's getting ready for the matinee. A bicycle fiend in Momence (Who, of course, didn't have any sense) Tried to make his machine Go up-stairs; but, I ween, He is now in the beautiful hence. "EAST LYNNE" RECONSTRUCTED. "I saw you at the theatre last evening," said the dra- matic critic to the horse reporter; "you don't often favor dramatic representations with your presence, do you?" u No," was the reply. "As a rule, my glances into the domain of Thespis have been infrequent, and since the io8 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. death of Longfellow I have kept more aloof from the giddy throng than ever mortuos semper venera, you know." " I think you are laboring under a misapprehension re- garding the party who died," said the dramatic critic. "It was not the horse, but the poet." "Oh! I know that well enough," replied the friend of Maud S. " But nobody ever heard of the poet until the horse beat the mile and three-quarter record, so we con- cluded to honor his memory, although there are plenty of good poets, while first-class race-horses are scarce." " You seemed to take a good deal of interest in the play last night, though," said the critic. " Your party had a private box." " Is that what you call that place?" "Why, certainly." "Well, I'm glad you told me, because we were a little puzzled about it. You see, a lot of us fellows concluded to go together, and one fellow, he marched up to the pa- trol judge's place out in the front hall of the theatre ' "You probably mean the ticket office," suggested the dramatic critic. "I guess likely I do," was the reply; "but, anyhow, he went up there and says to the man, ' I want a box-stall for five, with plenty of hay on the floor and no leaks in the roof. The track superintendent " Ticket-seller," interjected the critic. "Well, whoever he was, he said fifteen dollars was the price, and when one of the boys asked him if there was any chance to declare out before the race started by pay- ing half forfeit, he only smiled, and said no. And then another young man, he tore the receipt for entrance LAKESIDE MUSINGS. money in two pieces, kept one of them and opened a door. We went in, and a third young man made a move like he wanted to get the other half of that ticket. But you bet he didn't. We hadn't been through the Michigan cir- cuit five seasons without being pretty fly. We let him look at it, though, and he scored us around the outside of the track and into the box-stall where you saw us. I thought it was the judges' stand, at first, but concluded I was wrong. Then we watched the play, and of all the no-account, slobbery plays I ever saw, that one sells first choice. When we arrived, there was a bed on the stage and a little boy in it. He was a nice, clean little boy, but I couldn't see much drama about that, and the big print bills on the fences said in three different colored letters that this was ' an emotional drama.' Pretty soon a woman came along. She had goggles on same as the boys wear when they are going to drive a slow horse on a dusty day. She scores alongside of the bed and flops down on her knees. ' Blind staggers,' I says to one of the boys, but he said no; she was only acting. It's a good thing he explained, because 1 was just going to ask if there was a veterinary in the audience, and have her bled you know that's the boss remedy for blind staggers." "I presume so," said the critic, "but about the play." " Well, this woman she began kissing the little boy, and hee-hawed around him a good deal. The boy said his own dear mamma was dead, and was going on to give quite an account of his life and career, when the woman pulled off the goggles, snatched the kid out of the bed, and said she was his own dear mother. I guess she must have yanked him around a little too gay, for when she no LAKESIDE MUSINGS. was done kissing him he was dead. ' I have killed me cheeild,' she said, and put him to bed again. Then the curtain fell. 'Cheerful play, this,' I says to one of the boys. 'Great drama,' says he, ' woman heaving a sick child around like it was a stick of cordwood she was try- ing to shoulder.' Well, pretty quick the curtain went up again, and there was the woman lying in the same bed that little Tommy Cold Toes or whatever his name was had just died in. She was pretty sick, and mumblin' something to herself. Then a man came in. He had patent leather shoes on, so I knew he was an actor. 'Great God! Isa- bel, is this you? ' he says. She said it was her, and then they jawed awhile about her having left him. Then she said she was dying. About this time I began to weaken a little myself, thinking maybe it was pink-eye or sewer- gas, or something that might nip the balance of us before the evening was over, but concluded to trot the race out, anyhow. Finally the woman said, slow and feeble-like, 'I want to see Lucy.' Well, of course I knew that Lucy died five years ago, just after she had her second colt, and I says to myself, ' This woman is loony; the pink-eye has got her, sure.' But just then out shoots the little boy that died about ten minutes before. He had girl's clothes on he was Lucy. The woman slammed herself around in the bed for awhile and died. Then the cur- tain went down and the people began to leave. Our crowd never moved. Finally, a fellow came around and said we had better go. ' Not much,' says I, 'we may have seen the mother and one of the children die, and we are bound to sit here until the old man is attacked, if it takes all night.' But the usher said there wouldn't be any more drama that evening, and so we went away." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. in " It was evidently ' East Lynne ' that you saw," said the dramatic critic, " and a great many people consider it a fine play." "They do, eh? Well, in that case a great many people ought to have their heads overhauled and then screwed on again. Don't talk to me about a 'powerful drama' with nary a song and dance in it." And the horse reporter retired in disgust. " L'ASSOMMOIR." Fifine was a child of misfortune. Born in poverty and Rat alley, and raised in rags and vice, it is no won- der that at thirteen she was the wildest of the noisy lot of reckless girls that sewed the hind legs on flannel ele- phants that the children delight to play with, in a great square building in a remote part of Paris. Trade in a thickly-populated city is a great monster, with the arms of an octopus and the maw of a shark. It stretches out its myriad tentacles in all directions, each one coming back well laden to the central mouth, with as much cer- tainty as the unfortunate vessel once within the dread circle of the Norwegian maelstrom is drawn round and round in a wild waltz that can only end in its being plunged into the gaping vortex that seethes and hisses in very joy as its prey disappears. When Gervaise, Fifine's mother, was a little girl, she too sewed on the hind legs of elephants, but it was then a trade at which she gained nearly two francs a day. At eighteen, she 1 1 2 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. had been married by the Cur& Deauchery to Pierre Giteau, an honest, hard-working young man. Six months after the ceremony, Fifine was born. The neighborhood gossips laughed and wagged their heads wisely enough when Big Eliza, who sold shrimps on the corner of the alley, had told them the news. Pierre did not laugh. He kissed Gervaise tenderly, as she lay in the little cot by the window. Just as his lips touched hers, the rays of the setting sun came through the glass and fell on the mother and her child. " Look ! " said the midwife, "she is bathed in a golden flood." " Do not let her bathe," said Pierre. He was a true Frenchman. In a little while he went out, saying noth- ing to the woman, who eyed him curiously. "Can it be possible that he does not know?" said Virginie, a woman who chewed snuff, and had once been in the hands of the gens d'armes for say- ing that Robespierre was no sucker, if he did finally get licked. "Some men will never tumble," responded an old hag who fascinated rats by smiling at them, and sold their skins to glove-makers. The evening passed, but Pierre did not return. Just as the clock struck twelve, his heavy and uncertain step was heard on the stairs. Gervaise started up In bed and lis- tened. Presently the door opened and he came in. One glance told everything. He was drunk. Advancing unsteadily to the side of the bed, he placed upon a little table a pitcher. " Here is some beer," he said, and fell in a drunken stupor. Gervaise looked in the pitcher. "He has not deceived me," she said; "it is beer. After LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 113 drinking it, she said to herself. " Pierre loves me," and, turning her face to the wall, she slept. When she awakened in the morning Pierre had already risen, and was looking into the empty pitcher. " Where did you get that beer last night? " asked Ger- vaise. "At the L'Assommoir saloon," said Pierre. "Get some more," said Gervaise. Pierre went out with the pitcher. From that moment he was the slave of the still. When Fifine was sixteen, she met one day, on her way to the place where she sewed hind legs on flannel ele- phants, a man whom she had never before seen. "Would you like to live with me, and have fine clothes?" he said. "Yes," answered Fifine, putting her hand in his. That night she did not come home. Two weeks later she was driven through Rat alley in a carriage. No one knew her. She had been washed. "I am Fifine," she said to her mother, and laughed mockingly as the poor woman pleaded with her to return. Then she drove away. That night Pierre went for a pitcher of beer, as usual. The cat was purring on the landing of the long flight of stairs that led from the room of Pierre and Gervaise to the street below. Pierre stepped on the cat, and it went down stairs with him. When they reached the bottom Pierre was dead. The cat still purred. Gervaise heard the unusual noise, and ran to the door. A piece of orange peel lay on the landing. Gervaise stepped on it. With a wild whoop, she flew through the air, and landed on a young girl who was walking along the street. It was Fifine. Gervaise weighed two hundred pounds. 8 114 LA BESIDE M USING S. There was a triple funeral the next day. L'Assommoir had done its work. One day Fifine was 'sitting on the sidewalk in Rat al- ley, just opposite the fruit-stand run by Big Eliza. Her doll, a crude thing, made of linen and sawdust, with a rag head, lay in the gutter, the sun beating pitilessly upon it. A dog on a neighboring doorstep turned lazily to bite a flea, and saw Fifine. He came slowly towards the girl, wagging his tail in a self-deprecatory manner. This dog's name was Tot, and he was a favorite with the children in the alley. He laid down beside the doll with the rag head, and was soon asleep. Fifine looked at them lovingly for a moment, and then, cuddling herself alongside of Tot, placed her cheek against his nose. A dog's nose is always cold. Fifine knew this, and the neighbors often said that the thermometer was pretty low when she got left. Fifine and Tot had been sleeping nearly an hour when Coupeau came along. Coupeau was a Revolutionist, and had thfown a decayed apple at one of the Imperial Guards, in the bloody days of the Commune. He be- lieved in the division of property, but had never worked long enough to secure any to divide. He was a true communist. When Coupeau saw Fifine and the dog sleeping in the gutter, he chuckled hoarsely to himself, and reeled unsteadily towards them. Coupeau had been drinking absinthe. Stooping carefully over the dog, he tied to the animal's tail a tin can, and to that he affixed the doll. Then he breathed in Tot's face, and the intel- ligent creature at once awoke. Another smell of Jacques' LA KESIDE M USING S. \ \ 5 breath and he dashed wildly up the street. His sudden movement awoke Fifine, who saw her darling doll being whisked past her nose with the speed of the wind. In- stinctively she grasped her childish treasure, and was drawn swiftly after the fleeing animal. Nearing the cor- ner of Rat alley and Rue Tin Can, she saw that Tot was going to turn up the latter thoroughfare, and that her only hope was to let go of the doll. She relaxed her grasp, but the momentum acquired carried her clear across the street, where her head struck the curb-stone. One quiver of the little body, and she was dead. Two days later Fifine's body was borne from the house in a rosewood coffin with four handles on each side, the immortelles on her breast looking scarcely less fair and pure than the face of the dead girl. As the funeral cortege reached the sidewalk, a dog was seen crouching beneath the hearse. It was Tot. The can was still on his tail, but the doll was gone. For an in- stant no one spoke. Then Big Eliza said: "Somebody catch the dog." Coupeau stooped down to seize the ani- mal, but Tot snarled savagely, and bit him on the nose. In an instant the faithful brute was enjoying the delirium trcmcns, and in five minutes more he was dead. L'Assommoir had done its work. Gervaise was in her room. Her lithe form reposed gracefully against a cheap wooden table on which stood a pitcher, the handle of which was gone, while her feet rested on a chair some distance away. Delicate, shapely feet they were, and not puffy and coarse, and red like her hands, on which the continual use of hot water in the Il6 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. wash-house was beginning to tell. A step was heard on the stairway, a heavy, uncertain step that reminded one of a lame mule going down hill. Gervaise hastily cleaned out her ear and listened. The step came nearer and nearer. At last it was directly in front of the door. There it stopped. Gervaise held her breath. She was curious, and did not want to drive the unknown visitor away. There was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Gervaise. The door opened and Big Eliza entered. "Well," I declare to goodness," said Gervaise, " I never should have known it was you. What makes you lame? " For an instant Big Eliza did not speak. Her face flushed, and she kicked nervously with her reliable boot at the cat that sat purring by the hearth. " Alphonso did it," she said at last. " What, not Alphonse, the son of the man who catches dogs for the pound?" queried Gervaise; "why, how could that little fellow do it?" A look of terrible rage passed over Big Eliza's face, making her countenance absolutely livid. "He got me to ride his bicycle," she said at last, the words being spoken in a husky tone that betokened her excitement. "What's in the pitcher?" she asked, glanc- ing toward the table. "Beer," responded Gervaise. " Bock or Pilsener?" "Weiss." Big Eliza took up the pitcher and swallowed its con- tents. "I feel better now," she said. "You look it." The two women sat talking about the current events LAKESIDE MUSINGS. \ 1 7 of Rat alley how Ad6le's husband got thirty days for drunk and disorderly, the kicking of red-headed Nanette down three flights of back-stairs by her husband of a month, and the other bits of social gossip in which women are always interested. Suddenly their chat was interrupted by the opening of the door. A man whom neither of them knew stood in the hall. " Does W. H. Copeau live here?" he asked. "Yes," said Gervaise. "Are you his wife?" "Yes." " You had better go to him. You will find him at the morgue." "Great God, man! how did he die?" exclaimed Ger- vaise in an agony of grief as she put on her shoes. ' He fell off the shot-tower." "Thank heaven for that," said the bereaved woman. "The tower is two hundred and seventy-four feet high, and my poor darling at least had time to repent." L'Assommoir had done its work again. THE POWER OF POETRY. Eulalie McGirlygirt sat silently by the drawing-room window of her father's palatial residence watching the snow-laden clouds as they piled slowly up in the western horizon, burying in their cold bosom the golden-browed sun that erstwhile gleamed brightly forth upon the bleak surface of the storm-beaten earth. 1 1 8 LA KESIDE M U SINGS. " Heigho," sighed the girl wearily, as she raised her right foot and languidly scratched her left ankle a small and prettily-turned one, without any sign of curb, ringbone or spavin. " Rupert will not come to-day. I shall not feel his strong arms around me, taste the nec- tar of his lips in a pulsing, passionate kiss, nor quaff the aroma of his Cedar Run-copper-distilled-two-drinks-for- a-quarter breath. Perhaps he does not love me. Some- times in the long, still, stem-winding watches of the night I awake suddenly with the thought that he is not true to me, that some haughty beauty over on the West Side has won his heart, leaving me only the liver and other digestive organs. But it can not, must not be. Without the beacon light of his love my life would be a starless blank a mere chaos. No, I will not doubt him. I will not rack my soul with the thought that he could be untrue to me." And with these words the girl stepped into the conservatory, plucked a blush-rose, and placing it in her nut-brown hair, walked slowly to her boudoir. Seating herself on a damask-covered fauteuil, she touched a bell that stood on a table near by, and scarcely had its silvery tinkle ceased to be heard, when Nanette McGuire, her/emme de chambre, pushed aside the dam- ask curtains that hid from view an alcove, and entered the room. "Give me my volume of Tennyson's poems, Nan- ette," said Eulalie. The book was handed to her an elegantly-bound work. Rising slowly, Eulalie placed the book under the corner of the fauteuil, and saying to herself, "Well, I guess I have fixed that pesky short- legged sofa now," was soon wrapped in the sweet slumber of innocence. LAKESIDE MUS1XGS. 119 HIAWATHA'S WOOING. In the city of Chicago, Where her father made his money Selling wheat of which he had not To the men from Cincinnati, Lived a soft-eyed, pale-face maiden Minnehaha H. McNulty (With the accent on the penult), Who was young, and fair, and slender, And who wore her hair in frizzes. Very beautiful was Minnie, Free from care of all description, And as William J. McNulty Paid her bills for fancy dry-goods Bills for seven-dollar stockings, Corsets, crimping-pins and so forth He would often let his mem'ry Wander back a score of summers To the time when he was courting Agnes Genevieve McCarthy (Now the mother of his daughter). How they used to sit at even On the front step of her father's Mansion on the Rue de Tom Cat, Swapping lovely lies about their Wild affection for each other. And as William J. reflected On the past and on the present, It occurred to him that Minnie Had a quite decided bulge on Her mamma in point of wardrobe. In the summer when the ball club Of Chicago lost the pennant, Lost the pennant that their hired 120 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. Men had held since 1880, Minnehaha went out riding In a nobby side-bar wagon, And her parent drove an equine That was thought to be quite speedy. Down the boulevard they traveled, Every now and then proceeding To pull out and knock the socks off Some more unpretentious flyer, Until Minnie and her father Had about reached the conclusion There was nothing in Chicago That could make the old mare hustle. So they chatted on the topics Of the day Maud S.'s record, Mr. Beecher's indigestion, And his love for Henry Irving. But anon the ear of Minnie (Pretty ear with pink of sea-shell) Caught the soft and murmurous breathing Of another horse behind them; Of another horse that seemed to Be in something of a hurry From the way in which he made the Landscape vanish in perspective. So she punched her father gently Twixt the sixth and seventh riblets, And suggested that, unless he Had a wild desire to witness The surrounding country through a Cloud of dust, he'd better hit the Old mare just about amidships With the whip, and holler at her. You have seen the tempest raging On a wild and rocky sea-coast; You have read about the battles LA RESIDE MUSINGS. \ 2 1 In which thousands bravely perished - They were nothing to the struggle That took place between McNulty's Old bay mare and the gray gelding That the stranger deftly handled. He was handsome, was the stranger, With a form like an Apollo, And he steered the big gray gelding With a skill that won the heart of Minnehaha, as she sat there And beheld her father distanced. " Hold, brave youth ! " cried out McNulty; " Pull your horse up and come hither. I would speak with you concerning That good steed which you are driving. Will you sell him ? What's his record ? Does he ever have blind staggers ? Is his owner a poor widow Who is forced by want to sell him, Or who argues that the climate Where her husband now has gone to Is too sultry for fast driving ? Seek not to deceive me, sonny, With a tale extremely gauzy, But get down to bed-rock figures On your horse, and let me have them." Then up spoke the youth whose driving Had enamored Minnehaha : ' ' I will never sell my horse, sir For I value him too highly. With the swiftness of a whirlwind He can draw two in a buggy, And the famed steeds of the desert Fall so far in speed below him That if one should try to pass me 122 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. I opine his driver quickly Would conclude that he was going In the opposite direction. He is bred just like St. Julien Hambletonian stock, and you can Bet your everlasting dollar He is kind, and sound, and gentle." " Money can not buy this horse, sir, But to you I'll gladly give him If you only will allow me To pay court unto your daughter. She who sitteth now beside you In the flush of maiden beauty; Sitteth there like any lily, Tall, and fair, and pure, and stately. I have loved your daughter madly Ever since I first beheld her As I came up on the near side Of your buggy and went past you. Without her my life is aimless, All my hopes are wrecked forever; And unless my love returned is I will jump into the river," " You may have her," cried McNulty: ' ' Have her with a parent's blessing. And before the winter cometh. When the leaves are turning golden, You shall marry Minnehaha In a style to make your head swim. For I love my only daughter And would make her whole life happy. Take her, Hiawatha Johnson (You will notice that I know you) Take her with this horse and buggy, And let me get in behind that LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 123 Gelding with Abdallah action. I will give my Minnehaha To the man who pineth for her, And console myself hereafter With a horse that beats 2:30." THE SIREN AND THE SUCKER. "Do not say that! "and the fair young face looked up to his with such a wistful, pleading expression on the pure, womanly features, that even Rupert Tompkins, steeled as was his heart by a three-years residence in Chicago, could not let his lips again utter the words that had caused Cecil McCarthy pain, and pressing a large Eighteenth Ward kiss on the pretty, pouting lips that were upturned with a half-loving, half-angry expression to his, he drew within the ample precincts of his Prince Albert coat the prettily-rounded form of the only woman he had ever loved, as if to shield her from the cares and trials ot a world that is always cruel to those who can not battle manfully against its wrongs and oppressions, and the sea of doubt and apprehension which her great love for him had lashed into stormy fury. They were lovers, these two, and but three short months ago, when the fields were laughing in the golden glory of an abundant harvest, and the silver-throated songsters of the forest were pouring forth their melodies from the leafy branches that shadowed every nook and dell, Rupert had told Cecil of his love how it had en- tered his whole life, until every thought and action of his 124 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. being was associated with her dear presence and sweet face. He had constructed for her benefit a rich, riant September lie about the deathless passion that enslaved his soul, and she had bluffed back with a ghost story con- cerning the measureless depths of misery and despair into which her pure, white, three-story-and-basement soul would be plunged in case his love should ever fail her. When it came to double-team lying, Rupert and Cecil had a mortgage on the cake. "How can you doubt me, sweetheart?" murmured Rupert softly in the tiny pink ear that nestled so confid- ingly above his liver pad. " Does not your heart tell you with its every beat that of all the women in this wide, wide world you alone can make my life one of hap- piness and peace ? True love is not a pretty flower to be plucked from every bush that lines the hot, dusty roadside of life, but it is a priceless gem that must be sought for patiently and untiringly, as one would seek the oyster at a church festival." And with these words Rupert put forth a womanly-white hand and took from the mantel one of Stuyvesant McCarthy's fifteen-cent cigars. " But love is never sure," said Cecil, throwing her soft, warm arms around Rupert's neck. " It is fearful, doubt- ful, apprehensive; it dreads, and shrinks, and cowers. Even while the kiss is warm on the sweet lips, it thinks some other love a false god will touch those lips. While the tender eyes look upward, true and steadfast, it thinks the false god may win those looks some day, and it gathers its treasure closer, loving it the more for the possible shadow of parting and pain, and feels ever a gnawing hunger beneath all the rapture." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 125 "I know this," replied Rupert; " I know that the grim, gaunt spectre of doubt forever chills with its ghastly presence the rosy realms of hope and love. But you can not must not lose your trust in me. It would break my heart to know that I was no longer your idol. Surely you would not willingly turn loose the demon of despair to stalk in cruel glee over the arid wastes of my desolate heart ? " " Never, my own !" said Cecil in tender tones, raining a shower of kisses on his lips. " I will never doubt you, e'en though every fibre of my being tells me that I should do so. I will hold your love so close to my heart that it can never escape. I will guard it with my very exist- ence." And, shifting a chew of gum to the other side of her pearly teeth, she kissed him again. ******* Two minutes have flown hot, seething minutes, that can never be recalled. Rupert is standing 'neath the fitful glare of the three-dollars-per-thousand-feet gaslight that beats away the darkness in front of his idol's home. On the front steps of the palatial residence stands a man whose pure County Antrim features are illuminated by a demon-like smile. Rupert speaks : "You will regret your hasty action, sir, when the morrow's sun shall have ris- en. I love you daughter madly, but I am not a sucker. You have aroused my proud spirit and kicked off one of my suspenders. To-morrow I will be revenged." And with these fateful words Rupert went over town and got full as a tick. * . * * * * * * "Didn't you come home from the Land League meet- ing rather early this evening, papa, dear ?" said Cecil, as 126 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. Stuyvesant McCarthy sat paring his corns before the cheerful grate fire. "Yes, my darling," replied the old man, looking ten- derly at his only child. " I had to evict a man for non- payment of rent." BERTHA'S SACRIFICE. The first snow of the season. Down through the crisp, cutting air of a December day came the big white flakes, lazily drifting hither and yon in coy, coquettish grace, although no wind was stirring. Overhead the blue-gray clouds looked down in a kind of stolid, unreasoning way at the bleak, bare earth, and the tall, ghost-like trees, whose dead branches and blackened trunks were sharply outlined against the western sky, whose uppermost rim was given a rosy tinge by a ray of sunshine that shot up from below the horizon as if to kiss the earth good-night. Altogether, it was a pretty slick evening. Lounging languidly on the velvet-covered fauteuil that had been placed by a servant in the parlor window, Bertha Bandoline held in her shapely hand a dainty vol- ume of poems, and from it was reading aloud to herself saying the words slowly and with an infinite tender- ness that beautiful little chanson by Samuel J. Tilden: Kiss me quickly, kiss me nice; Kiss me once, sweet, kiss me twice; Kiss me often, kiss me long, Kiss me boldly is my song. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 127 Hold me tight in fond embrace, Lip to lip and face to face. Sparkling eyes, as blue as skies; Speaking love that never dies. Roguish dimples on my cheek; Blushes playing hide-and-seek; Honey kisses often given Pleasure rivaling blissful heaven. "Yes," said Bertha, as she threw the book on the floor and hitched up a blue silk garter that had slipped down to her dainty ankle, and was liable to get tangled in her other foot, when she started hastily at the merry tinkle of the supper bell; "yes, I love Arthur Ainsleigh with a pure, passionless affection that time can never change or decrease. And I am to marry him I, who so lately left the boarding-school, with its wealth of pleasant recollec- tions and spruce gum. I am yet but a girl, a joyous, happy-hearted, two-nice-bangs-for-four-dollars girl, and life looks fair and pleasant to me. I have a kind, in- dulgent father, who has kicked more young men over the front gate on my account than you could shake a stick at, and a dear, loving mother, whose heart will be desolate indeed when her only daughter leaves her the one whom she has watched over with such tender care from the days of dimpled babyhood until she has seen me grow into a woman in stature of body and mind, but who still has for her the confiding, trustful love of the infant to whom the arms of 'mamma' are a refuge in times of trouble, and her bosom a place where all the sorrows of a childish existence can be sobbed out to one that is ever ready to hear them patiently, and comfort with soothing word and tender kiss the little heart to which the world seems only a place of trouble and per- 128 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. plexity. And now, when I am a stately beauty, with cheek of damask and breath of balm, I would willingly give my life, my all, to save her a moment's pain or dis- tress." At this moment, Mrs. Bandoline, a tall, matronly woman, in every line of whose kind face shone out the light of mother-love, entered the room. " Bertha, my darling," she said, in soft, low tones, "would it be too much trouble for you to go to the matinee this afternoon, instead of ironing your father's shirts?" Rising from the fauteuil, Bertha kissed her mother fondly. "My own sweet mamma," she said, "you know I would do anything for your dear sake." And, with a proud smile on her face, she started for the kitchen to heat her crimping-irons. HER SENSITIVE SOUL. "Give me the pie." Out upon the lawn of the Castle McMurtry stood a young girl just in the spring-tide of youth. The scarlet roses that swung lazily to and fro in the breath of a June morning were not more beautiful than those which bloomed so brightly in the peachy cheeks of the Lr dy Constance McMurtry, and her slight but faultlessly moulded figure, set off to perfection by a plain morning dress of white muslin, had in its movements more of grace and beauty than those of the greyhound which lay silently at the feet of its mistress, watching her every LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 129 movement with intelligent and loving eyes. The girl's rippling golden hair was simply tied with a blue ribbon; the lovely, half-childish face, was a poem complete in itself. It was a face that changed with every thought one moment gay and bright, in another thoughtful and sad. As she spoke the words with which this chapter opens there was a wistful look upon the pretty face, and the deep brown eyes shot forth a yearning, will-I-ever- find-the-hairbrush glance, that was pitiful in its sad beauty. For an instant Lord Wyverne did not reply. Then, placing his hand on the girl's shoulder, and looking into her eyes with a grave tenderness that told how the ghastly horror of the scene was pressing upon him, he said in tones that were almost a sob: "You must be brave, my child; must nerve yourself to bear a great grief." "My God!" exclaimed the girl. "Tell me what has happened. It surely can not be that there is no pie? ' " No, my darling," replied the Earl. " It is not so bad as that. Your mother is dead." "Ah!" said Constance, "how you frightened me. I thought surely it was the pie." NAMING THE BABY. " Is Beatrice a good name for a baby ?" A young woman of prepossessing appearance stood in the door of the editoral room and addressed her inter- 9 130 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. rogatory in a seemingly general manner to the gifted gentlemen who were occupying the several corners of the apartment. For a moment nobody seemed to regard the question as directed particularly at him, but finally the trotting- horse reporter removed his generously proportioned feet from the desk on which they had been resting, and allowed a smile to play over his quarter-stretch features. " Have you a baby ? " he asked. "Why, certainly," replied the young woman, her tone indicating surprise slightly tinged with anger. "Well," said the personal friend of Rarus, "you mustn't get angry, because one soft, sensuous day in sum- mer, when the birds were twittering their sweetest twits, a woman came up here on the same errand that brings you, and after we had picked out a pretty smooth title for her infant 1 forget whether it was Miriam or Carita we settled on she went away happy, and along in the fall the golden-tinted fall just as the leaves were turn- ing brown and all nature seemed hushed in sweet repose, waiting for the base-ball championship to be decided, she came back again with a wistful, weary look in her soft brown eyes, and said she had been mistaken it was a boy. Woman's nature, you know, is so buoyantly hope- ful, so sweetly previous, that she will frequently mistake a four-flush for the real article. It is the painful memory of a blackened past that makes us cautious about fur- nishing names for babies until we know that the little cherubs are here. Do you catch on ? " The lady nodded. "Well," resumed the admirer of Maud S., there are LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 131 lots of things to be considered, in naming a baby. Your husband's name is ?" " Perkins," replied the lady. " That isn't a bad name, although it would be difficult to enshroud it with the mystic glamour of romance. But I hardly think ' Beatrice ' would look well in front of it. The name of ' Beatrice,' you know, is always associa- ted with stateliness and beauty, and your little tootsy- wootsy might grow up bow-legged and pug-nosed. And besides, 'Beatrice Perkins' wouldn't sound just right. You might call it " " Her, if you please," said the lady, severely. "We call 'em 'it' in this office; it saves time and pre- vents our getting rattled. As I was saying, you might call it Perkins' Maid, or Belle of Perkinsville, or some- thing like that. I knew a man in Kentucky who had a chestnut gelding " " I can hardly see what that has got to do with the matter under consideration," said the lady in a severe tone. " You are right, madam; I did swerve a little, that time. Now, ' Sweetheart ' is a good name. Out in Cal- ifornia they think ' Sweetheart ' can take the pole from anything that looks through a bridle. Now, if you had twins, you might call one ' Sweetheart ' and the other ' Darling,' put the tallest one on the off side, and by checking the near one up a little higher nobody could see the difference between them. Of course, if they were not gaited alike, or you had to put a kicking-strap on one of 'em, it might be that " Let me tell you again, sir," said she, "that I am not naming a horse. Perhaps this gentleman," turning to 132 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. the literary editor, "could give me the information I desire." " Certainly, madam," replied that person. " You should name your little treasure Cecil the name has such a sweet, dreamy, aristocratic sound." " Of course," said the mollified parent, " and I am ex- ceedingly obliged for your suggestion." And she de- parted. ' You seemed to lose your savoir vt'vre," said the lit- erary editor to the horse reporter. " Yes," replied the young man, " she carried me to a double break at the turn, but I should have settled pretty quick and come down the homestretch very fast. If she hadn't hurried me so much in scoring, I'd have picked out a daisy name for that filly of hers." WHAT SHE NEGLECTED. There came unto an editor, One sunny summer day, A blithesome maid of features pure Hair like the June sun's ray; Eyes of the violet's heavenly blue, And dress of white piqu<. A taper finger gently tapped Upon the office door " Good-morrow," quoth the maiden; ' ' Do I see the editor? The one who in the cause of Right Doth battle evermore? LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 133 " Because, if you're the champion Of all that's good and pure (And that you are your noble face Bespeaketh, I am sure) I fain would talk with you, and eke Your full support secure." " Be seated," said the editor, ' ' In yonder cushioned chair. A pleasant day it is, the sky To look upon is fair " And then he pushed from marble brow His tangled locks of hair. The maid ensconced herself within The chair, whose crimson plush Was not a bit more vivid than Her pretty little blush. The editor said to himself : " Now for a lot of gush." "You doubtless know," the maid began. " That Woman God's best gift- Is sometimes by rude fortune made All for herself to shift; And often has a child or two Along Life's path to lift. " At best, her lot a hard one is; She toils from morn till night On household duties, and then, when The lamps are all alight, Mends holes in little stockings, Thereby ruining her sight. "No; Woman has no liberty, No field in which to show 134 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. The talents that the fates in birth Upon her did bestow. She's fettered by domestic cares, That ever come and go. ' ' And even for the married state Her chances now are few, Since men are not inclined to wed; And e'en of those who do A large majority will fail To loving be, and true. "Therefore, I say, good editor (And here the auburn curls Danced in the golden sunshine) what Shall we do with our girls? This question is a solemn one Our daughters are our pearls." "You speak full well," the editor Replied unto the maid. " But still you may mistaken be Folks often are afraid Of ghosts that, but for their own act, Full deeply would be laid. " Perchance, when you are safely wed And taste hymeneal joys When everything within your life Is held in Love's safe poise Your children may turn out to be A lot of sturdy boys." * * * * Up rose the gentle maiden then Beneath her cart-wheel hat, Stepped to the door, and softly said: "I never thought of that." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 135 FAR IN THE FUTURE. "Speak to me, Rupert." Kneeling by his side as he sat on a.fauteuil in the par- lor of Coastcliff Castle that summer evening, Gwendolen Mahaffy placed her little white hand in the broad, front- brakeman-on-a-freight-train palm of Rupert McMurtry, and pleaded with her soft brown eyes for the little boon that was so pitilessly denied her. She was there at his feet, a lovely, brilliant creature, with some of the witchery of the wildwood in her lithe, listless grace of limb and poise. Looking down as the words with which this chap- ter opens were spoken, Rupert saw the pretty eyes dimmed with tears, the drooping mouth quivering in the intensity of its pain, and in an instant he had caught her in his arms. The sweet, flushed face touched his breast, the lovely eyes looked into his, half startled, half ashamed, and then, with a little sob of sweet content, she kissed him until his cheeks glowed like a girl's through their tan. "We will never quarrel again, sweetheart," Rupert said, shifting his right leg slightly, so that the heiress could secure a more comfortable perch. " Never again must the black wraith of jealousy come between us, but through all the years that stretch away into the future we must sail together upon the shimmering sea of Love, the snowy-white sails of our bark rilled with the breath of a holy affection that can never know surcease or change." " He is a lovely liar," said Gwendolen softly to her- self after Rupert had gone, "and I must not let him get 136 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. away." And then, seating herself at the piano, she be- gan to play gay dance music at first, but soon gliding into more mournful measures. Soft adagios and exquisite sonatas filled the room with melody and stopped the street-cars. At last, with a sudden clang of sweet cords, she broke into a Breton love-song a touching little bal- lad that she had heard the peasant women sing at their spinning-wheels in the red, warm-looking light before their cottage doors. It was a simple but pathetic thing, and when she had finished the refrain Go and start the kitchen fire, Turn the gas a little higher, Run and tell your Aunt Maria Baby's got the cramp her eyes were dim, and she broke down in a passion of tears. As she sat there, sobbing as if her heart would break, she felt an arm stealing gently around her neck, and soon a bearded face was pressed to her cheeks. Looking up in alarm, she saw that it was Rupert. " Why are you weeping, my angel? " he asked, caressing with tender grace the blonde bang that was lying so trust- fully against his vest. " Can you not tell me your sorrow? " For an instant Gwendolen did not speak. Then, looking up to him with all the beautiful innocence of her North Side nature, she said, in low, broken accents: "I was thinking, precious, that if I ever did get married, and the baby did have a cramp, we could not start the fire " and a look of frozen horror overspread the pure young face. "Why," asked Rupert in agonized tones, "why could we not start the fire? " "Because," said Gwendolen, "you are too eternally lazy to have any kindling wood ready over night." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 137 POINTS ON ETIQUETTE. "I understand," said a rather subdued-looking man who entered the editorial rooms yesterday afternoon, "that there is a gentleman here who answers all questions sent to the office. Is that the case?" " He's out just now," said a young editor, whose prin- cipal occupation seemed to consist in placing his feet on a desk and telling stories of a not-at-all-doubtful nature to the other powerful minds who had quarters in the room. " He's gone over on the West Side to find out how many miles per day a vessel will be delayed by head winds on a voyage from Liverpool to New York, if Tal- mage is lecturing in Brooklyn and facing east. But, if your question isn't too aerial in its nature, too high for us, perhaps we can find an answer for you, without wait- ing for the Idiotic Inquirer man to return." "What I wished to ascertain," said the gentleman, " was in relation to the Queen " "Oh, I know all about the queen," interrupted the trotting-horse reporter. "Was it in pedro or seven-up that they nipped you for a bet? " " I never play cards," was the reply. " My question is in regard to the Queen of England, and the prece- dence which members of the royal family take over each other on state occasions. You remember when Princess Louise married the Marquis of Lome?" "Yes," promptly responded the young editor; "it was the year Goldsmith Maid trotted in 2:16^. You bet I remember it." "At that time," continued the visitor, "the statement 138 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. was made, that in consequence of his not being of royal blood, the Marquis would not be allowed by the laws of court etiquette to sit beside his wife at a state dinner. Is that so?" "I should just twitter that it was," replied the young man whose recollections of Goldsmith Maid were so vivid. " There is no place in the world where a pedigree with five thoroughbred crosses in it is of more account than in England." "Could you tell me how the members of the royal family stand in relation to each other on public occa- sions?" asked the mild-looking gentleman. ''I suppose that rank has something to do with it." "Oh, yes; some of 'em are ranker than others, but they all stand checking up pretty high. Now, what you want to know, I suppose, is, where the Marquis of Lome would sit at, say, the Queen's Thanksgiving dinner?" "That is exactly what I wish to ascertain," was the reply. "Well," said the young man, "in the first place, the Queen would be up at the head of the table, near the turkey kind of have the pole on the rest of the field. Do you drop?" " Yes," was the answer; " I think I catch your meaning." " Next to the Queen is the Prince of Wales he's her eldest son, you know. Then come his wife and five children. After they have been provided with seats, the Duke of Edinburgh and his collection must be looked after. Then there is the Duke of Connaught and his wife, then Prince Leopold, the Princess Louise, the Princess Beatrice, the " LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 139 "But, my dear sir," interrupted the seeker of informa- tion, "you have already mentioned more than enough people to fill an ordinary table." "Oh, I haven't fairly begun yet. There are several of the folks not yet referred to, and then there are numer- ous installments of the Queen's cousins, who make it a point to come around Thanksgiving Day at least twenty of 'em. On the whole, I should say that, if the head of the table was in the dining-room, and dinner began promptly at two o'clock, the Marquis of Lome would be enjoying a piece of the turkey's neck and some celery tops out in the back-yard about 8:30 p. m." * I am very much obliged, indeed, for this informa- tion," said the gentleman, "and 1 shall certainly give proper credit for it in my lecture on 'The Effete Mon- archies of Europe,' before the West Side Literary Asso- ciation, next week." "You had better change the title," suggested the horse reporter, "because this monarchy we've been talking about is not effete. You're a nice-looking old man, and I wouldn't like to see you make a sucker of yourself be- fore a crowd." "Thanks. I will adopt your suggestion. Good-day, sir." "Bon jour" was the cordial reply. " Excuse nix- speaking French to a West-Sider, but we are not allowed to use any other language around here after three o'clock. The literary editor comes in at that time." 140 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. INCREASED HER VALUE. " My own darling." George W. Simpson says these words softly to himself as he lies in the hammock under the linden trees, the soft breath of a June zephyr kissing the pearl-colored pants that fit him so suddenly, and then rioting among the scarlet bank of roses that are climbing in fanciful ways around the pillars that guard the entrance to Dis- tress Warrant Castle. She of whom he speaks them is a beautiful girl with a dusky, piquante face a face that is arch, sparkling, and bright, as only brunette faces can be and over the laughing face is a fluffy mass of dark wav- ing hair, while a pair of pansy-dark eyes with golden lights in their soft depths, and sweetly curving lips tinted with the velvety crimson of the rose, complete a picture that would make your head swim. Reine McCloskey is indeed beautiful, and as she comes singing along the graveled path with the golden light of a summer day falling upon her uncovered head, the very birds that are caroling among the branches of the lindens seem to pause and look at her. She sings in a low, sweet voice that is tremulous with dinner, a little love song that she had heard in Milwaukee: ' " Mary Ann McLaughlin, don't you cry, Wipe the tear-drops from your eye; You'll be happy by-and-by Mar}' Ann McLaughlin, don't you cry." The pure, Madonna-like face of the young man lifts itself from the depths of the hammock and he looks at the girl with a weary, wistful, two-hot-days-and-no-white- LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 141 vest-in-the-house expression that would move a plumber. She sees him, and runs eagerly to the hammock. Put- ting her dimpled arm around his neck, she kisses the rosebud mouth and then seats herself by his side. " Do you love me as much to-day as you did last Thurs- day?" she asks, while the brown eyes sparkle with merri- ment. But back of the laughing look there is a tender, loving, I-must-not-let-him-get-away expression that tells how she worships this man. "Yes, sweetheart," replied George, "I love you more every day of my life, for you do not sing as much as you used to." THE TRUE SAXON SPIRIT. "What do you think, Myrtle?" " I hardly know what to think, Reginald," replied the girl, her eyes illumined with the radiant light of love, as she turned in response to Reginald Simpson's question and looked at him with the beautiful, tender, calf-like look of a first and only love. " I know that, whatever my father may say, whatever he may do, my love for you will never falter or fail; my trust in the nobility of your nature will be as steadfast as the mighty rock of Gibral- ter, that flings back in scorn from its stone-buttressed base the mighty billows that are ever beating against its solid sides in their mad, impotent fury." When Myrtle got well under way she was a pretty smooth talker. She was a fair, slender girl, with the lus- trous brown eyes that one sees so often in Bramah hens, 142 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. and a complexion that never cost less than one dollar per box. As she stood in the parlor of her father's palatial residence this balmy June evening, her hand placed trust- ingly in that of Reginald, while her face almost touched his as they spoke the words quoted above, the picture was indeed a pretty one. "You are sure that he has heard all?" asked Reginald, in solemn, pleading tones. "Dead certain," replied the girl. "You can bet on this, darling." At this moment the sound of footsteps was heard. Myrtle ran to the window and peered anxiously out into the yard. "He is coming," she said in affrighted tones, "and you must confess all and trust to his mercy." "I guess you are right, sis," replied Reginald. In a moment George W. Hathaway, the merchant prince, entered the room. Reginald at once went up to him. " Mr. Hathaway," he said, " I have come here to-night to tell you frankly that last Sunday morning I went out to the race-track. You know that Myrtle and I love each other with a deathless, Dearborn avenue love that opposition will only make stronger, and that we have plighted our troth. I do not seek to defend my conduct of last Sunday. I know that it is wrong to visit a race- track at all, and especially on Sunday. But it seemed to me more noble, more manly to tell you the exact truth." "So you were out to the track, Sunday?" said the old man, his face assuming a sad, pained expression. "Yes, sir." "Ah! that was indeed wrong. But step with me into LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 143 my library. This is a serious matter, involving, per- haps, the future happiness of my only child." And as he spoke the merchant hastily wiped away a pearly tear that hung tremblingly on the lower lid of his off eye. The two men stepped into the library, Mr. Hathaway closing the door as they entered. Re'ginald felt that the worst would soon come. Seating himself in an easy chair, Mr. Hathaway looked earnestly at Reginald for a moment. Then he spoke up suddenly: " Did you see a little bay mare with a sort of spike tail and her near front foot white, being exercised out there Sunday morning?" "Yes, sir," replied Reginald. " How fast did she go? " "She trotted a mile in 2:23^, the last quarter in thirty- five seconds," was the reply. A peaceful, happy smile stole over the old man's face. "Reginald, my boy," he said in low, earnest tones, "that little bay mare belongs to me. My position as Deacon will not allow me publicly to acknowledge the owner- ship of the animal, but you can bet your sweet life that when she is cut loose at the July races I will break all the officers of our church and several people in the adjoining parish. Do you understand, my boy?" "Yes, I catch on," said Reginald. "I knew you owned the mare all the time, but a Chicagoan is too noble to give away his prospective father-in-law." And stepping to the sideboard, Reginald courteously poured out a drink of sour mash for Mr. Hathaway before tak- ing one himself. 144 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. The old man did not fail to notice this action. " This boy has the true Saxon spirit," he murmured to himself, "and he shall marry Myrtle when the leaves begin to turn. I shall need him myself during the trotting season." WOOED, BUT NOT WON. The editor so gay Is feeling well to-day, Because of poems he has burned a score. He's tilted back his chair, His feet are high in air, And he's ready to incinerate some more. A step is on the stair, The editor's red hair Begins to rise like quills on porcupine. His face a dreadful frown Assumes, his feet come down: He's a kind of human giant-powder mine. In steps a pretty maid, Her hair is just the shade Of summer sun that gilds the lofty spires. She's pretty and piquant, " Whatever can she want ?" The editor soft to himself inquires. " I came, sir," she began, " To ask you if I can A Christmas story for your paper write. I don't want any pay My name is Myrtle May I'd like to stand on fame's immortal height. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 145 " O, Myrtle," he replied, " You'd better be my bride; I'm lonely since the trotting season's o'er. As wife of one who writes Of ball games and cock fights You'd have of fame a quite sufficient store. The maiden fled; and now. The editor, I trow, Doth daily play that little game of his. He knows girls can not stand His locks of auburn, and The quarter-stretch expression of his phiz. FIFINIE'S MARRIAGE. Night in Paris. A pall seems hanging over the city, so intense is the darkness. The Seine, its murky waters shimmering in the lights from the shore on either side, flows silently to the sea, seeming like a huge serpent whose noiseless undulations and writhings carry it forward with a rapid- ity that is at once inexplicable and horrifying. There is something fascinating about a river which flows through a city. What secrets are hidden in its cold bosom ! What sorrows lie buried there ! But sometimes the secrets are revealed. Sometimes the sorrows become known to all. What can escape fate ? Pierre Hotot is a butcher, and works in one of the vast abattoirs situated in the outskirts of Paris. He lives in an atmosphere of blood and death. Daily he kills almost 10 146 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. innumerable sheep and cattle. His hands are ever red with gore, and he laughs brutally when the lambs bleat piteously as he is about to plunge a knife in their throats. How human a lamb looks at such a time. They are pure and white. Their great eyes seem pleading mutely for mercy. They beg for life. It is the greatest boon that one can ask or receive. But the butcher is merciless. A certain frenzy seizes him, and he loves to see the red blood spurt from the fleecy neck, and hear the dying gurgle from the white throat. It is nn fievre dn sang. Pity is a thing of the past, and mercy forgotten. That night the butcher plays like a boy of ten with his little children, and tells them stories of the violets and daisies that grow in the broad fields beyond the barriers, and which any one may pluck. He sings lullaby songs to them. The fever is slumbering, but it is not gone. In the morning when the sun is kissing the hilltops, he will be wielding his cruel knife again. He is a man of strange contradictions. He has two natures, but only one pair of suspenders. How little we know of life's mysteries. Pierre Hotot is walking towards the river. The dark- ness is even greater, if possible, than when this chapter opened. Two men accompany him. They are Pierre Dauchery, known among his fellow-butchers as " Sausage Mike," and Alphonse Noir, a fair-faced young man of twenty-two, with light, curly hair, blue eyes, and pleasant features. They are all butchers, and each carries in his boot-leg a long, sharp knife that is the emblem of their profession. They had met in the cafe on the Rue de Tom Cat a low drinking place kept by Big Lize, a hor- LAKESIDE MUSINGS, 147 rible hag, who had made enough money by fascinating rats with her smile and then selling their skins to glove- makers, to set up in her present business. It was she who had planned the expedition on which the three butchers of Fontainebleau were now engaged. " There is plenty of money floating in the river," she had said to Sausage Mike, "if only men brave enough to venture out after dark can be found." At first he did not heed her words, but the old hag pressed him to take another glass of absinthe. "There is nothing to pay," she said; "are we not comrades ?" The absinthe did its work well, and Big Lize was careful that the conversation should be only of riches and the pleasant life that their possessors enjoyed. "The river is rich," she whispered to him, "and brave lads like thee may have money for the ask- ing. A dark night, a boat who knows what may happen ? I can get the boat, God will send the dark night " "And I," shouted Sausage Mike, "know where there are brave lads in plenty." ******* Fifine is a sewing-girl. She makes hind legs for flan- nel elephants that are sold in toy stores. Every night she walks from the factory to her home in the Faubourg de Tin Can. It was on one of these journeys that she first met Alphonse Noir. " I am lost," she murmured to her- self after passing him. " I love that man and shall never be happy again. 1 would know him anywhere. His big toe sticks out of his boot, and he has a pure, sweet face. My God ! this is terrible." That night Fifine's mother noticed that she ate no pie. "You are sick?" she asked. "Yes," answered Fifine; "sick at heart." 148 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. "Bah! " exclaimed the mother a big Normandy wench who knew nothing of the emotions of a sensitive soul "it is your liver. Here, take some of these pills;" and she forced the girl to swallow them. "Ah, my darling," said Fifine to herself that night as she lay in her little cot in the attic, and watched the stars beaming brightly in the heavens, " I have made my first sacrifice for your dear sake." The next day they met again. Alphonse bowed and smiled. On the following day he spoke to her. Two weeks later they were engaged to be married. Up to this time Alphonse had never kissed her. He then started in to beat the record. From a bashful lover, he had become a bold and ardent one. How little do we know of men until we find it out. For several days Fifine noticed that Alphonse was re- served and sad. At first she thought that some one had stepped on his corn, but by a series of delicate questions she discovered that he had none. The mystery became deeper. She could not sleep for thinking of it, and once she washed her face twice in one day. This roused her. "I must discover his secret," she said. That night Alphonse called on her. As the great bell of Notre Dame struck eleven, she was sitting on his right knee. Alphonse kissed her. Presently the bell struck the half-hour. Alphonse kissed her again. Two kisses per hour! This was mad- dening. " \Vhy are you sad?" she asked. "I have a right to know. I shall one day be your wife, and your disposition must be known to me ere we are wedded." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 149 Alphonse did not answer. The girl began to cry silently. What is a tear? Noth- ing but a drop of salt water. And yet, how great are its powers. Fifine spoke no word, but yet her sobs fell upon the night air like the sighs of a broken pump. Alphonse told her all. He told her what Sausage Mike had said, and how they were to make the expedition that night. He swore her to eternal silence. Fifine took the oath. The next morning she visited the police. " Is it true," she said to the Prefect, "that the one who prevents a crime or betrays criminals to the police, receives a re- ward? " "It is." The girl regarded him intently. "Is this on the square?" she asked. "Yes, madamoiselle." " How much is the reward ?" " For preventing a great crime, five hundred francs." " Let a notary be sent for," said the girl. ******* The police of Paris are like hawks. They are ever on the alert for crime, and nothing which is given away to them escapes their eagle eye. It is like no other police force in the world. There are no Irishmen connected with it. ******* Sausage Mike and his companions plod on through the darkness until the wharves are reached. They enter a boat, and row out upon the river. Another boat fol- lows them. It is filled with police. The first boat pro- ceeds slowly, a man in the bow peering intently upon LAKESIDE MUS1NSG. the water ahead. Presently he utters a low note of warning. The oars are raised. "What is it?" "A corpse," replies Sausage Mike, in a hoarse whisper. The swirling waters gurgle and hiss round the horrible thing, which is bloated and disfigured beyond recognition. The boat approaches, a line is fastened to the body, and the men row for a secluded nook under a great wharf, where the work of robbing the dead is to be done. The police boat follows. At the landing, the officers spring upon the night-prowlers. A terrible struggle ensues. At last the men are secured and handcuffed. On the way to the Prefecture, the man who has Alphonse in charge suddenly loosens the manacles, and bids him quietly depart. # Jjs % %. :J4 %. j: In an ivy-crowned chapel at Versailles, a priest is join- ing a couple in holy matrimony. They are Alphonse and Fifine. The man's big toe no longer peeps coquet- tishly from his boot. Fifine is the picture of happiness. The ceremony ended, they turn to leave the chapel. Al- phonse bends to kiss Fifine, and as he does so she hands him a hundred-franc note. "What is this?" he asks. " My dot," replies the girl, blushing as she speaks. Two weeks later the Commune were in possession of Paris. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 151 A MEDIAEVAL ROMANCE. "And do you discard me forever, Gertrude Gilhooley?" " I do," was the answer, in a low, sweet voice, while a pair of soft brown eyes suffused with tears looked ten- derly up at Sebastian McCarthy. "You know that my heart is yours, and that I would gladly give thee my hand, but papa says nay, and when he twitters the procession is apt to move" and, saying this, the girl buried her face in her hands, and sobbed convulsively. "But think again, Gertrude," said the young man, in eager, anxious tones. " See if thy woman wit may not discover aught that will avail to make our future pathway bright. I have loved you too long, too earnestly, to re- sign the prize so eagerly sought without a struggle." " Let me think," said the Lady Gertrude, brushing back from her fair forehead the bang which so gracefully o'erhung its pearly surface, and placing carefully on the toe of a statue of Mercury which stood in the conserva- tory a generous hunk of chewing-gum for which she had no immediate use. Standing silently by a marble Psyche for a moment, she turned suddenly to Sebastian. "You know the Mulcaheys?" she said. " They whose moated castle frets the sky on Archer avenue?" "Aye, the same." "I do." "Get thee thither with all speed, and when you have crossed the draw-bridge, and tethered your palfrey in the terraced court, knock boldly on the front door, but relax not your vigilance, an' you love me, for the Mulcaheys 152 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. come of Norman blood, and keep a dog. When the por- tal shall be opened, and you are admitted to the presence of my aunt, the Lady Constance Mulcahey, say to her that her favorite niece, Gertrude, seeks her aid; that a cruel father would wed her to one whom she loves not. Tell her that about four o'clock to-morrow afternoon, when the sun is gilding the shot-tower, a cassocked Justice- of-the-Peace will appear at Castle Mulcahey, and that I shall soon follow with my bonny bridegroom. Do you understand?" " I am on," replied Sebastian, " and, by my halidom, the plan is a good one," and, kissing Gertrude trustfully under the left ear, he went down the front steps and was soon lost to view. ******* ''And so my pretty niece would fain marry you?" It was the Lady Constance Mulcahey who spoke these words, and the one to wliom she addressed them was Sebastian McCarthy. "The plan is a good one," she continued, tapping gently with a broom-handle the dainty foot that peeped from beneath her robe. " The Earl is working on the North Side this week, and I shall not hear the clank of his dinner-pail until nearly seven p. m., so that all will be over ere he comes. You may tell Gert that I will be fixed for her." A cold, clear afternoon in the festive Christmas-tide. Up Archer avenue came, with merry tinkle of bells and proud prancing of blooded steeds, drawing-room horse- car No. 176. In one corner of the vehicle sat Gertrude and Sebastian, nestled close to each other like little LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 153 birds in the merry, agueish spring-time. Presently the car stopped. Sebastian was on his feet at once, his face expressing plainly the indignation that swept over his soul. " I prithee, do not leave me," said Gertrude, grasping his ulster with a convulsive clutch. " Fear not, sweetest. I go but to see what dastard has dared to stop my faithful steeds." He soon came back, and, saying with a merry sigh, "It is a freight-train on the Burlington crossing," again clasped Gertrude to his vest. The car moved on anon, and soon the happy couple were safe in the Castle Mul- cahey. ******* The words that bound Gertrude and Sebastian to- gether with the silken tether of matrimony had been said, and the happy groom had planted on the lips of his bride a large three-story-and-basement nuptial kiss, when suddenly the door of the room was opened, and Pythag- oras Gilhooley, Duke of Galway, stood before the happy couple. "Forgive me, father," said Gertrude, placing her soft white arms about his neck, and looking wistfully into his eyes. Removing from his mouth a two-inch pipe, and setting his dinner-pail on the ctagere, the Duke of Galway said, in clear, calm tones: " Yez are all forgiven. Divil a much I care if ye were jined a year ago." And with these words he silently took a chew of hard tobacco and was gone. 154 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. HOW TO WRITE A CHRISTMAS STORY. "Is this the editor's room?" A rather good-looking young lady stood in the door- way. "Yes, ma'am," replied the trotting-horse reporter. "This is the editor's room or rather, it is the room of several editors. The really and truly editor, however, has a room to himself further up the hall." "Well, I don't know, of course, exactly which one I ought to see, because ' " Oh, that's all right," interrupted the brawny young man. " Of course you don't know who you want to see. Nobody does that comes around a newspaper office, and most of 'em are in pretty fair luck if they can remember what they want after they get here. There is a sort of subtle, magnetic influence that hovers around a place like this and throws into a state of dreamy imbecility the majority of people who visit it. You really look more collected and life-like than most visitors." "Well," said the young lady, visibly encouraged by these kindly words, " I want to have a talk with some editor who will give me advice in relation to the matter of writing a story. I am quite certain that I have talent, but I lack experience, and that is why I have come here." "There is little doubt," replied the young man with the quarter-stretch expression on his coldly-calm features, "that in the bosom which, presumably, heaves beneath that watered-silk dress there beats a heart in which burns the fire of genius. It is always a pleasure to those who have climbed the steep and treacherous ladder of fame, LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 155 to lend a helping hand to the struggling ones below. In my case a foot would doubtless answer the purpose better, since more could attach themselves to it, but let that pass. You are about to write a story, and you want advice?" The young lady inclined her head. "Well, in the first place, it's better to discover, if pos- sible, what kind of a tale you desire to tell before start- ing. If you want to write a society novel, there must be a heroine a rich, statuesque widow with pearly-white arms and a bosom that throbs with passion, or a young girl with a wistful, pleading look in her perfect face, and damask cheeks. No girl in a novel without damask cheeks is genuine. Don't forget that. Then you want a hero. In this office we most always fix him up as a sunny-haired, strong-limbed kind of a duck, with a dul- cet voice that is tenderly tremulous with love when he speaks to the heroine. Along about the second chapter you must get 'em to kissing that catches the bald- headed old rascals that haven't known a moment's peace since the first troupe of blondes came over here from England. Sling in something about Vivian clasping Beatrice closely to his heart while her gleaming white arms encircled his neck and their lips met in the passion- ate ecstacy of a first love's kiss. The young man ought to have large, soulful brown eyes that kind always takes well with the women, and they will even stop sweeping to read a page or two about him. Along somewhere in the second chapter Vivian ought to tell Beatrice how much he loves her, and then you can ring in a lot of slush about a stormy reach of clouds athwart the West, where the day is dying, and the wind lifting its mournful voice around the bleak hillocks in the dim distance. Get 156 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. up a regular old fried-pigs-feet-for-supper-and-poker-in- the-evening kind of a day. It'll read tiptop, and then you c#n cut yourself loose for another page or two de- scribing the ruddy glow of the cheerful grate fire in the palatial residence of a banker, while a little beggar child, with pinched, blue features, shivers with cold on the side- walk outside, and finally lays its frail body down in the white drifting snow, and, with a feeble cry of 'Mamma' and a bright smile on its careworn face, dies of cold and hunger, while not forty feet away the banker is sitting by the fire with the ruddy glow, smoking two-for-a-quarter cigars. That is what we call the Christmas-story racket, and it's customary to have the child die just as the deathly hush of midnight's solemn hour steals gently over all, and the chimes in the neighboring church-tower are pealing forth a merry Christmas roundelay. Do you drop?" and the horse reporter smiled a witching how-much-do-I-hear- for-first-choice smile. "Yes, sir," said the young lady. "And I'm sure I am very thankful for your kindness." "Oh, don't mention it," said the compiler of the 2:30 list, waving a ham-like hand around in a self-depreca- tory manner. " But there's one point I like to have for- gotten. You remember what I said about the chimes pealing forth a roundelay?" "Yes, sir," "Well, you'd better look that up. Maybe a roundelay is some kind of a song-and-dance, and that wouldn't jibe in well just there, would it?" "No, sir, I think not. " You bet it wouldn't, sis, and you're too nice a girl to get a wrong pointer." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 157 The young lady moved toward the door. " Good-day, sir," she said. " Over the river," responded the horse reporter, again waving his generously-proportioned hand in a vague manner. ON THE BRINK. " Tell Beryl to come here." The Lady Agatha Frelinghuysen spoke these words in the commanding, decisive, I-will-get-there-or-break-a- suspender tone that was habitual to her, but as Mud Lake Maude, who had been a faithful servitor of the Frelinghuysens for forty years, and seen Beryl grow from a cooing baby to a splendidly-beautiful woman, turned away, she fancied that the lips of her mistress quivered slightly, and that her breath came in quick gasps. " It may have been carrying that bucket of coal up- stairs," said Maude softly to herself as she hurried away to obey the mandate given her, " but I fear that my lady's emotion hath another and more serious cause, and that Beryl, whom I have oft tossed in these withered arms, will think she has struck a blizzard belt when the old lady begins to paw the air." Just then Maude fell over a coal-scuttle that had been carelessly left in the corridor, and on rising met Beryl, who was intently reading a note. " Your mother would speak with you," said Maude, 158 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. and then, to conceal the sorrow that filled her bosom, she began eating an apple. He * * * * * * " Do you wish to see me, mamma ?" asked Beryl, tripping lightly into the room where her mother was seated. " Yes, my child," was the reply. " I fain would speak with you on a matter that doth nearly concern your future happiness your marriage." The girl shrank back instinctively, and the happy look faded from the pretty blue eyes. Plunging her right hand impulsively into her pocket she discovered that the last letter from Vivian Perkins, the man whom she loved with all the passionate intensity of a last-chance affection, was still there. Her secret was safe. " I am ready," she said to her mother in the respectful tones which ever characterized her speech, " to hear you twitter." " I know," said the mother, speaking calmly, "of your love for Vivian Perkins." Beryl's corns were throbbing now, but she mastered her emotion bravely, and gave no outward sign of the great battle that was being waged in her soul. "You wish to marry this man?" said the Lady Agatha. " I do," replied Beryl, " and nothing but his word, his act shall ever keep me from his side. I love Vivian with a wild, four-track-and-a-sleeper-on-every-train love that will brook no restraint, and some day, even though the fiery jaws of hell itself were opened to stop me, I shall be his bride." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 159 "I know all this," said the mother; "I know that you will marry Vivian, and I have but one request to make." " What is that ? " asked the girl. " It is," said the Lady Agatha, " that you will arrange to have the nuptials occur as soon as possible." " But why?" asked the daughter. " Because," was the reply, " I am thinking of making a similar break myself." LONG ON DOGS. " Does your father keep a dog? " As George W. Simpson spoke these words in the ear- nest, tender manner that characterized his demeanor to- ward the gentler sex, Aphrodite McGuire gave an up- ward glance, half-shyly, half-wonderingly, and then the beautiful brown eyes were again turned away, and the dimpled hands that had been clasping a pillar of the vine- clad porch on which they were standing this beautiful June morning, fell listlessly by her side. For a moment neither spoke. The sun-glints fluttered erratically down between the bright green leaves of the maple trees, the hum of insects filled the air, and the pleasant lowing of the cows as they roamed contentedly among the succulent grasses of the meadows was borne up on the balmy breath of the early summer to these two, in whose hearts the first prompt- ings of a pure, Cook County love were being felt 160 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. The man was the first to speak. Bending over the lithe form that stood beside him, he looked with clear blue eyes upon the coronal of golden locks that crowned Aphrodite's head, and then his eyes wandered to the in- visible net which kept the coronal from slipping off when the breeze hit it. "My darling," he whispered softly to himself, " God has made us for each other, and we must never be parted. Without you my life would be as deso- late as the subscription list of a Milwaukee newspaper, my whole existence a horrible dream from which there was no awakening." And clutching nervously at his I'll- be-better-in-the-spring mustache with one hand he gently placed the other upon Aphrodite's shoulder. The girl did not move. Again he touched her, but there was no response. Still, George suspected nothing. Who can blame his pure innocence? The dress was padded. "Aphrodite," he said, in low, mellow tones almost mellow enough to pick "will you not speak to me and give me a hope one little three-for-five-cents hope?" The girl raised her face to his. The happy, careless, are-you-going-to-the-ball-this-evening that had marked its every feature before George spoke the fateful words with which this story opens, was gone, and in its place there dwelt a stony, almost concrete look, that told more eloquently than could words of the terrible strug- gle that had taken place in the mind of this beautiful, striped-stockinged girl. No word came from the ashen lips from which the red bloom of youth had flown, but the wistful, fear-haunted expression of the dusky-brown eyes told all. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 161 "He has got a dog, then?" asked George, his voice quivering with excitement as he spoke. ''Two," murmured the girl, while a storm of sobs shook her form; "and," she added, speaking the words with a tender grace beyond compare, " they are both on the bite." SUNRISE AND SEALSKIN SACQUES. Sunrise in Hoboken. The first breezes of the awakening day, laden with the balmy scents that the dewy air has caught from the sleep- ing flowers as it kissed them during the night, are astir, causing the bright green leaves that hang so thickly on every bough to wave to and fro in an indolent fashion, as if loth to awake from the grateful quiet in which they have been hushed during the hours when the stars, those silent monitors of the night whose vigils are now at an end, have gemmed the heavens in all their splendor. From out the rosy portals of the morn come lambent rays of light, tinging with a golden glory the edges of a cloud-bank whose sullen visage is in ill-accord with the joyous beauty of the scene. Under the linden trees that skirt the edges of a broad dcmense, two girls are standing bright-faced, happy- eyed, two-new-hats-every-spring girls, their arms twined about each other in a trustful, sisterly, I-would-lend-you- my-bang-in-a-minute fashion that one sees so often among the dark-skinned maidens in the vineyards of Italy. 11 1 62 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. "Is it not beautiful, Gwendolen?" asks Aphrodite Mc- Guire, looking up with her pure, oval face into that of her sister. " Do you know, darling," she continues, see- ing that the other is too wholly wrapped up in the beauty of the scene to speak, " that the birth of a new day al- ways calls to mind that time in the life of every girl so fraught with care, and responsibility, when she stands watching with wistful eyes for the mists of futurity to break? Up over the rugged hills of her unknown, she will soon see advancing, with all its resistless power, the sunlight that is to illumine her with its radiance or scorch and wither her before the noon be reached. Across the pure and hopeful face pass the dark shadows of uncer- tainty and fear, only to be chased away by the ever-pres- ent hope that calls to her with jocund voice, while strong- limbed Youth, secure in the knowledge of his power, laughs back response. The life of woman is indeed a strange admixture, but, though the potion be at times bitter and hard to take, after all the toil and travail there comes a peaceful rest, a holy calm, that amply repays for all the struggles and strivings of the past. Hardly has a girl stepped across the threshold of maidenhood, with all its sweetness and purity, when her heart's choice falls upon some man an unworthy one, perhaps, whom she loves, though bleak November or budding May, with a passionate tenderness that is beyond compare. She floats then on a placid stream whose pretty ripples, laughing in the sunshine, seem only to reflect the joy that is in her heart, but ere long she learns that there sweeps beneath the shimmering surface an undercurrent that is black as death and relentless as fate. But after these sad experiences have come and gone, after she has seen LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 163 the gladsome days of her girlhood changed into nights that hold for her only desolation and grief, there comes a time when she stands close-pressed to the bosom of one who loves her devotedly, and whose glad, dark eyes look fondly into hers, and say that, through the golden light or the blinding tears, one heart will be ever true, one arm be ever ready to protect. It is then that love shall lighten and lift the pitiless burden of life so completely that even the scar it has left shall pass unnoticed, and life go on forever amid a bright halo of contentment and affec- tion. Can anything be more beautiful than this, sister?" "Nothing in all the wide, wide world," replied Gwen- dolen, putting away her chewing-gum as she spoke, "ex- cept a sealskin sacque." THE BUD OF PROMISE RACKET. " Is this the place ? " A prepossessing young lady stood in the doorway of the editorial room and was gazing around the apartment in a friendly but somewhat mystified manner. " It depends on what you want," replied the horse re- porter. " If you are on a wild and fruitless search for a piece of plum-colored satin to match a dress, or a new kind of carpet-sweeper that will never by any possibility keep in working order three consecutive days, you are joyously sailing away on the wrong tack, but if you would like an editor "That's it," said the young lady. "I want to see an 1 64 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. editor. I guess it's the literary editor. I saw such a sweet poem in THE TRIBUNE the other day. It went like this: The bloom on the heather is fading, darling, The moorlands are crimson gold. God grant we may live together, darling, Together till we grow old.' " "Well," said the horse reporter, "our-bloom-on-the- heather editor is out just now, but maybe some of the rest of us could attend to your case. What is it you want ? " " O, nothing in particular. Only I thought it would be nice to meet the literary editor and talk to him about authors, and poets, and everything like that. Don't you think Elaine is lovely ? It always seems to me " " Now you're talking," exclaimed the horse reporter, enthusiastically. " Five or six years ago when Elaine beat the three-year-old record I picked her out for a pretty smooth article, and told the boys that she was liable to beat 2:30 if her off hind leg didn't give way." " I don't mean a nasty, horrid old horse," said the young lady; "I was referring to Tennsyon's heroine." "O yes; you mean the girl that fell in love with Launcelot and floated down the creek in a dug-out to where he and Guinever were sitting on the bank swap- ping large, three-story-and-basement lies about their deathless passion for each other. Launce was a daisy, wasn't he ? " " I don't know about that, sir," said the young lady, in rather more formal tones. " You don't seem to appre- ciate the full meaning and power of the poem." " Probably not," was the reply. " Tennyson and Long- LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 165 fellow and the balance of the free-for-all bards may be a trifle too high for me, but when it comes to simple little stanzas from Macoupin County about the rose is red, the violet's blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you, I am wiser than a serpent. I can toss home-made, copper-bottomed rondeaus and madrigals into the waste-basket with an airy grace that would make your head swim." " I am going to graduate next month, sir," said the young lady, "and I've got to read an essay. Isn't it funny?" " Perfectly side-splitting," responded the personal friend of St. Julien. "And I thought," continued the young lady, "that perhaps the literary editor would give me some advice about the subject of my essay and the general manner in which it should be treated. But possibly you could do it just as well;" and the coming graduate smiled a sweet and encouraging smile. " I guess likely I could," was the reply. " You've got your white dress all made, I suppose?" " Yes, sir." " Well, that's a good deal. You can wear black shoes safely, that's one comfort," said the horse reporter, glanc- ing downward at the young lady's feet. " Why, of course," she replied. " Of course I shall wear shoes." " Yes, you can wear them, but I saw a girl once at a seminary commencement that was all rigged out in a white dress and wore black shoes. She had large, vo- luptuous feet that always made people look to see if that part of the building where she was standing wasn't sag- ging a little, and when she pranced out on the stage, the 1 66 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. effect was something like a coal mine with a white dress hung out to dry over the top of it. What were you think- ing of writing about ?" " I didn't exactly know, sir. That was what puzzled me." " The Bud of Promise racket is a pretty good one," said the horse reporter. "The what?" " The Bud of Promise racket. It's a daisy scheme for girl graduates." " Could you tell me," asked the young lady in a hes- itating manner, " about this " Racket," suggested the horse reporter. " About this racket ? " " Oh, certainly. You want to start the essay with a few remarks about Spring being the most beautiful season of the year the time when the tender blades of grass, kissed by the dews of heaven and warmed by the kindly rays of the sun, peep forth, at first timidly, and then in all the royal splendor of their vivid colors, from the bosom of the earth that was such a little while ago wrapped in a mantle of snowy whiteness and fast-bound in the chilly arms of hoary-headed old Winter. Then say that as the glad sunshine leaps through the bits of foliage that begin to come out and cast their grateful shade upon the earth, they fall upon the buds that are lading the fruit trees, and soon on every branch the buds ripen and burst forth in a wealth of floral loveliness. Then compare the maiden, just stepping forth from the precincts of the school and gazing with wistful, eager eyes out into the world, with the little bud upon the tree, and say that she, too, by the aid of the sunlight which LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 167 comes from education, will so develop into a woman, that priceless gift of God to man, and ever cast about her the holy light of love. That ought to fetch "em." "It sounds nice, doesn't it?" said the young lady. " You bet it does, sis. There is nothing so sweet and alluring as a popular lie. Of course, you and I know that when a girl graduates she is as useless as a fan in a cyclone, but it won't do to say so. You just give it to 'em the way I told you and you'll be all right." " Thank you very much, sir," said the young lady, starting for the door. " Don't forget to tie your essay with a blue ribbon," said the horse reporter. " No, sir, I won't." "And tell your papa to buy a bouquet to fire at you." "Yes, sir." " Remember about the glad sunlight. Any sunlight that isn't glad is of no use in a graduating essay." "Yes, sir. Good-bye.' " Bon soir. Come around when you fall in love, and I will put you up to a great scheme for making Charley declare his intentions several months earlier than would otherwise be the case." WHY SHE GRIEVED. " Let us sit here." Brierton Villa is ablaze with lights this summer even- ing, while on the lawn that stretches away toward the 1 68 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. heavy postern gates there are little knots of merry young people, the Chinese lanterns with which the grounds are illuminated bringing into strong relief the pretty dresses of soft white goods that the ladies wear, while the rustic seats scattered here and there over the velvety green of the lawn lose much of their angularity and hardness of out- line when seen in the dim half-light that pervades the place. "Aren't you tired, Regy?" asks Gladys McMurtry, as she nestles cozily in one corner of a great chair made of the gnarled branches of an old oak that, after braving the storms of centuries, and tossing its limbs in bold de- fiance of all the forces of Nature, had been cut down at the mandate of a landscape gardener, in order that the owner of Brierton Villa might have an unobstructed view of his broad domain, as he sat in the conservatory of a summer afternoon looking out upon a broad vista of meadow land, garden plat and fields of yellow grain. Very pretty was the picture as Gladys sat there in the big oaken chair, her soft brown eyes looking doubly beautiful beneath the fluffy mass of golden hair that over- hung them, while the tiny foot, enmeshed in silk of finest texture that peeped out from beneath the peignoir dress, was in itself a poem. "I am never tired," says Reginald O'Rourke; "at least, not when with you." And then he pauses sud- denly, as if afraid he may have said too much. But as he stands there, looking at Gladys with a wistful, tender, I-would-eat-a-waffle-for-your-sake look, the girl can not but feel that to win the love of this man is something of which any woman might be proud. And then, as Reg- inald seats himself beside her and takes her hand in his, the girl's face is aflame with blushes. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 169 "You must know that 1 love you, darling," he says; "and can you not love me a little in return?" But the blushes have fled from the pretty face now, and in their place is a look of haunting fear a where- has-the-hair-brush-gone-to expression that fills Reginald with horror. What has happened ? " he asks, bending over her. " Is it possible that I have been mistaken that you do not love me?" For answer she places her arms about his neck, and as her face falls forward on his shoulder the girl breaks down in a storm of sobs. "God help me," she says, " I love you far too well." " Then why are you weeping? " he asks, kissing away the tears as he speaks. Looking up to him with the beautiful brown eyes in which the tear-drops are shining, she answers him slowly and with infinite pathos: "Because I am sorry to think how soon you will be broke." A YULE-TIDE TALE. Christmas eve. Along the brilliantly-lighted streets of a great city, crowds of men and women were hurrying, and, although the wind was keen and the snow-flakes that were falling like whited messengers from heaven beat against human faces in a saucy fashion that was not altogether pleasant, every one seemed in the best of humor, and as people 170 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. brushed against each other as the crowd swayed along, there were no words of anger and impatience. All were joyous and happy, as became the occasion. No, not all. Wistfully peering into the great show-window of a store where were displayed the thousand and one devices for making the little folks happy, that are so conspicuous at Christmas-time, stood Jimmy Neversink, a boy of ten, and so absorbed was he in contemplating the marvels of beauty upon which his big brown eyes were feasting, that he forgot entirely the cold wind that was making his ears tingle and biting away furiously at his little blue toes peeping out from the dilapidated boots, originally intended for a much larger person, which but poorly covered his feet. Poor little Jimmy! Small share of kindness or comfort had he ever known since the day when his mother, who lay dying in a miser- able garret where they had lived ever since he could re- member, had called him to her bedside, and told him, in weak, faltering tones, that soon, very soon, she would go away from him forever. And then, as the little boy lay sobbing upon her breast, Caroline Neversink, nee John- son, had passed peacefully away, and when Jimmy awoke from the sleep into which grief and exhaustion had plunged him, the face that was pressed against his own was cold in death, and the arm that encircled him rigid and nerveless. It is not a long story that of a poor boy's life albeit a sad one. With no friend in all the wide, wide world to whom he could look for aid or even sympathy, Jimmy had started out manfully to fight the hard battle of life, LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 171 and now, after four years of unceasing toil and privation, found himself no better off than when he crept, weeping, out of the garret that cold winter's day, leaving behind him the only person who had ever kissed or loved him his angel mother. Standing before the store window this Christmas eve, Jimmy's thoughts wander back over his life, and then, as he sees other little boys, warmly clad and with smiling faces, trudging along the streets, he feels for the first time the sickening sense of utter desolation that comes to the miserable few who have no friends at Christmas-time who neither receive presents nor give them. Almost before he knows it, the tears are trickling down his cheeks and there is a choking sensation in his throat that he never felt before. The tears come faster and faster, and at last, when the poor, weak little frame is shaken by a storm of sobs that can not be repressed, he feels a touch upon his shoulder, and, looking up, sees a kindly face, and hears a voice saying: "Cheer up, my little man! This is no time for sor- row." ******* John W. Twelvepercent, the rich old banker, was re- garded by his friends as a man of marked eccentricities. In the way of business he was stern and unyielding, never allowing sentiment to interfere with what he conceived to be his due, and, although there was a vague rumor that he once loaned a poor woman eighteen dollars on no other security than a twenty-dollar gold piece, it was not generally believed. That there was a romance con- nected with his early life, was well known, but its nature none could with certainty state. Some said that the 172 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. woman whom he madly loved had eloped with a man who owed him seven dollars, while others asserted that he had fallen while practicing on roller skates, and never recovered from the shock. Be this as it may, John W. Twelvepercent was a rich old bachelor, with a handsome home and two soft corns. " Why are you weeping, my lad? " he asked in kindly tones of Jimmy. The boy told the story of his life, and when he came to that part in which occurred the death of his mother, John Twelvepercent gave a convulsive start. "You say your mother's name was Caroline? " he asked, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Yes, sir." "Was she bow-legged?" " I do not know, sir," replied Jimmy; " but a few days before she died she gave me this locket, which contains her picture. I have always worn it next to my heart." The banker opened the locket with feverish haste, and by the light which streamed in a mellow flood from the store-window, looked earnestly at the face within. " My God! " he muttered, " it is indeed Caroline Catchfly, the love of my youth. And so this is her son this little, ragged boy who is suffering from cold and hunger? How terrible, that Caroline's son Caroline, the first and only love of my life, should be in want." Then, bending tenderly over the boy, he speaks to him again. "You have no friends, Jimmy?" " No, sir." "And would you like to go and live with me? Go where you could have warm clothes, pretty playthings, and plenty to eat?" LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 173 The boy looks up to him, and into the big brown eyes, so like those of the mother on whose grave the snow is falling to-night, there comes an expression of joy and hope. "Oh, sir," he says, "I should love so dearly to go with you." "I do not doubt it," replied the banker, "and the decision shows that you have a sound judgment. Some day, perhaps, you may have a home to go to " and, turning on his heel, he walks away, leaving the snow still sifting softly into Jimmy's pants. MET THE DOG. The editor is sitting In his chamber 'neath the roof And of article on tariff He is weaving out the woof. On the table do his brightly Burnished boot-heels gently rest. While an i8-karat watch-chain Hangs across his ample vest. An aged man, and pallid, Slowly climbs the iron stairs; And at every labored footstep Softly to himself he swears. In his pocket is a " statement," Brightly gleams his azure eye He will get a full retraction Or " find put the reason why." 174 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. The editor's still working At his article so learned, No footfalls break the silence, The lights are downward turned. The office bull-dog's playing With some fragments of spring pants The old man with the statement Wasn't given half a chance. NOT WISE ENOUGH. "Good day, gentlemen." A very nice-looking young man stood in the doorway of the editorial room and gazed in a benign way at the occupants of the apartment. "Would it be possible for me to sell THE TRIBUNE a story?" he continued. "What kind of a tale have you ground out?" asked the horse reporter. "The story," said the visitor, "is one in which the tri- umph of love is depicted, and " "It isn't one of those 'And as Ethel stood there in the soft moonlight, her lithe figure sharply outlined against the western sky, there was a loud crash in Coastcliff Castle, and the girl knew that her mother had dropped the doughnut jar ' kind of stories, is it? because they won't do," said the horse reporter. " There is nothing at all about doughnuts in this story," replied the "Visitor, rather haughtily, "but if you like I can read a portion of it." "All right." LAKESIDE MUSLVGS. 175 "Where shall I begin?" "Anywhere," replied the horse reporter. "Suppose you give us the last sentence of it." " I should hardly think " Oh, never mind about that. We do all the thinking for young authors that come up here." The visitor seated himself and read as follows: " For answer, Gladys' beautiful eyes dropped, but she gave him both her hands; and there, under the heavy-fruited trees, the golden bees flying all about them, and the air filled with their dreary mono- tone, he drew her upon his breast, and, raising her long ringlets to his lips, kissed them reverently." "That's the last sentence, is it?" asked the horse reporter. "Yes, sir." " I should hope it was. It makes me tired to read about such ducks." "Why, I don't see " began the author. "Of course you don't. Probably you were the hero of the novel. Did you ever hear of Thompson's colt?" The visitor admitted his ignorance concerning that historical animal. "Well, Thompson's colt," continued the horse re- porter, "was such an eternal idiot that he swam across the river to get a drink. Now that fellow in your story is a dead match for him." " I don't understand " " Probably not. It is not expected of literary people. But I will tell you. This young fellow in your story is out under an apple tree holding a girl's hand, isn't he?" "Yes." ' And, according to the story, he ' raised her long 176 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. ringlets to his lips, and kissed them reverently.' That right? " "Certainly." " Now, what do you think of a young man that would go nibbling around a girl's back-hair when she had her face with her? Such stories do not possess the fidelity to na- ture that should ever characterize the work of genius. No, my genial imbecile, you can not get the weight of this powerful journal on the side of any such young man as your story depicts. We were once young and up to the apple-tree racket ourselves." " Good day," said the author, starting for the door. "So long," was the response. "Make George act like a white man in your story, and come around again." HER FATAL FOOT. " Heaven help me! " Reine McCloskey looked up with a startled expression in her deep, fawn-like eyes as these words reached her, and as her glance met that of George W. Simpson, she saw, or fancied that she did, a look of nameless terror pass over his face, while the hand that held her own seemed to tremble slightly, and the finely-chiseled lips quivered as if in pain. " You are ill," she said, placing her hand upon his arm and looking up wistfully at the face of the man she loved so well. For an instant George did not reply. Then, bending LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 177 tenderly over her until his lips were almost touched by the coronal of sunny hair that her father had agreed to pay for next month, he kissed the fair white brow that was upturned to him. " You love me, sweetheart ? " he asked. " Better than life," replied the girl, drawing still closer to him and stroking with a gentle touch his handsome face, which was hot and feverish "but you are really not well. Let us go into the conservatory, where the are is purer." "No," said George, "let me sit here beside you for a few moments. You have said that you love me, Reine. Is that love the mere ephemeral passion of a girlish fancy, or is it a true, deep, holy affection that will go on and on forever and ever, each day that dies on the horizon's purple rim making it more steadfast and abiding?" For answer she placed her hand again within his own, and as she looked up to him he saw that the beautiful brown eyes were suffused with tears. " You are cruel to ever doubt my love, darling," she said between the sobs that made her words sound like cider coming out of a jug " far more cruel than you know. No matter what betides, I shall always love you, and your smiles and ca- resses be ever to me as the gentle dew that kisses into new life the parched and withered flowers of an August day. Nothing in the wide, wide world can ever shake that love." " Not even misfortune, or a bitter disappointment ? " he asks. " Nothing ! " exclaims the girl. " But why do you ask ? " and her ruddy cheeks become ashen with a sud- den fear. "What has happened ?" 12 1 78 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. " Be brave, my precious one," he murmurs, while Reine sits there in silence, every feature strained in tense agony, awaiting his next words. " We are engaged for the next dance, I believe," he says. " Yes," is the answer. " It is the racquet?" " It is." " I can not dance with you, my darling." "Why?" she asks, rising from \hzfauteuil, and looking at him in ghastly horror. " Because," he replies, in low, agonized tones, " you have stepped on my corn." THE BROKEN VOW. Myrtle Hathaway stood silently in the conservatory of her father's elegant residence on Beacon Hill, looking steadily out into the cold winter air through which the snow was falling in big, soft flakes that came slowly down with many a quirk and twist, eddying hither and yon as if loath to leave their airy home, and finally fall- ing languidly on the earth as a maiden's head is laid on the breast of her lover, half shyly, and yet with a trust- fulness that is sweet beyond compare. Myrtle stood there in the gray light of the afternoon, slowly picking to pieces a rose that she had plucked from a cluster of the red beauties that lay near her, crushing the tiny petals in a nervous grasp that betokened the excitement LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 179 under which she was laboring, her face wearing a wist- ful, yearning look, that was pitiful in its sad beauty. She was an only child. Eighteen years ago she had been laid in her mother's arms those arms that clasped her in a wild, passionate embrace, while the hot tears of sorrow welled up from the beautiful gray eyes that were so soon to be closed forever in death, and fell on the sleeping infant as a baptism of love and hope and faith. The mother knew that, just in the hour of her supreme happiness, the cold, nerveless arms of death were waiting for her, and she did not want to die. Calling her weep- ing husband to the bedside, she placed the tiny waif of humanity, whose entrance into the world was the cause of so much suffering and sorrow, in his arms. " I am dying, George," she said in weak, tremulous tones. " I must go away forever from you whom I love so well, and from our little darling our first-born and our last. I must leave the world that has held so many bright, happy days for me, so much of sunshine and so little of shadow, and go away forever. But you will have our daughter, and you will think of me, darling, when her little arms are around your neck and I am lying out yon- der under the green grass, where the willows wave so silently orer the homes of the dear ones that are gone, and the daisies nod lazily in the soft summer breezes that blow gently over all that is left of so many lives that were fraught with sorrow and anguish or filled with joy and sweet content." The strong man, sobbing in his agony of grief like a little child, could only reply by pressing the hand that lay in his and kissing the wan, pale face, that but a short week before was flushed with the roseate hues of health. l8o LAKESIDE MUSINGS. " Promise me, darling," said the dying woman, " that no wish of Myrtle's shall be unfulfilled; that she shall never, so far as you are able to prevent it, know the sorrow of disappointment." "I promise," answered the stricken man. Let us see how he kept his vow. Myrtle had grown to be a beautiful woman a flower of beauty that men stopped to look at as she passed along the street. Everything that wealth could purchase was lavished upon her. Why, then, did she stand in the conservatory with the wistful look in her eyes, and nerv- ously pull to pieces the rose?" This will be explained later. From her position in the window Myrtle sees through the falling snow the figure of a man. "It's papa," she cries joyfully, clasping her shapely white hands in child- ish glee. She was right. George W. Hathaway was coming home to supper. Presently the man, who came along through the snow with a sturdy stride, reached the house and ascended the front steps. Myrtle was waiting in the hallway, and as he entered the door threw her arms about his neck and kissed him. "Papa," she cried, "did you get it?" " Get what," my darling?" "Why, what I told you about this morning." Mr. Hathaway thought for a moment. "Well, I'll be dum swizzled to Cohosh, Myrt, but I clean forgot that dratted candy." He had broken his vow. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 181 GIRLS DO NOT SWEEP. It was the solemn poet man, Full haggard and forlorn. That came unto the editor One sunny summer morn, And placed within his jeweled hand, That erstwhile in a mood Of loving kindness written had Of foeman something good, Some manuscript, and seating then Himself in cushioned chair. Spoke boldly out, first smoothing down His tangled locks of hair. " I know full well," the poet said, ' ' That oftentimes it is The painful duty of your craft To run their little sciss- Ors through the thoughts of other men Which may not be expressed Within your columns as, perchance, An antiquated jest, Or verses on an oil-lamp death All these, I know, must fall Beneath the awful ban that spreads Above them like a pall. "But I have here a little thing, Quite touching in its way, That tells of rippling waters And the smell of new-mown hay; The bashful maiden's witching smile, The lowing of the kine, The meadows, spangled o'er with flowers, The sunset most divine, 182 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. Are also pictured by the use Of softly-sounding words, And over all there comes the sweet Low twittering of the birds." 'Twas then up spoke the editor: " Your scheme is good," he said; ' ' On the rippling-water racket You are really quite ahead. But the spangled-meadow business And the blushing country maid Have long since copyrighted been And therefore I'm afraid That your story will not answer; But if you could only make The maiden sweep the parlor It will simply take the cake." * * * * The poet man was much downcast, The luster left his eye; He rose to go, and sadly said: " I can not tell a lie." EXPOSING HIS WEAKNESS. " Merry Christmas, papa ! " A sweet face, wreathed in the sunniest of smiles, and whose peachy bloom was rendered still more beautiful by a pair of dark brown eyes that sparkled like diamonds, looked roguishly over the balusters as these words were spoken, and before the one to whom they were addressed could reply, a pair of plump white arms were thrown LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 183 around his neck, and the little head with its mass of fluffy golden hair was nestling on his breast. Harold Setback, man of the world though he was, and absorbed with the cares of a business which seemed to engross all his time, loved his child with a great three- story-and-basement love that at times became a passion- ate adoration. All his hopes, ambitions and successes were wrapped up in her happiness, and a look of care on Beryl's face or a trace of sadness in the big brown eyes, that were so like those of her dead mother, on whose grave the snow was falling so silently this Christmas morning, meant to him an absolute pain, a pain that was not to be banished until the pretty face was wreathed in smiles again and the brown eyes laughing as before. "A merry Christmas, indeed, my darling," said Mr. Setback, bending over and kissing the rosebud mouth that was upturned to his. "Why should I not be happy? I have health, wealth, a pleasant home, and, above all, I have you, my precious one " "But, papa," interrupted the girl, blushing as she spoke, " have you never thought that we may not be al- ways together that perhaps some day there may come one who " "My child," exclaimed the banker, in tones that were half tender, half reproachful. " Does my little girl mean to tell me that the wicked little archer has pierced her heart with an arrow from his quiver? Does she mean to say that while my eyes have been closed in ignorance some one has been teaching her the old, old lesson, al- ways so easy to learn the lesson that " "Stop! " said Beryl, in an imperious and almost whoa- Emma tone, "and come with me into the library." 1 84 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. They stepped into the apartment, and, after Beryl had seated herself at the piano and played a few bars from Beethoven's ninth symphony in order to clear the neigh- borhood of beggars and organ-grinders, she cuddled herself up cozily on a hassock beside her father. "Yes, papa," she began, "I am in love nay, more than that, I have plighted my troth." " How much did you get on it? " asked the banker. "You misunderstand me," replied Beryl. "I have pledged myself to become the bride of the only man I can ever love Arthur Ainsleigh." "What!" almost shouted the banker, "that dry-goods clerk? " "Yes," was the reply in clear, resonant tones, "I love him, and despite your sneers I shall marry him. It is no crime for a man to be a dry-goods clerk." " No," said Mr. Setback thoughtfully, " but it ought to be," and for a moment silence fell between them. The father was the first to speak. " I do not care for wealth," he said, "when the subject of your future hus- band is considered, and I could overlook his paper-on- the-wall pants, but Arthur Ainsleigh is a debauchee." "'Tis false!" cried the girl. "Prove your words to be true and I will renounce him forever, but should you not do so I will fulfill my promise to him at once." " I accept the test," was the reply, and kissing his daughter fondly, Harold Setback left the house. "So I can have the detective?" " Yes. One of our best men will ingratiate himself with this young man of whom you have spoken, and if he has the slightest tendency toward dissipation he is lost." LAKE 5 WE MUSINGS. 185 il Very well," said the banker. "Good-day." "Good-day." ******* "Enough! This is horrible." Beryl Setback speaks almost appealingly to her father as she stands with him in front of a gilded haunt of vice and beholds Arthur Ainsleigh leaning against the bar in a state of beastly intoxication he whom she had loved with such a passionate fervor that at times she forgot about her corn. " Let us go away, papa," she said in tones that were almost a sob, " I shall never see him again." * * ' * * * * * " How much is your bill ? " The detective stood by the banker's desk. " Five dol- lars for my time." " But were there no other expenses? He seemed very far gone when I saw him." "Oh, yes," said the detective; "forty cents for that part of it. I had to buy two lemonades and a package of cigarettes before he was full enough to have the young lady see him. COULDN'T BACK. " Back, I say !" The silvered foam of the sea was splashing in rhythmic cadence on the white sands of the beach, while here and there a fleck of wavering light from the signal buoy on Sardine Shoals that dreaded spot beneath whose 1 86 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. treacherous waves so many goodly ships freighted with precious burdens from far Cathay and Muskegon had disappeared forever brought into bold relief against the western sky Girofle McClosky's off foot, as she stood by Bertram Perkins' side that soft June evening. " You do not love me," said the girl, speaking slowly, " or you would not speak so cruelly. On this beautiful night, when the hills are suffused with amber haze, through which the stars glow and throb in silent splen- dor, we should think of naught but love pure, passion- less love, that will bind our hearts together in a chain whose every link shall be a kiss; whose every fold a sweet caress." For an instant the man did not reply. Then the girl stretched forth to him her bare white arms that glistened like marble in the growing dusk, but he heeded them not. , " Will you not speak to me, sweetheart ? " she said, an infinite pathos in the words. No answer came. Again the outstretched arms pleaded mutely and with pitiful eloquence for the joy that was never to be. Looking at her with a haughty, almost Vice-President Davis expression on his face, Bertram again said: " Back, I say." With a despairing gleam in her darksome eyes, Girofle turned away and began to sob as if her corset would break. "God help me," she said, in despairing accents, "I can not back." " Why not ?" asked Bertram. " Because," was the reply in tear-stained tones, " my polonaise is too eternally tight." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 187 AN OHIO ROMANCE. " Has he seen her foot? " Reginald De Courcey, eighth Duke of Wabash, smote his corselet fiercely with the trusty blade that had cloven in twain the skull of many an enemy, and looked ten- derly upon his wife, the Lady Agatha McMurty, as they stood 'neath the shadow of a glove which the wife had carelessly left on the lawn. By the Duke's side was his faithful steed, Step-and-Fetch-it, in whose veins flowed the blood of the swift courser of the desert, the Arabian. " I know me not," quoth the Lady Agatha, " whether that of which you speak hath indeed taken place, but on her return from the tourney at Coshocton, whither young Rupert de Moyamensing hath taken our daughter, I will not fail to closely question the maid regarding this mat- ter. Truly, it is of much moment whether this young knight, who cometh from beyond the Little Miami, doth wed our daughter." "I prithee do not speak of that," said Lord Reginald hastily " and yet thou'rt right. An' Rupert make not the lass his bride methinks it will be many a day ere an- other one so guileless heaveth in sight. What's o'clock?" " Three forty-five," replied the Duchess, looking at the shadows which the sun cast upon the woodshed. "There is yet time to warn her," said Reginald. "But with another horse than thou, my pet," he added, strok- ing the glossy neck of the Arabian courser, "the task would indeed be a hopeless one." "Then, haste thee!" cried the Lady Agatha. "Lose not a moment of time that is so precious. Fly with all 1 88 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. speed, and I will offer up prayers that thy journey may be swift and sure." Leaping upon his horse, the Duke sped swiftly from out the court-yard, the clatter of the hoofs making glad music in the ears of his devoted wife. Suddenly, she heard the horse give a mighty snort and stop, and anon there came upon the summer breeze that was kissing the locust blossoms above her head the sound of a dull thud. Running with fear-hastened feet across the portcullis, the Duchess saw the affrighted animal standing in front of some huge object, while further on lay the corpse of her husband, the cold, white face looking up to heaven as if in a mute appeal for pity. In an instant she was by his side, but the kisses that she pressed upon the pallid lips of the man she loved so well were unfelt, and the words she spoke brought no response. Then, going to the horse, she took him kindly by the bridle. " I do not blame you, Step-and-Fetch-it," she said, "for there are some things which even an Arab steed may not leap over, and it was very careless of my daughter to leave her overshoe in such a place." WHY THEY PARTED. " Good-bye, McNulty ! " The tall, lissome form of Esmeralda W. Perkins was sharply outlined against Vivian McNulty's left ear as he stood that beautiful June evening in the doorway of Bnerton Villa, hoping against hope and praying that something he knew or cared not what might occur to LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 189 sweep from the horizon of his life the awful sorrow that was hanging over it like a pall a sorrow that would make every day an aeon of misery, every word of joy that others might utter a knell of despair. They had quarreled, these two they who in the beautiful days of autumn, when the leaves were turning golden, when the hills were crowned with amber light and the valleys seemed like huge cups brimming over with a purple haze, and when the trotting record was lowered to 2:08 1-2, had plighted their troth so willingly and yet so solemnly, thinking, and rightly, too, that this blending forever of two hearts was a solemn, holy act, one that should ever be looked back upon in silent gratitude and now they were to part forever, take separate paths on the eventful journey of life that journey which they had hoped by constant companionship and enduring love to make one of ceaseless joy and sweet content. But now all was changed, and the rose-tinted future which they had often pictured to themselves and talked about in the calm hopefulness that only young men on $75 a month and a pure, passionless girl who can eat the bottom crust of a pie without a quiver, can assume, had passed away forever, and in its place there was a yearning chasm of despair and grief. " I can not marry you," Esmeralda had said to him that night as he entered the house, and then, having uttered the cruel words which she had been schooling herself all day to say, and seeing how they had pierced like a dagger that brave, manly heart, she had thrown herself into his arms, and as her white face, down which the tears was streaming, lay upon his heart, Vivian McNulty knew that the words which Esmeralda had 1 9 o LAKESIDE MUSINGS. spoken did not come from her heart knew that some terrible mystery was enshrouding both their lives in its darksome folds. And as he held her sobbing in his arms the light from the chandelier above them streamed down in golden radiance upon the broad white brow from which the fair hair waved away, fell across the long, strangely dark eyelashes, giving just a gleam of the beautiful blue eyes beneath, across the sweet red mouth quivering like a grieved child's. And then, as he bent forward tenderly to kiss away the tears, the girl had drawn back not in anger, but with an expression of un- utterable pain on her face, and spoken the three words with which this chapter opens: "Good-bye, McNulty." For an instant the man could not reply. He had not felt such a shock since meeting his father in the giddy whirl of a, poker game and going home with nothing but a contrite heart and a lead-pencil to show for his month's wages. He still held Esmeralda's hand in his, and the girl was looking up to him with eyes that were tearless now, but in their depths there was a look of frozen hor- ror, a my-bustle-has-got-loose expression, that pierced his very soul. And when he had asked for an expla- nation of her words not demanded it as a right, but pleaded for it as a favor she had only shifted uneasily unto the other foot and burst into a storm of sobs. " I can only tell you," she murmured, when finally his agonized entreaties had moved her to speech, " that our marriage would render your life one of constant misery; that it is better we should part now than commit an error which eternity alone could efface. You will never know how I love you, Vivian never know the dreadful LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 191 agony that this separation is causing me. God knows I would greet death with smiling face and outstretched arms to-morrow, now that you are lost to me forever, for what is life without your love, and presence, and kisses, but an unceasing torture ? If I could love you less, if your love were not enshrined in my heart as something to be worshiped evermore, I would not take this step. It was wrong, very wrong, I know, to allow this love to overmaster my whole being, but it is better to wreck one life than two, and so again I say ' good-bye v ' and lift- ing her pure, sweet face to his, Esmeralda kissed him gently on the lips and turned to go. "Stop! " exclaimed Vivian in an imperious, whoa-Emma manner. " I pleaded with you for an explanation, but now I demand it. It is my right," and, drawing himself up proudly, he broke his left suspender. "You speak truly," replied the girl. "An explanation on my part is due you. Know, then, that I am a victim of heredity." "Of what?" asks Vivian. " Of heredity," repeats the girl. " In what respect ? " he demands, his voice hoarse with agony. " I have," said the girl, steadying herself against the piano, " inherited my father's snore." 192 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. SOCIAL TOPICS. "Is this an editor?" The horse reporter looked up from a little idyl on the life and career of Rysdyk's Hambletonian into which he had been putting the best efforts of his surging brain, and beheld a rather short young man who was peering in an affable but somewhat irresolute manner over a very high collar, and on whose upper lip was a delicate tracery which looked as if it might have been effected with some No. 2 molasses, and at which the young man was mak- ing furtive grasps with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, evidently under the impression that he had a mustache and desired to pull it. "I want to see an editor," said the young man, in a voice that sounded like the best efforts of a cricket, "about a social topic I want to see the social-topics editor." " What sort of a social topic is it that's worrying you? " inquired the biographer of St. Julien. "There are a good many social topics. Has somebody in your social circle been holding three aces with criminal frequency, or has the green-eyed monster invaded your once happy flat because your wife goes to the matinee?" "Oh, it's nothing like that," said the young man. "I promised papa that I would never play poker, and I'm not married that is, not yet." "Well, the gentle sex is having one lucky winter, any- how," said the horse reporter, surveying the visitor care- fully. " If you'll quit grabbing for that supposititious mustache and tell me what ails you, perhaps I can settle LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 193 the point. What's the social topic you are distressed about?" "Well, you see," said the young man, "when I got into the laces " " Into the what? " " Into the laces the lace department in our store, you know all the other fellows there were real jealous of me because I had been out more in society than they had. I belong to three clubs on the West Side, and we have hops, and assemblies and things, every week; so I'm really quite in the swim, you know. Well, they were awfully jealous, you know just as I said and they talked real mean. I told Cholly about it Cholly's my chum, you know and he said to never mind them, but keep going right into society; and he lent me his mauve pants for an awfully swell reception one night last week. Cholly and I are awful chums, and I'm going to give him a book-mark on his birthday. That will be nice, won't it?" " Yes," said the horse reporter, "a book-mark is a val- uable aid to any young man who is hustling around to get a living. With a strong arm, pure heart, and a nice book-mark fortune is within the reach of all, But what's the question that's worrying you? " " Oh, yes, the social topic. Well, the other day a lot of us were talking about young ladies, and I said that few young men knew what real etiquette was, and I gave an awfully severe look at one fellow who has been ter- ribly jealous of me ever since a young lady who came into the store the other day smiled right over in the direc- tion where I was standing, and never even looked at him. And then some one said it was proper to call on a, 13 194 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. young lady and ask her to accompany you to the theatre that evening. I said that would be wrong that the cor- rect way was to write the lady a note asking the pleasure of her company. We had a terrible discussion about it, and finally agreed to leave it to the social-topics editor of THE TRIBUNE. Now, supposing you were a young lady, and I were to call at your papa's house and ask you to go to the theatre with me that evening, what would you do?" "Suppose I were a young lady?" said the horse re- porter. "Yes." " And you were to call and ask me to go to the theatre with you? " "Yes." "What would I do?" "Yes." " Well, if somebody had mislaid the gun, I suppose I should have to content myself with a club." OBITUARY GEMS. Put away the long blonde tresses That our darling used to wear; She will never, never need them, For our darling bangs her hair. Put away the wooden boot-jack That our parent used to shy At the tomcats on the woodshed. Papa's home is in the sky. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 195 Mend the hole in father's trousers, Soon they'll fit our oldest son. Frame the verdict for the parlor: " Rotten barrels in the gun." Mary, we shall always miss you; Absent is your pleasant smile. Had the oil can been much larger You'd have gone about a mile. Tie the bull dog in the woodshed; 1 ,ittle Johnny's passed away. Keep his checkered pants for brother, He will fill them up some day. A St. Louis maiden in love Put some kerosene oil in the stove. It is thought that her toes Were turned out as she rose, By the size of the hole just above. Give his pants to Cousin Tommy, And his little silver cup. It was in the motth of August Green corn curled our darling up. Put away dear papa's slippers Underneath the cellar stair; Some St. Louis girl can wear them, If her feet she'll only pare. iq6 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. Get out Robert's yellow trousers, Fix them up for little Will; Brother went to fish on Sunday, And his grave is on the hill. Little Jim is no more with us, Let us not bewail his fate; When he sank, his cousin Henry Was away in search of bait. Summer days are swiftly waning, Autumn tints are on the leaves; Never tackle a green melon Rupert's gathering golden sheaves. Put away dear Arthur's speller, Vacant is his desk at school ; Tell his comrades that it's dangerous Playing tag behind a mule. Do not cry for little Georgie, He is in the golden camp; Gently was he wafted upward By the non-explosive lamp. HOW TO REGAIN HIM. " Is the hymeneal-happenings editor in?" A very pretty young lady stood in the doorway and glanced in an appealing way at the occupants of the roprn. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 197 " Hymeneal means something about getting married, doesn't it?" said the horse reporter. " Yes, sir," replied the young lady, " but I don't want to marry " "Oh, no; I know you don't," said the friend of Maud S. " Girls never do. They spend most of their time trying to escape from the dreadful abyss of matrimony into which countless young men are endeavoring to plunge them." " The object of my visit," said the young lady, " is to see some editor in regard to a poem, and it occurred to me that perhaps the gentleman for whom I asked might be the person having such matters in charge. I have met with a sad disappointment, and have written this poem in commemoration of the event." " I'm sorry he got away," said the horse reporter, "but perhaps you were lucky to lose him. There isn't any- thing in this poem about the brown mantle of October resting lightly on the hills, is there? or the deep green of the pines being reflected against the turquoise bloom of an autumn sky? Because if there is, we can't take it. There is more brown-mantle-of-October poetry stowed away here now than the window-cleaner can use in a year. If you've got anything about the white messengers of heaven drift- ing silently down through the keen air, or the gaunt out- line of the leafless oaks standing haggard against an un- pitying sky, we might do business with you. Our stock of November poetry is rather light this season. If you could ring in something about a boot-black dying on the steps of a banker's residence Christmas eve, while inside the house the wassail bowl was going round, it would be a daisy." 198 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. " I'm afraid my poem will hardly meet the require- ments you suggest," said the young lady, " because the theme is a sad one, and the treatment is naturally in ac- cord with this fact. I can read it to you, however." "Nothing about 'Put away his little rattle' in it, is there? " "No, sir." " Nor ' The beautiful Summer is dead, alas ' ? " " Certainly not." "Well, then, you may read it;" and the horse reporter settled himself in a critical attitude. The young lady produced a roll of manuscript and read as follows: " And this is the end of all, Ernest; the end of our happy dreams; A walk to the quiet graveyard where the snowy marble gleams; Tablets of blighted hopes, and broken hearts that moan For the.ir buried loves, and the weary years that must be lived alone. " You go back to the world, Ernest men's hearts so seldom break And under new stars, in new skies set, soon other ties will make; But I go back to a desolate life no man can ever be, Though I roam the wide world over, what once you were to me. "\ndthisistheendofall. Good-bye. Perhaps it had caused less pain To have gone our separate ways without seeing each other again. For want of one little word, Ernest, lives often drift apart; You spoke that word, but it came too late; it only broke my heart." " Nice, ain't it?" remarked the horse reporter when the reading was finished. " Are you the girl that's been up to the graveyard and taken a look at the tablets of blighted hopes? " " Yes, sir." " Ernest is going back to the world, is he? What has he been doing in St. Louis all this time?" " I hardly think you appreciate the circumstances under which this poem was written," said the young lady. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 199 " Oh, yes I do. Ernest is your young man, and you have quarreled with him because he only called you his tootsy-wootsy eighteen times, instead of twenty, as you had figured on. You think your heart is broken, and you want to get even by breaking other people's hearts with your poetry. That's wrong. Just now the world seems desolate, and the horizon of your life is o'ercast with leaden colors. But time heals all wounds, and in about a month from now, when some other young man mentions oysters, the chances are you will beat the record getting your sealskin jacket off the hat-rack." "You are very much mistaken, sir," said the young lady. "My love is no ephemeral passion." " Do you still want Ernest? " " Yes, sir." "Well, I can tell you how to get him." " Oh, can you? " asked the girl, enthusiastically. " I shall be so thankful if you will." "You take this poem," said the horse reporter, "and send it to him. Then drop him a line saying the papers have agreed to print it for you. If he doesn't weaken when it comes to having his name mixed up with a lot of graveyards, blighted hopes, broken hearts and a deso- late life, I shall miss my guess." " Do you really think so? " asked the girl. " Yes; really and truly." " And I will tell you whether or not your plan suc- ceeds," she continued. " Never mind that part of it," replied the compiler of the 2:30 list. "The scheme will work all right. Come around again after you are married, and I will give you a pointer on how to keep Ernest at home nights." 200 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. WHY HE WEPT. " Is this the literary editor ? " The horse reporter looked up and discovered a young lady standing in the doorway. " No, madam," he replied, " the literary editor is at present engaged in the construction of an elaborate critique of the Trotting and Pacing Record. You will probably see something in next week's paper about the idyllic love-story of Maud S. and St. Julien, the tender romance of Jay-Eye-See, and the sad, pathetic story of Early Rose and Aldine. You can bet that when the literary editor of this paper gets his taper fingers on a book he reviews it. I have been told that he once turned himself loose on a volume of differential calculus that had just been issued, and remarked that, while the more frivolous portion of the reading public might hold that certain chapters of the work were somewhat uninteresting, the great moral lesson inculcated in regard to the square of the hypothenuse should be known to all, and that to the merchant, the farmer, or the young mother who wanted something handy to throw at the children when they became too fresh, this chaste volume would prove invaluable. When it comes to giving a calm and dispassionate opinion, in which the lurid glare of impassioned genius is softened and mellowed by the lambent rays of experience, THE TRIBUNE'S literary editor is liable to beat the record any minute. I suppose you have an original story, written on white paper and tied with blue ribbon, concealed some- where about your person, and want the literary editor to commune with it ? '' LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 20 1 "Yes, sir," replied the young lady. "I have written a story, and mamma thinks it is very good." " Is there anything in it about the leaves turning to golden and the velvety green of the grass now looking sere and brown ? Because if there is, it won't do. The season for brown-mantle-of-October-resting-on-the-hills- and-leaves-turning-golden stories is about at an end. We have got to carry over to next season more brown-mantle- of-October stuff than you can shake a stick at. The- dull-red-glow-of-the-dying-embers racket is what we shall show the public from now until December. Got any dying embers in your story? " " No, sir. Mine is a love story." "That's all right. The dull red glow of dying embers works in beautifully in a love story, although as a rule young men who fall in love don't have currency enough to buy a cord of wood to make embers of." " But why must I write my story in this particular style? " asked the young lady. " Because it's the season for it. You want to start out by saying that as Harold Nonesuch, the rich banker, sat in his magnificently furnished parlor and gazed thought- fully into the dull red embers of the dying fire in the grate, there came trooping up from the dim vista of an almost forgotten past memories sad, sad memories that caused the unbidden tear to start. Don't make any mistake about the tear business. Be sure to have only one tear, because that's the orthodox style in stories. Of course, nobody but one-eyed men could shed one tear at a crack unless he had plugged up one of his lachrymal ducts, but in novels it is always put that way. And you want to be certain that it is an unbidden tear. A tear that 202 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. had received a cordial invitation to be present and start, wouldn't do at all. Then say that the old man's thoughts wandered back to the happy days of his child- hood. Be certain to have them wander back, going across-lots and stopping once in a while to pick sand-burs out of their toes. If you were to say that his thoughts went back, the story would be spoiled. ' Wander ' is the correct style. Then, when you get the old man back to his happy boyhood days, you want to trot out Lucy." " Trot out who ? " " Lucy Little Lucy Perkins with her great blue eyes and golden hair the playmate of his youth that he loved so dearly and always looked upon as his future wife. Then lug out another unbidden tear, and finally have the old man break down in a storm of sobs." " It's very sad, isn't it ? " said the young lady. " Lucy died, I suppose, and the old man's heart is breaking." " No," said the horse reporter, " Lucy married another man." " Then what makes the banker weep ? " inquired the maiden. " Sympathy for the other man." HAUNTED BY THE SPEECH. It was a college graduate full hopefully that said: " To-morrow I into the world go forth to seek my bread. I would not be a farmer lad, and speed the gleaming plow, Ride on the patent hay-rake, or milk the blithesome cow ; A horny-handed son of toil is well enough, but I At something worthy of great minds my surging brain would try." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 203 At middle hour of sweet June day an elevator bore A tall, slim youth, with cigarette, up to an editor. " I fain would be a journalist, and heights Olympian reach," He said, "and so have brought along my graduating speech; Which you may print, good editor, to-morrow, an' you will, Nor any pay give unto me unless it fills the bill." A wistful, weary, longing look, like unto that with which The storm-chilled beggar in the street regards the fur-clad rich, Passed swiftly o'er a classic face the editor his hand Pressed quickly on a silver bell, it tinkled softly, and There stepped from out another room a man of mighty mein A Grreco- Roman wrestler, or a prize-fighter, I ween. ***#**** Within his cerements of white the graduate doth lie; A look of peaceful calm is in the editor's blue eye ; He bends low o'er a manuscript sent in by the latest mail, When suddenly his brow contracts, his ruddy cheeks grow pale. For this is how the item reads: '' Our noble boy is gone; We send his graduating speech please print it in the morn." THE STORY OF CHARLES. Charles was a little boy who loved his Mother dearly, and whenever she told him anything he was very careful to Obey. One day in Spring when the birds were singing and the buds on the apple trees were almost ready to burst into beautiful white blossoms, Charles asked his mother for Ten Cents to buy Marbles, for the ground was getting dry and the other boys were beginning to enjoy their Favorite Sport. " You can have the money, my son," said 204 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. the Mother, "but you must promise me not to play for Keeps, and every night that you can come home and tell me truthfully that you have not disobeyed your Mamma, I will give you a Large Red Apple." And then she kissed him Fondly, and he went gaily away to School. But before Charles had gone very far he met Thomas Tough, who was a Bad boy. Charles told Thomas about the Ten Cents that his Mother had given him to buy Marbles with, and also told him that he could not play for Keeps unless he was willing to lose the Red Apple. When Thomas heard this, he said: "Give me the Marbles that you are going to buy, and I will play with them for Keeps, and after school is out we will Divide what I have won, for I am a Superior Player. Then you can truthfully tell your mother that you have not been playing for Keeps, and will receive the Red Apple." So Charles gave his Marbles to Thomas, and after School was out he asked him how many Marbles he had Won. "I did not Win," replied Thomas. "I struck a Hard Crowd, and lost." Then Charles was sad, for he was a pretty Tight- Fisted little boy, and began to Cry. But presently he said to Thomas: "You are a naughty boy, and I hate you Very Much." And then Thomas hit Charles on the Nose, and threw him down in the Dirt, making his new panties look very bad indeed. So when Charles reached home he told his Papa all about his troubles. When he had finished, his Papa said to him: "You don't know as much as Thompson's colt, and I am going to Take a Crack at you myself." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 205 Then he gave Charles a good Licking and sent him to bed without any supper. And when Charles had lain on his Stomach for a while, because he felt more Comfort- able that way, he said to himself: " No more Blind Pools for me." Do you not think he had a Great Head, children? I do. One day when little Charles, the good boy of whom I have told you, was on his way to School, he passed by a large Orchard in which there were a great many kinds of Fruit, and as the sunshine came streaming through the branches of the Trees and fell upon the rosy-cheeked Apples, the sweet, mellow Peaches and the red Cherries, Charles thought they looked very Beautiful indeed, and would Go Down Nicely with the Lunch which his kind Mother had wrapped up in a white napkin for him, and placed in the little Basket he carried in his hand. Some of the Fruit hung very near the Fence, and as Charles looked at it Wistfully he said to himself : " How easily I could climb over there and pluck several of the Apples and Pears without being Discovered, for there is no one in the Orchard now. But that would be Wrong, and if I did I should always be Sorry, and surfer dread- fully from the Pangs of Conscience." So he stood there a little longer. The little Birds in the trees were singing their Merriest Lays, the soft and balmy Zephyrs of early summer were Kissing the Flow- ers as they nodded their pretty heads in the grass by the roadside, and all Nature seemed Rejoicing in its Strength. Many times Charles looked up at the Fruit and thought how easy it would be to take it, but every time he did this the Small Voice would say, " That would be wrong, 206 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. Charles," and he would resolve not to make any such Break. But pretty soon a Bright Thought struck him, and his pure young face lighted up with a Sunny Smile. " I will go to the Owner of the Orchard, who lives in yonder House, and tell him how I have conquered Temptation. Then he will give me all the Fruit I want, because that is the way Sturdy Farmers always do in the little books I get at Sunday-School." So he went boldly up to the farm-house, but just as he entered the Gate a fierce Dog grabbed him by the seat of his Panties, and Wiped the Ground with him for a few moments. The nice Lunch that his mother had put up for him was Distributed all over the Yard, and his new jacket looked as if it had been Out With the Boys. When the Farmer heard the Noise he came running out of the House, and called off the Dog. "What do you want, my Little Man?" he said to Charles. So Charles told him he had been tempted to take the Fruit, but would not do so because it was Wrong. And then he asked the man for some Fruit. The Farmer looked at him for a Moment and then he said: " I have two more Dogs, both larger than the one you Tackled, and unless you are out of here in Three Jerks of a Lamb's Tail, they will be Lunching, and you will be Quite Conspicuous in the bill-of-fare." So Charles ran quickly away, not even stopping to get his Basket. A little way down the Road he overtook Thomas Tough, who was eating a Delicious Peach. " Where did you get that Peach, Thomas? " asked Charles, LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 207 " Over in that Orchard," replied Thomas. " I waited until the Old Crank who owns the place had gone to Breakfast, and then appointed myself Receiver of the Orchard." "You are a very wicked Boy," said Charles. "Yes," said Thomas, " I am a trifle wicked, but I keep Getting to the Front all the time, and my clothes don't seem quite so much Disarranged as yours. You will also notice that my Lunch Basket is with me, and that my piece of Pie for the Noonday Meal is not lying in Farmer Brown's Garden." When Charles went home that evening he told his Papa what he had done. " You know, Papa," he said, "that I would sooner be right than President." "Yes," replied his Papa, "but I am not seriously alarmed about your being President, either." COULDN'T LOSE HIM. " You do not doubt me, Myrtle? " " Never! " exclaimed the girl, putting on her invisible net as she spoke and placing her bandoline bottle where she would be sure to see it in the morning. The sun had glared down fiercely all day upon the parched earth, and now that night had come the heat was even more oppressive than ever, because the cool wind that had been wafted from the lake during the day had died away. It was a dreamy, sensuous, one-gauze- 208 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. undershirt-and-no-vest evening, such as one often notices while traveling in Palestine. "You have great faith in me, have you not, little one?" Vivian McCarthy said, taking the girl's off hand in his. "Yes," replied Myrtle, " I believe in you with a child- like faith akin to that which enables a boy to bite a pie in the dark, and I love you with a deep tenderness and fair loyalty that can never die." " And would you believe anything I told you? " Vivian murmured, kissing the dimpled hand that lay in his. Looking at him with her starry eyes, in which there gleamed a holy love-light, the girl replied, slowly, and with infinite pathos: " I would believe your every word, no matter what you told me." "Then," said Vivian, while a oaleful light shot from his near eye, " there is no ice cream in Chicago." For an instant dazed by the shock, Myrtle did not speak. But presently the voice of her heart found echo in words. " I can not leave you now," she whispered. " There can not be another such liar in all the wide, wide world." LOVE AND COOKING. " Do you like pie?" It was in summer that Gwendolen Mahaffy spoke these words to Ethelbert Quirkson, as they sauntered back from the croquet-ground to the house. Gwendolen had hit her corn instead of a croquet ball, and as the blow LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 209 fell there came to her such a feeling of desolate loneli- ness, such a wistful yearning to howl and swear, that she had looked into Ethelbert's eyes with her own dusky orbs and said, in the low, musical voice whose every tone thrilled Ethelbert with a sweet, rapturous, three-for-fifty- cent thrill, that she really must go and help her dear mamma get supper she loved so dearly to help in all household matters, that mamma had often said that who- ever got her for a wife would never need to hire a girl and a merry laugh was trilled forth from between the wine-red lips that Ethelbert had so often made up his mind to kiss, and then weakened when the time came. He bent tenderly and lovingly over her now, listening to every word she said, and believing it all. Nothing could have shaken his faith in the girlish innocence of Gwendolen, and he loved her with a passionate adoration that knew no bounds. To him she was perfection what- ever she did was right, and whatever she said was his gospel. It is even betting that he didn't know her front hair was a bang. Reared amid the solitudes of St. Louis, and having only nature for a companion and teacher, his child-like faith was not to be wondered at. "Yes, Gwennie, dear," he said, " I am very fond of pie." " And do you love me as much to-day as you did Tues- day?" she asked, changing the subject in her impulsive, North-Side way. "Better, far better, my darling," Ethelbert replied, in tones that were tremulous with tenderness. " My love for you shall never falter, never fade, but always be greater, stronger and more beautiful than before. Into 14 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. that love I have woven the best efforts of my life, and she to whom it is devoted shall ever be the shrine at which my soul shall worship." Unfortunately, there was nobody with a club in the im- mediate vicinity. " I can make pies," said Gwendolen, smiling archly as she spoke. " Can you, darling? " this in low, earnest tones. "Why, of course," responded the girl. " Then," said Ethelbert, calmly but firmly, " don't do it. Somebody you liked might accidentally eat one of them." Ethelbert now has a second-hand engagement ring for sale cheap. WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH OUR PIANOS? " You can not have my daughter, sir." These words were spoken in a stern tone by John McWhirter, the rich banker, to Arthur Ainsleigh, a noble- looking young man of twenty-two autumns, who stood in a haughtily-defiant attitude before the purse-proud millionaire whose pedigree traced back to a packing-house, while Arthur's ancestors were among the earliest gaugers in the country. But misfortunes and revenue officers had overtaken many of them, and the family estates had long since passed into the hands of the lawyers who defended the cases. " Beware, old man," said Arthur. " Some day you will bitterly repent this action. Mabel and I love each other LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 2 1 1 dearly. Nothing but death can separate us " and as the front door clanged heavily at his back, the tear- stained face of Mabel might have been seen peering over the balusters. ******* The year strode on apace. It might just as well have gone on a trot, but it pre- ferred to pace. Mabel knew this. She also knew that it would be necessary ere long to have a new bonnet and some Easter hose and things. But she did not despair. Often when her mother came unexpectedly into the room and found her weeping she would pass the matter off lightly, say- ing it was only a book she had been reading that made her feel bad. " I must not give it away," she would say to herself. " My darling mamma has enough to bear, figuring to get a sealskin sacque out of the old gent; heaven forbid that I should add to her weight of woe." ******* Arthur was sick. Sicker than a horse. (Who originated this comparison ? Nobody knows; it is something that has come down to us from the dim vista of the past, when horses were worth more than men. Dim vista is a good expression to ring in on the un- suspecting reader. It makes him think you are pretty fly on language.) Arthur was deadly pale. He thought his time had come. There was a rap at the door; a man came in. He had a bottle of pickles. Arthur was saved. 212 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. There is nothing like pickles to sober up on. ******* Mabel sat at the piano, her fingers wandering listlessly over the keys. Suddenly she began to play in a weird, melancholy strain that reminded one of a fugue. There is nothing so weird as a fugue, well played. It beats a dog for keeping people away from the house. The girl's father entered the house unperceived, and stood silently in the parlor door gazing at his child. Suddenly the music ceased, and Mabel sat looking wistfully out of the window. Once again she turned to the piano, and as the first notes of " Empty is the Cradle, Baby's Gone," reached the old man, he went sadly away. Every man has his limit. Mabel had not seen him, and sang the song through. On rising from the piano she noticed her sire's overshoes in the front hall, and knew that he must have heard her singing "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, a sense of her po- sition flashing across her mind ' I have cooked my goose, now, for sure." ******* The next night Arthur again asked for Mabel's hand. For an instant her father hesitated, but just then his eyes wandered idly to the piano, and he saw in the rack a piece of music. "Take her, my boy," he said suddenly and earnestly to Arthur. " Heaven help no, bless you." Can you guess what that piece of music was? I should blush to giggle. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 213 BOSTON VOLUPTUOUSNESS. " Do you speak Greek ? " George W. Simpson looks up at Minerva Stiggins in the frank, blue-jay-on-the-fence manner so character- istic of Western people, and answers her only by a quiet, dreamy smile that tells with far more eloquence than could any words that he does not conceive her question to have been put in earnest. And then, as the sighing winds of autumn sweep softly over the veranda on which they are sitting, bringing with them a faint, sensu- ous perfume of New England rum and XX mackerel, he recalls the fact that he is far, far away from the home of his childhood, and that the one beside whom he is sitting was born in this town whose quaint old houses and girls who say piano-limb are cast into strange relief by the daily presence of two beings whose lives jut out boldly into history and whose influence on the higher influence of the century will be felt long after they have passed away or been ordered up Ralph Waldo Emerson and John L. Sullivan. And so, starting suddenly from his reverie, he looks at Minerva only to notice that the tears are coursing silently down her cheeks, and that her bosom, rounded and vo- luptuous as a knife-blade, is shaken by a storm of sobs. He sees also that she is chewing gum with a mad, pas- sionate energy that tells its own story of terrible grief, and his whole heart goes out in a flood of love and sym- pathy towards this beautiful being whose eye-glasses are wet with the saline evidences of her overwhelming sor- row. Stepping close beside Minerva, and putting a has- LAKESIDE MUSINGS. sock between them, so that the soft, rounded curves of her Venus-like form may not bruise him, he twines one arm tenderly about her taper waist and feels as if he were about to carry off a watering-pot in full operation. Presently he bends his head a little and whispers softly in her pink-tinted ear. " I did not mean to offend you, my darling," says he. "I love my little Natural History girl, I mean far too well for that. My whole being is wrapped up in your life, and without it my life would be as aimless and dreary as a St. Louis joke. Such a love as ours can not, must not be destroyed. It would be a cruel wrong to throw the black pall of disappointment over a passion that might so easily wear the stars of joy. You must fly with me, Minerva, fly to the golden West, and there, amid the beauties which nature has showered with lavish hand upon the face of Mother Earth, decking each feature with a garland of her own making, we will while away the hours together, our love making the days pass on golden wings, while every passing zephyr shall bear with it our peans of joy at being forever united. Do not scorn my proffered love, Minerva, but say that you will make my whole life a great, holy, three-story-and-base- ment joy " and dropping the hassock that had hereto- fore fended her off, George clasps the blushing but largely osseous girl to his vest. And so they stand there he too much out of breath to break the silence, and she too blissfully happy in the knowledge of his love to say the words that are welling up from her Massachusetts soul. George can feel her heart beating against his, feel the throbbing bunion on her left foot, and a still, small voice, like that announcing the vote for Hayes in case he should run for President LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 215 again, tells him that the answer to his pleadings will be a favorable one. Bending again, he imprints a chaste, His- torical-Society kiss just abaft her larboard ear, and waits for an instant until he can recover from the shock. "Am I to receive no answer, my precious one?" he murmurs, laying his cheek against her bang as he speaks. "Can you not whisper your answer in my ear?" The girl looks up, and placing her ruby-red lips in front of his Hoosac-tunnel ear, says: " I would follow you, my Prince, to the end of the world." ******* A year has passed. So has a man who sits to the left of the dealer in a Chicago poker game. That man is George W. Simpson. In the richly-furnished parlor of a turreted boarding- house that flecks the horizon on La Salle avenue sits Minerva Stiggins, the bride of twelvemonth. She is peering anxiously out into the darkness. Presently a form approaches the house, and she hastens to the door to admit her husband. " Hello, Min! " he says in a cheery voice. "What are you up so late for? " " I am waiting for you," she answers. " I wish to have a talk with you," and she leads the way into the parlor. George seats himself in front of the fire, and Minerva, twining her arms around his neck, prepares to perch on his knee. " Not there! " he cries hoarsely. "Why not?" exclaims the girl. "Why may I not be folded in the embrace of the one man whom I love? " " Because," he replies, in a tone that bespeaks his ear- nestness, " I do not wish to be frost-bitten." 2i6 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. FISHING AND MATRIMONY. "Can I come in?" asked a young lady as she opened the door of the editorial room. " I suppose you can," replied the horse reporter, "un- less you have been suddenly stricken with paralysis or some other disease that prevents you from putting one foot in front of the other. You will have to let go of that door-knob first, though." Encouraged by this kindly greeting, the young lady entered the room and seated herself. " I want some advice," she said, " but I hardly know " and here the young lady blushed violently and began regarding the floor with great attention. "It's about getting married, isn't it?" asked the horse reporter. " Yes, sir," replied the girl. " I thought so. The hesitating, don't-know-whether- I-had-better-buy-ice-cream-or-caramels -with - my - money look on your countenance told me that at once. What is the difficulty in your case?" " Well," said the young lady, " I am engaged to a young man "I supposed it was a man," said the horse reporter. "Go ahead." "And he says," she continued, "that we ought to be married right away. Do you think June is a good month for weddings?" " There is no doubt about June being the boss month to get married in," said the horse reporter, "because we most always have regular old honey-moon weather then, LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 217 so that everything seems to jibe right in with the occa- sion a sort of beautiful unison of nature and thought. Do you catch on?" The young lady inclined her head. "You see, in June," resumed the adherent of Maud S., " everything looks pretty smooth. The first blossoms of the early summer beautiful harbingers of the wealth of bud that is to come are trembling on their stalks; the birds are singing as if in very glee from every branch and bough; the perfect light of the turquoise-tinted sky is reflected from an air that is pure and balmy as the breath of a perfumed houri from Circassia, while the newly-plowed fields, fresh kissed by the dews of heaven and warmed by the kindly rays of the sun, are holding within the bosom of the earth the many seeds that ere another month shall have come and gone will spring up to life and light, growing stronger and more perfect with ever}' gladsome day, until in autumn, when the leaves, touched with the blighting breath of the first frost, are being transformed into all the vivid hues that tell so eloquently the story of nature's wondrous handiwork, the very earth shall laugh in the glory of an abundant harvest. What time than this could be more fit for young hearts to plight a willing troth hearts strong in love that shall never know surcease or change, that shall be more steadfast and trusting with every hour, until when the autumn of life is reached the strong, willful passion of youth becomes a ripened, tender, holy affection that is beautiful beyond compare. It is when the tresses that were once brown are flecked with gray; when the cheeks once peachy and dimpled are marked by the furrows that grief and care have made; when the eyes that in the days 218 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. agone sparkled with such witching merriment are dull and lustreless it is then that the love of a truly happy married life should be crowned with the halo of a tran- quil existence that knows no sorrow or care. Yes, my bonny lass, you should get married in June month of roses and race-meetings. Go to him who has won your young love, and say to him that the glad fruition of his hopes has come at last. Seek with him some ivy-crowned chapel, and there, amid the solemn hush that so well befits the occasion, let a mitred bishop make you one." " Thanks," said the young lady. " Good-day." "So long," replied the horse reporter. As the girl departed a man entered the room. " I am thinking of taking a fishing trip," he said, " and wanted to inquire in what month suckers bite the best." "June," promptly replied the horse reporter. TENDER AND TRUE. "Be brave, Beryl." The north wind was howling fiercely through the cordage of a staunch vessel as she dashed madly through the seething waters that stretched away from her on every side in desolate fury. Now poised on the crest of a great green billow, and anon plunged into a watery depth that seemed to end only in the bosom of the earth, the good ship struggled bravely with the mighty forces of the tempest, but though her timbers might groan in almost human agony, there 'vas no parting of the seams, LAKESIDE MUSIHGS. 2 1 9 no weakening of the bolts that held deck and bulwark together in so firm a clasp. It was Beryl McCloskey's wedding trip. Two days agone she had been joined in wedlock's holy bonds to George W. Simpson, and her mother had consented to go with them on their bridal journey. It was her loving arm that supported Beryl now, her kindly voice that spoke the words with which this chapter opens. " George can not love me, mamma," the girl said, speak- ing in low, mellow tones, "or he would be at my side now, when I need him so sorely." " Do not judge hastily, my child," replied the mother. " George is pretty busy. Even now I see him leaning over the vessel's side." " Is he then so very, very sick? " asked Beryl. "Quite very," said Mrs. McCloskey. " Has he thrown up his situation?" " No, my darling." "Then," said the girl, a holy love-light illumining her pure young face, " I will never leave him." A NEW ENGLAND ROMANCE. "Good-bye, papa." The plump white arms of Erica Brown were thrown about her father's neck, and the pretty face with its riant mouth and cunning dimples was pressed closely to the bronzed cheek of the farmer as he stood in the kitchen doorway a moment before going out to his daily toil. 220 LAKESrDE MUSINGS. " I am going to plow the south meadow this morning, my darling," he said to the girl, "and when noon comes you must have my accounts as treasurer of the church all arranged, because the building committee will be here after dinner, and I am to turn over the money in my hands, so that the erection of the new church in the little dell just beyond where we buried that mouse-colored heifer two years ago last spring can be commenced at once." And kissing his daughter again, Farmer Brown took a bite of hard tobacco and went away into the glad sunlight. ******* The petals of the June roses had fallen like a pink car- pet along the edge of the woods, contrasting prettily with the vivid green of the grass and leaves. Above the hum of insects and the twittering of the birds rose the sturdy voice of Farmer Brown, swearing at the off mule. " Get up, darn it! " he said. But the mule only waved his ear in a sensuous, languid fashion, and looked wistfully into the next meadow where the starry-eyed kine were grazing, and the old sorrel mare that had a splint on her near front leg was quaffing the incense of the new-born day. Picking up a short stick, the farmer advanced and struck the faithful mule a cruel blow just abaft his midship ribs. Stretching out his hind legs in a dreamy, listless way, the mule felt them touch something, and in a moment Farmer Brown was sailing in the far blue overhead. The little church in the mossy dell is not completed yet, and the building committee is anxiously waiting for the treasurer to come down. LAKESIDE Mi' SINGS. 221 BETTER THAN WORKING. "What ho! my merry poet man, Come sit ye here awhile, And I will tell you how to make Of money quite a pile." Thus spake the gray-haired editor Unto a callow youth Who straight from college came and for A job applied, forsooth. "I would a writer be," he said, On topics of the time; The sprightly paragraph I'll build, Or eke a funny rhyme. "With base-ball lore I'm really filled, On tennis quite too quite; Boat -racing I report with ease. Likewise a great prize-fight." The editor had once himself Been young and fair and fresh, But now no man so fly as he Was found in the profesh. " You know too much," he soft replied Unto Yale's graduate, " To pit against my other men They could not go your gait. " But if 'tis wealth you want, my boy, Why linger near me, when Your money can at evens be Bet on St. Julien? " The poet rose and went his way. Large wagers laid he quick; St. Julien won that night the youth Was full as any tick. 222 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. A DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE. "Yes, Mehitable, we are ruined." The person thus addressed a woman past middle age, and in whose locks, once golden, the silvered footprints of time were beginning to show, marking with an unerring certainty that was almost painful the last milestones on the rugged pathway of life looked up at her husband with an expression that strove hard to be cheerful, but in spite of all her strength of purpose there was a nerv- ous quivering of the lips, and into the brown eyes there came a look of mingled wistfulness and sorrow that was pitiful. Thirty years ago, when Mehitable Nonesuch had married Phoenix W. Brown, there was no handsomer bride in all the country round, and as Phoenix knelt beside her at the altar of the little chapel that stood in the dell beyond the meadow, he felt that with this woman, beautiful in form and feature as the rose and pure in heart as the lily, to guide and assist him, his life should be forever peaceful and happy. They had moved to the little farm that his father had given them, and through three decades of years, that seemed when looked back upon from the sum- mit of prosperity and love as but so many beautiful sum- mer days, had lived together in almost perfect happiness. Two children, a boy and girl, had been born to them and were still alive. Harold, strong, sturdy and in the full glow of manly health and vigor, had come back from college three years ago and was now the trusted Cashier of the Baldwinsville Bank. Gwendolen, who had grown into a fair, stately girl of twenty, was the light of the LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 223 household. Suitors by the score had wooed her, but while all were received kindly, the pleadings of all save one failed to move the girl's heart. Berwyck Hether- ington had known Gwendolen from childhood, and be- tween them there had long existed a pure, passionless love a flame that burned with a clear, steady radiance, as beams the soft light of the evening star a love that cast around their lives a golden halo in whose rays both seemed transfigured and beautified. Berwyck had told Gwendolen of his love as they walked home one beauti- ful October evening from the weekly meeting of the Women's League for the Suppression of Polygamy in South Africa, and as he whispered in her ear the words that seemed sweeter than ever man had uttered, and been answered with one little word, bashfully spoken in low, sweet tones, he had drawn her to him in the full mellow light of the glorious moon that hung in the sky like a ball of molten gold, and pressed on her dewy lips the be- trothal kiss. "Our lives shall always be happy, sweetheart," Ber- wyck had said that night as he parted from Gwendolen at the gate, and she, as he held her for one blissful moment to his breast, had twined her arms around his neck and answered him with a kiss. Two weeks later Farmer Brown's favorite speckled cow got into the potato-bin, and when the morning sun leaped from behind the haystack its rays fell on a pallid corpse. The potatoes had triumphed. Like nearly every man who has tried to lead a six- months calf to water with the rope tied around his waist, Farmer Brown was superstitious, and the tragic death of 224 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. his favorite cow made a deep impression on his mind. " Misfortunes never come in single harness," he had said to his wife the day after Bossy's death as he came into the woodshed and let the deceased's hide fall with a dull, sickening thud in the corner. " We shall have more bad luck before we have better," he continued, and his words had proven true. A succession of reverses had come thick and fast upon him. Neighbor Simpson's bay steer had got into the huckleberry-patch one night, and in the morning there was a violet-colored steer, but no huckle- berries. Then the popcorn crop had failed, and the mortgage placed on the farm in the hope of retrieving these losses had come due, with no money to pay it. Jasper Knuckledowntight, who had loaned Farmer Brown the money, was a relentless creditor, and unless payment was made on the morrow would foreclose. It was this knowledge that had caused Farmer Brown to utter the words with which this chapter opens. He had told his wife and children the previous evening how matters stood, and all had gone to bed with weary hearts. "Yes, wife, we are ruined," repeated the old man " no, not ruined," he continued, while we have these jewels," pointing as he spoke to Harold and Gwendolen, who were entering the house together. " We are rich in their love the greatest treasure life possesses." " Father," said Harold, speaking slowly, " will nothing but the payment of a thousand dollars save our home? " " Nothing," replied the old man, sadly. "Then here is the money," continued Harold, handing his father a roll of bills. " That package contains a thou- sand dollars." "Where did you get this money?" asked the father. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 22$ "I have robbed the bank." For an instant no word was spoken. Farmer Brown was the first to break the silence. " Is this all you took ? " he asked. " Yes." " My God, boy! We are ruined. We must have at least another thousand." "Why?" "To pay a lawyer for acquitting you." Harold's face became ashen. " Great heaven," he said slowly, " why was I so forgetful ? " "Wait," exclaimed Gwendolen, who had remained silent, "until I return ;" and passing from the house she was soon lost in the twilight. Up the road she sped until the house of Cicero Short, who had been one of her most ardent lovers, was reached. She entered the mansion, and did not reappear for an hour. Then she walked quickly home and came into the room where her parents and brother were sitting. They looked up expectantly. " You are saved," she said, kissing her brother as she spoke. " How ? " he asked. " What have you done, girl ? " " I have," she answered in clear, ringing tones, "agreed to marry the State's-Attorney when my brother is ac- quitted." 226 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. A SACRED RELIC. " I am cutting my corns." As the words floated out upon the soft air of a June afternoon, and fell upon the ear of Berwyck Hethering- ton, who was swinging lazily in a hammock that hung beneath the larches, he smiled the cold, cynical smile he had learned in Kenosha, and then he raised himself on one elbow and fell out of the hammock. The noise attracted Eulalie McGirlygirt's attention, and she came to the window, holding a shoe in her hand. Leaning out over the casement, she was about to offer words of condolence and sympathy to Berwyck, when her foot slipped, and the loud crash of furniture which followed so startled the girl that she dropped the shoe. ******* " Will this patient ever recover? " asked a visitor at a noted insane asylum. " It is a hopeless case," replied the physician: "He was brought to the hospital nearly two years ago, dread- fully mangled, and when his health was restored, reason had fled. His one idea is that the court house is falling on him." ******* "We have kept the secret well, daughter," said Mrs. McGirlygirt to Eulalie, one summer afternoon. "Yes," was the reply. " But do you know that I have never worn the shoe since that day? " " How foolishly notional you are, darling," said the mother. "You might at least give it to some poor LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 22^ family who have no home to protect them from the cold. ' " No," answered the girl. " It is a sacred relic, and I shall always keep is to remind me of one who might have been my husband." HOW HAROLD DIED. " Do you love me truly, Harold?" Lurline Neversink was even more beautiful than usual as she stood in the soft, mellow light that streamed from the chandelier overhead, and, looking down fondly upon her, George W. Simpson felt that to wreck forever the happiness of her young life, to plunge her soul into the turbid depths of despair and hold it there by the heels, were a crime than which none could be more black. He knew that this girl, whose weird, passionate nature made her heart a lute for every passing joy or grief to play upon, had given to him the one best love of a woman's life her first. It was something to be tenderly proud of, this love something not to be worn lightly on the sleeve where all might see it, but tucked carefully away in the woodshed of a man's soul, secure alike from carping criticism or cruel jest. And yet, as George W. Simpson gazed tenderly into the dark, lustrous eyes that were aglow with hopeful expectancy, he felt that the mael- strom of passionate adoration into which Lurline Never- sink had allowed herself to be drawn, would one day cast her young heart bleeding and torn upon the jagged rocks of his refusal. It was a terrible, maddening thought, 228 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. and it came with awful force to George as he stood in that palatial mansion, his feet sinking into the velvet carpet until he was in danger of becoming cock-ankled, and heard the words with which this chapter opens. Bending tenderly over the girl, George kisses her in a chaste, New Haven, Conn., manner, but does not trust himself to answer in words the fateful question she has asked. And then they pass into the music-room, which is separated from the hall by a portiere of navy-blue velvet. The windows of the room are shaded by the same rich color, and the walls between them are covered with paintings. Statues of Mozart, Beethoven and Guido filled t'.ie niches, while over the low mantel hung a full- length portrait of Maud S. No word was spoken until Lurline was seated at the piano, and then it was simply a request that he hand her a certain piece of musie. As he stooped forward to comply, the outlines of his face were brought into strong relief against the ruddy back- ground of his left ear, and Lurline gazed at him intently. His was such a countenance as one sees in old Italian portraits, in some Vandykes, showing power strangely blended with passion. His mouth, beautiful as a woman's, with its smile generous and rare as a split cod- fish, was tightly compressed and as bloodless as marble. His eyebrows, dark, straight, and finely penciled, met over his dark-gray eyes, and in the latter there was a fixed, resolute expression that boded no good to a square meal if he should happen to meet one. At last the music was found and Lurline began to sing. Carried away by the inspiration of the moment, she sang on and on until at last she paused from sheer exhaustion, And then, seeing that George was not a( LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 229 her side, she turned to the fauteuil at her feet. There he lay dead, in all the proud grandeur of his glorious manhood, while on his forehead fell the " golden dawn- ing of a grander day." He had died at the moment when he was passing the stone that marks the loftiest point on life's highway died where manhood's morning almost touches it, and while the shadows were falling to- ward the West. The mellow light from the chandelier stole into the hushed chamber of death and wandered over his stately form, that lay powerless and stricken, over his noble, handsome face, telling, even in death, of the deathless love he bore her. He had forgotten to plug up his ears. ON THE EVE OF MATRIMONY. "Do they edit in here?" The several occupants of the room looked around and discovered a young lady standing in the doorway. She nodded slightly to the horse reporter, and that individual returned the salutation with a placid, mile-and-a-half- over-eight-hurdles smile, whose grandeur of expanse would alone have made it noticeable. "You are right this time, madam," he said. "This is the exact spot where the seething brain of the trained journalist proceeds to bubble, and the lances of Thought that pierce with unerring aim the brazen helmets of Wrong are ever held in couchant poise by strong arms ready to launch them forth at the signal of danger." " Papa doesn't know I am up here," said the vision of 230 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. loveliness, "but mamma does. The very minute I told her that I was going to see an editor she said it was the best thing to do, but when I got to the door I just thought I should die." " You don't appear to be in any danger of immediate dissolution," remarked the horse reporter. " Oh, of course I don't mean exactly that," said the young lady, "but I was awfully nervous, you know I always was that way and when I was a little girl papa used to say that the only way to govern me was by kindness." "Well, we'll be gentle with you," replied the personal friend of Rarus. " Would you like to read the Hawks- ville Clarion, or the Cohoes Freeman? " pointing to a pile of exchanges. " No, I don't care about it, thank you," was the reply. " You editors must have a hard time managing all the people who come up here." "There is a managing editor for that purpose," said the horse reporter. " How nice! And do all these gentlemen edit?" "Yes." "I'm going to be married next week," said the young lady. " Ain't it funny? " " Quite ludicrous, no doubt," was the reply. "And I came up here," she continued, "to see if you would put a nice notice of the affair in the paper. Will you do it?" "Certainly," said the horse reporter. "Would like to have it referred to as 'Another of those delightful events in which the happiness of a trusting love finds glad fruition in wedded bliss; ' or, 'The marriage bells rang out merrily last evening, telling to the star-lit skies LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 231 a joyful tale of love's final triumph?' Both these sen- tences are kept in type, and you can have your choice." " I rather like the last one," said the young lady. " It is more tenderly beautiful. Don't you think so?" " Yes," replied the horse reporter. " There is a sort of Curfew-will-not-ring-to-night tinge to it that lays over the other one." " Well, then, I will take that. And will an editor be around to write it up? " "Certainly." " I will send you a piece of the wedding cake," con- tinued the young lady. " Do," said the horse reporter. " There is a dog up my way that needs killing." THE DAUGHTER'S RESOLVE. "God pity me! " Gladys McNulty, usually so proud and composed, and who moved about in the little world of those who knew her with the stately grace of a New York Post editorial, sat on a fa uteuil as she uttered these words, and sobbed as if her shoestrings would break. In the lindens that lined the entrance to Brierton Villa the robin redbreasts were trilling their merriest lays, while over by the woodshed the haggard outlines of an abandoned hoopskirt through which the daisies were peeping, showed that spring, the most pulmonary and beautiful season of the year, had arrived. In the broad fields that stretched away to the westward the farmers 232 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. were preparing the ground for the seed which, nourished in the bosom of Mother Earth and warmed by the genial rays of the sun, would soon become the ripened grain, yielding to its owner a bounteous harvest, and enabling him to play against bunko when he visits Chicago in the fall. A ruddy-faced boy, picking sand-burs from be- tween his toes, flecks the horizon and lends an added beauty to the enchantment of the scene. And yet, lying there on the fauteuil, whose velvety sur- face is not more soft than her cheek, Gladys McNulty is sobbing away the hours of this beautiful June morning, and ever and anon there comes from between her white lips a low, despairing moan that is pitiful in its sad inten- sity. But finally the convulsive sobs that are racking her dress-waist grow fainter, and in a little while she sits up, the pink suffusion of a blush telling all too plainly which side she had been lying on. And as she sits there, gazing listlessly into the middle of next week, her mother, a pleasant-faced woman with- out corsets, enters the room. "Why are you weeping, Gladys?" she asks. The girl does not answer, and strive as she may to keep down the sobs that are welling up from her heart, the effort is in vain, and again the pretty face is bedewed with tears. But an instant later she has conquered her emotions and looks bravely up at her mother. " I will tell you, mamma," she says, " the cause of my sorrow. I was crying to think that you can not go to the matinee to-morrow." " And why may I not go? " " Because," answers Gladys in a voice that is hoarse with agony, "I have concluded to take it in myself." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 233 SAVED BY A JACK-POT. " So you wish to marry my daughter? " These words were uttered by a man who fairly hissed them through his teeth as he stood, with a cruel sneer on his lips, in front of a young man, the nervous twitchings of whose clean-cut features told more plainly than could any words, however freely interspersed with adjectives, the torture he was suffering. " Yes, sir," said Herbert Mclntosh, looking up into the face of him who had spoken. " I love Myrtle with a rich, warm, tempestuous love that recks not of obstacles, but sweeps away like a mighty avalanche the difference in social position that exists between us. My passion is a deathless one that, like the mighty simoon of the desert, gathers force with every instant of its existence, and stills alike with its hot breath the life of man and beast. I know that appearances are against me. I am poor and honest, and last Saturday night I had a king-full beaten, but I can not conceal my love. You are rich and success- ful, and I can see from the window of the little room in which I work the high walls of your packing-house, and hear the plaintive cry of the stricken pig who has his inter- ior scooped out and is cut into hams and clear sides be- fore the echo of his death shriek has ceased to linger on the musk-laden air of the stock-yards. You are living under turquoise-tinted skies, while I am in great luck to have a sky at all. It is not my fault that you are rich; I love your daughter, and she returns my love; " and saying this, Her- bert looked anxiously in the direction of the window, his breast giving a great throb of joy as he saw that the 234 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. blinds were closed, and the old man could not throw him out. " Hark ye, my lad," said the pork-packer, with a cold, skating-rink smile hovering o'er his face. " You say you love my daughter, and would win her for your bride. So be it. I have naught against thee save thy poverty. Come to me within a month with one thousand dollars gained by thine own industry and skill, and Myrtle shall be your wife. If you fail in this her hand is given to a friend of mine who owns a glucose factory." "But you would not force her to marry against her will ? " said Herbert. " She has plighted her troth to me." " I know not of your childish vagaries," replied the old man. I have said my say. In three minutes I shall un- tie the bull-dog. " Herbert went away. ******* Midnight on Wabash avenue. Five men are seated around a table with a hole in the centre of it. Herbert is in the party, and opposite him sits his hated rival, the man who owns an interest in a glucose factory. Herbert is dealing. He looks at his cards and bets one hundred dollars. " Five hundred," says the glucose man. " A thousand," says Herbert, reaching into his pocket as if for money. " Oh, never mind getting out your roll until the hands are played," said the glucose man. " I will be easy with you, and only call. I have four aces." "Straight flush," said Herbert in low, bitter tones, as he laid the cards on the table and pocketed a thousand- dollar bill which his adversary threw across to him. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 235 The next night Herbert and Myrtle occupied one chair in the parlor of the pork-packer's residence. " vVe will be married in the fall, my sweet, she said in soft, low tones, kissing him passionately as she spoke. "Yes, Tootie," he murmured; "in the fall. We can live with your folks next winter." CROQUET PROBLEM. " Editor in? " " Yes," replied the horse reporter to the person asking the question a young man with a table-spoon hat and a you-may-kiss-me-but-don't-you-tell-papa mustache, who stood in the doorway " the editor is in, and the chances are that he prefers staying in rather than run any risk of falling against you." " Well, of course, you know," said the young man, "very likely it wouldn't be absolutely necessary for me to see the really and truly editor about this matter that I wanted to have settled. It's a question to be answered, you know." " I should surmise," said the horse reporter, " that an average deck-hand could successfully wrestle with any problem you might evolve." "Well, I don't know," continued the young man. "This is a real hard question, you know, and a good many of our set over on the West Side have tried awfully to settle it, but we can't. I never saw such a provoking thing in my life, and last night I was talking with my 236 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. room-mate about it and we got real angry, and it looked once as if we should strike each other. I wouldn't have had a row with Cholly for anything, you know, because we have been in the same store for nearly three years now, and when he was promoted to the ribbon counter he always spoke to me just the same as when we were both in the threads." " In the what? " asked the reporter. " In the threads the thread department, you know, and I always said that nothing could make me go back on Cholly you know how anything like that makes two fellows awful chums." "Yes, I know," said the horse reporter; "but what is your question?" " Well, you see, some people are playing croquet, and a rover is driven up close to the home-steak. Now, an- other man is dead on the ball, but having a stroke he plays on the rover and forces it against the stake. Now, I say the rover is dead, and the other fellows they say it isn't, and we've been having an awful time about it over on the West Side, and " Yes, you told me that before. Our croquet editor is away on his vacation. He spends it in the asylum for feeble-minded people, getting pointers from the inmates, but like enough I can fix this thing for you." " Oh, that's awfully jolly. Have a cigarette? " " No, thank you. I am over nine years old. But about the croquet matter. You say the rover is close to the stake? " " Yes." " And the next player knocks it against the stake? " "Yes." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 237 " And then the player after him claims that the rover is dead ? " ' Yes, that's it; and they can't agree." " Well," said the horse reporter, " I should say that the man who got the first knock-down ought to win." " But they don't knock each other down. They don't quarrel at all." " You said this was a croquet game, didn't you?" "Why, certainly." " And they didn't quarrel ? " " Why, of course not." "Then the fairies are indeed kind to the dry-goods clerks, and I can only say that your best plan is to dis- guise yourself with a cigar and ride down in the ele- vator." MORE PRECIOUS THAN EVER. " Do you like apple pie?" The soft, sighing wind of a dreamy, one-light-under- shirt-and-no-suspenders evening in June was kissing the fluffy mass of golden hair that surmounted Ethlyn Mc- Nulty's perfectly-shaped head, and as she looked trust- ingly up into the face of the one man in all the wide, wide world to whom had been given the priceless treas- ure of her girlish, summer-resort love, George W. Simp- son felt the balm of her doughnut breath on his lips and knew that, come weal or woe, be the day radiant with the golden sunshine of Fortune or darkened by the gaunt, haggard figure of Despair, there would always be one heart that beat for him alone, one soul to which he 238 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. could make fast the storm-tossed bark of his hopes and go ashore on the wildest kind of a hurrah, secure in his consciousness that upon his return the old scow would be at the dock. I c is to the man of the world one who has passed the bock-beer springtime of life, who has seen the bright and beautiful visions of youth fade silently away before the cold, biting, thermometer-going-down-cellar-and-no-win- ter-pants-in-the-house blasts of adverse fate, and in whose nature cynicism has usurped the place of trustfulness that the pure and holy love of a woman about whose cold feet he knows nothing comes with a force that is almost terrible in its intensity. To George W. Simpson, who had so long looked upon love as an idyllic dream the rose-colored figment of a disordered imagination the fact of his deep affection for Ethlyn McNulty came as a revelation a porter-house steak oasis in the boarding- house desert of his existence. And when he knew when the ruby-red lips had whispered shyly into his large, sumptuous ear the words that told him his love was re- ciprocated so fully and completely that it looked as if the other side must certainly be bluffing he had felt a calm, peaceful joy that lifted him above the cold, cruel world with all its bitter disappointments and despair, and seated him, silent and alone, on the shot-tower of gratified hope. The days since they had plighted their troth beneath the spreading branches of the linden trees that lined the pathway leading through the lawn to Distress-Warrant Castle had passed in a slow, St. Louis-merchant-in-a- hurry fashion that to George W. Simpson was simply ag- onizing; and now, on the evening before that day on which his hopes were to find glad fruition in wedded LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 239 bliss, they had met again beneath the lindens to say once more the words that repetition only makes more sweet. Ere the last rays of another setting sun shall again gild the eternal hills and such stray cows as happen to be standing around, a cassocked priest will make these twain one for life, and George will be twenty dollars loser. This last thought steals over him as he stands there, Eth- lyn's arms around his neck, and as it swashes mournfully around the precincts of his soul his thoughts drift back to the happy past when he was a merry, light-hearted boy with a sore toe. But suddenly the touch of a damask cheek against his own brings the reverie to a close. A pair of bright, sparkling eyes eyes that will soon be picking out bon- nets at his expense are looking at him, and fancies that in their depths he sees a tinge of melancholy, a lambent gleam of no-caramels-for-three-days that goes to his very heart. "You are sad, my darling," he says, pressing her closely to the midship rib of his larboard side. "Why do you look so sorrowful ? " "Because," she replies, "you have not answered my question. I asked you if you liked apple pie." " Yes. ' he says, " I do. I am deeply enamored of pie in every shape." Hardly have the words left his lips when Ethlyn's head droops, and presently her lithe form is shaken by a storm of sobs. George is horror-stricken. He has not felt such a shock since the White Stockings won a game. "Why do you weep, my precious one?" he asks, bend- ing tenderly over her. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. " Because," she answers him, her voice husky with grief, " I can not make pie." " Is this true? Are you certain there is no mistake? " "None, none," Ethlyn moans despairingly. "I can not cook at all." " Then," he says, raining a shower of kisses on the up- turned face, "you are more precious to me than ever." HER DEAREST WISH. " Do not say that." Very appealing was the wistful look that came from a pair of deep brown eyes as Clytie Corcoran spoke these words in a low, strained, we-will-warrant-these-goods- not-to-rip manner that told something of the intensity of her feeling. Bertie Cecil stooped and kissed the pretty red lips that were put up to him in a half-pouting, half-loving fashion. They were to be married in the fall, these two the beautiful fall, when nature's cheeks are tinted with brown and red, when the amber haze of Indian summer wreaths the hilltops, and the valleys seem but huge cups filled to the brim with purple-red wine. Clytie had told Bertie, that night in June when she had drawn him close to her sash, placed her head upon his shoulder, and whispered tenderly the words that caused a great joy to flood his soul, that the wedding must not take place un- til October, although he, never having previously gone over the rapids, was eager for an early consummation of LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 241 his happiness. And now he was waiting, anxiously, and with an impatient heart, for the day when Clytie would be all his own, and the rose-tinted hours hold nothing for him but her love and her dear presence. But amid all the perfect joy that filled their young lives, there had come a cloud, a matter on which they could not agree. It was this subject that had been under discussion between them when the words with which this chapter opens were spoken, and had caused Clytie to produce the wistful look which she always kept in stock for emer- gencies of this kind. " You will not change your mind ? " she asked. " Never," replied Bertie. " Not if it parts us forever." They were standing at the edge of the lawn. Not a tree or a shrub broke the velvety-green plush of this revel ground of Titania; but it was hedged in dusky, broad-shouldered horse chestnuts; slim coward poplars; balm o'Gileads, with their cottony ebullitions; the moun- tain ash, with its coronal of scarlet berries; Norway spruces and evergreens; and where the shaven sward sloped down to a little silver thread of joyous water a willow dropped forlorn with a sorrowful and witching grace. Beside a low, rustic fence was a wide border of flowers mignonette, demure and shy; heliotrope, pensive and wan; carnations, their red rims filled to the brim with spices; shadowy lilies, like vestal lamp-bearing virgins, clothed in snowy white; roses, languid, velvety and rare with eastern perfumes; and pansies, pathetic and seeking, purple and golden and dusky the flower of thoughts. And as Clytie fastened a cluster of them in her hair she spoke again not angrily this time, but with a tinge of 16 242 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. sorrow in her voice that was almost pitiful. The poor girl's heart was breaking, and, try as she might, she could not conceal the bitter knowledge from herself. " Let us part at once, then," she said. " It is best soonest over," and slipping from a finger the ring with which he had plighted their troth in the golden summer- tide, she handed it to Bertie. As he took it the hot tears of disappointment came into his eyes, but he brushed them hastily away. "We shall at least part friends," he said. "Oh, yes," said the girl, smiling a wan, sad smile through the mist that covered her beautiful brown eyes " we must never be aught but friends," and turning she went into the house. ******* " You look ill, Clyde," said Mendelssohn Corcoran at the supper-table that evening to his daughter. "No, papa," was the reply; "it is worse than that.' He looked at her steadily for an instant. " Can it be possible," he said, " that you and Bertie "Yes," replied Clytie, "we have parted forever." "Pooh, pooh! 'tis only a lovers' quarrel and will soon be over." " No, papa/' said the girl, her voice tremulous with grief, " it is best to face misfortunes bravely, even though one's heart be breaking. I love Bertie dearly, and God knows that to tear his image out of my heart is a cruel pain. But we should not have lived happily together since he refused my dearest wish." " What was that, my darling ? " " He said," replied the girl, sobbing as if her corset would break, " that when we were married I could not LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 243 have his razor;" and the little head with its coronal of sunny curls fell on her father's bosom amid a storm of sobs. ' Why, what do you want with a razor? " he asked in astonishment. Looking up to her father, the only one she had in the wide, wide world, her pretty eyes bedimmed with tears, Clytie whispered in low, agonized tones: " I have two large corns." A SAFE PROPOSITION. "Coal costs money." A bitter, mocking smile the smile of a demon that has been baffled in his unholy efforts to lure a soul to the uttermost depths of the inferno played around the Grecian lips of Girofle Mahaffy as these words fell with cruel incisiveness from her lips. Over the back-yard fence came the silvery gleams of the inconstant moon as she moved through the heavens in brilliant splendor, and touched with gentle hand the moss-covered woodshed and caused the dog, whose blood-curdling bay had fallen in such fearful cadence upon Rupert Hetherington's large, voluptuous ears, to stand out, perfect in every out- line, against the pure mezzotints of the recently-painted doorsteps. "You are jesting, sweetheart," murmured Rupert, pulling up his pants so they would not wrinkle at the knees, and seating himself beside the girl. " Am I ? " was the reply, in cold, passionless accents, 244 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. that seemed to Rupert to pierce his very vest. " If you really think so, look out of the window." Rupert obeyed. The moonlight streamed into the room as he pushed aside the heavy pomegranate cur- tains, falling in mellow splendor on vase of malachite, and alabaster, on statue and bronze. Tazzas of jasper and lapis lazuli stood in recess and alcove crowded with flowers; curious trifles in gold and silver carving, in am- ber and mosaic, stood on table and etagere. A curiously- wrought sideboard that was new in the days of the Cru- saders stood at his left. The fire glowed ruddily in the grate, the pure white flames leaping up the chimney as if in very glee. Amber-tinted sour mash, as Rupert well knew, lay concealed within the recesses of the side- board. Outside the keen wind of December whistled shrilly through the dead branches of the sturdy oaks, tell- ing of the cold and suffering that was to come ere the soft breath of spring kissed the earth into life again. The bleak moorland, black and dreary, stretched away to the eastward, and across its sullen face the rabbits were run- ning. Rupert saw all this at a glance. While engaged with the sombre thoughts that the scene induced, a hand fell lightly upon his shoulder. He turned and faced Girofle. " And do you really mean what you say, sweetheart?" he asked. " Yes," replied the girl. " There must be some kind of an understanding. I can not bluff away all the days of my youth." " Enough," said Rupert, " I will marry you." "But when?" asked the girl. Leaning over the beautiful girl he hissed in her ear the fateful words: "When the White Stockings win a game." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 245 A FOILED EDITOR. What ho! my merry poet man," Up spoke the editor, " Go quickly hence and write me out Some verses that afar Through all the land shall sound the praise Of 's new palace car. I fain would travel without cost From here to Sandy Bar." * * * The poet brought the verses forth From out his fertile brain, They printed were next day, and in The Weekly shone again ; Till one would think the editor Desired a palace train. Full swiftly forth went messenger With letter writ so fair, Requesting, by return of boy, Of double berths a pair; With pillows a'l of eider down And mattresses of hair. The boy came back with solemn face " I reckon, boss," he said, " That in the lottery of life You drew a baby's head; 'Twere better that a mule's hind foot Erstwhile your brains had spread. ' ' The man to whom you sent me was Of giant size and mein; He said that of the many gawks On this green earth he'd seen You captured all the biscuit, and The doughnuts too, I ween. 246 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. "He said that advertising was What they would most avoid; No means to sound the praises of Their cars were e'er employed. He also said your head must be Made out of celluloid. The editor no tickets got, Full sorrowful was he; " Next time," he muttered to himself, ' ' More cunning I will be, And villify the agent, who Will passes send to me." LOVE'S TEST. "Pass the butter." Out beneath the star-gemmed sky and under the sturdy old oaks that had bid defiance to the storms of centuries, Girofle Mahaffy and George W. Simpson were sitting that beautiful June night, the balmy breath of the evening that was being wafted in sighing kisses from the ever- glades of Florida made vocal by the chirp of the cricket and the low, mellow note of the dissipated tomcat as he wandered listlessly around the back-yard, now and then dodging in a nonchalant, languid fashion the latest boot- jack as it came hustling through the air with cruel force, or stopping beneath a window to see if his howl was still within reach. Up from the westward came the sound of the sea as its silvered foam plashed in rhythmic cadence on the white sands of the beach, and through the masses of foliage that encircled Brierton Villa could be seen ever LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 247 arid anon, especially anon, the fitful flicker of the ice- cream lairs that flecked the horizon in every direction. It was a night for a poet's pen, a painter's brush, or a large schooner of Weiss beer, and as Girofle sat there in the gloaming her thoughts wandered back to the days of a year agone, when every moment of her life was brimming over with joy and every day seemed a rose-tinted dream from which one would never care to awaken. And now all was changed. Standing on the verge of womanhood and watching with wistful eyes for the mists of futurity to rise, her life should have been a happy one as Hope called to her with jocund voice, and Youth laughed back response. But instead of this the darksome shadows of doubt and fear fell ever on the pure young face, and in the sweet brown eyes there was a wistful, yearning, heaven-knows-I-wish-my-shoes-were-two-sizes- larger look that was pitiful in its sad beauty. " You can not love me, George," she says at last, " or you would not leave me in this manner go away for two whole days, when you know that my heart will be breaking for you, and that every moment of your absence will be to me an age of torture and doubt " and coming to his side she places her arms about his neck in a shy, don't-know-whether-I-am-afoot-or-horseback fashion that tells its own story of a love that will never fade or falter as long as the collateral securities hold out. And so they stand there, the moments passing by un- heeded, the girl nestling in his arms secure in tlie deep trustfulness of an overpowering passion, while the man, smoothing her fair forehead gently, bends over now and then to kiss the rosy lips that are upturned to his, and then wonders in a dreamy, idyllic, North Side fashion 248 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. who the last man that held a similar situation on Girofle's staff might have been. Suddenly the girl breaks the si- lence she had broken the man on the last matinee day. ''And you must really go?" she says; "really and truly?" "Yes," he answers, "when Duty calls we must obey, and I have seldom known Duty to call on the poorest hand." " But I can not let you go," she says passionately. " It is cruel to test my love so sorely" and, breaking down in a storm of sobs, she clings to him more closely than ever. And then, just as he fears for her reason, so ter- rible does the blow seem, the sobs that are making the lithe form quiver with anguish cease, and Girofle looks up to him with a happy smile upon her face. " I will be brave," she says, "but you must make me one promise, a holy, sacred promise that even death itself may not ab- solve you from." "I will do it gladly, my precious one," he murmurs " What is the promise? " "You must promise," she says, "to lend me your razor." " Why, of course I will, sweetheart," he replies gaily. " I promise you that cheerfully. But why do you make such a strange request? " " Because," she says in those low, mellow tones that would lure a man through inferno or to Harvard Junc- tion, " I have a large, throbbing bunion." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 249 HIS CHILLY BLOOD. At sunset on a beautiful evening in February a solitary young man might have been seen ascending the brow of a livery-stable. In the west, where the day was dying, there were masses of fleecy clouds, the tints on whose lower edges, made by the broad bands of rosy light that streamed up from below the horizon, gave a hint of the golden glory that lay below them. From the southward there crept up on the sighing wind of the evening a faint perfume, and as Alexander Nonesuch felt its subtle influence he gave a weird, eerie sniff with his delicately-proportioned nose, and into the lustrous dark eyes there came a look of ten- der regret that told with mute eloquence of where his thoughts were wandering to the calm, peaceful home among the snow-crowned hills of New England, bright memories of which had risen in his mind as the subtle odor of corned-beef and cabbage was wafted to him. Then, recovering himself by a mighty effort, he placed his right foot in the air and again moved steadily for- ward. "What ho! without there! Hook up a palfrey!" Even as these words rang out on the evening air there was heard the shrill neighing of the impatient steeds and the thunderous roar caused by their iron-shod hoofs striking the floor as they leaped madly from their stalls and were quickly harnessed. The last gleam of daylight had faded from the earth as a faithful servitor lighted a fire under each horse, and a few moments later Alexander Nonesuch looked out pensively upon the silvery stars LAKESIDE MUSINGS. that twinkled so merrily above him. " How like Venice," he murmured softly to himself. " How like that never- to-be-forgotten night when, floating idly in a gondola, I told Clytie Stiggins of my deathless passion for her, and she answered me in her cold, Boston way that the daughter of a man who owned two mackerel stores could never ally herself with anything less than a member of the Massachusetts State Historical Society. And how, seeing the look of frozen horror that had come over my face at her words, she burst into a storm of sobs and confessed that she loved me madly better even than she did Emer- son's works or Darwin's paper on the scomberoid fishes of the pliocene period but that the fact of my never having studied Greek had risen like an impassable barrier between us. Ah, me! How well I remember it " and, taking a large, rectangular chew of plug tobacco, Alex- ander Nonesuch sank back on the carriage seat and thought of the past. At last the carriage stops, and the young man enters.a house whose palatial appointments show it to be the home of wealth and culture. Scarcely has the servant con- ducted him to the parlor, when a beautiful girl, tall and fair as a lily and stately as a footman, enters the room. "Good evening," she says in a cheery voice. "Good evening," replies Alexander; "are you ready?" For answer she puts out a tiny foot, and he sees that she is wearing her overshoes. Rising silently he escorts her to the carriage and places her on the back seat, while he occupies the other one. " We are having fine weather," he says, as the carriage rolls rapidly away. The girl assents to his meteorological statement with a brisk nod of her pretty head. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 25 1 "It was very kind of you to take me to the opera, I'm sure," she continues. "Yes," he answers, "it was." ******* Four months have passed. The June roses, fairest and most welcome of all flowers, are bursting into blossom. Down a shaded path, above which the cypress trees are bending, Alexander Nonesuch and Beryl Clearsides are walking. The crickets are chirping shrilly in the grass, and to the westward is heard the murmurous breathing of a large brindle cow. All nature seems hushed in sweet repose. "You have never kissed me yet," the girl says, bending over him tenderly. "No," he replies. " Kissing is wrong." They walk on silently for a moment. Then the man* speaks. "And so you think," he says, "that we had better be married at once? " "Yes," she replies. "If we are to keep house it will be cheaper." "Why?" he asks. "Because," she answers, "you will probably hang around pretty steadily for the first six months and we shall not need a refrigerator." 252 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. HOW SHE SAVED HIM. " My God! This is terrible! " The black waters sweep by in a maddening rush, hiss- ing and seething as they go, as if their weird voices were in accord with the dreadful scenes around them. Now these voices seem to rise on the air in low, mournful tones as if chanting a requiem for the souls of the dead whose bodies are borne swiftly forward on the black bosom of the torrent, and the next moment there comes up from its turbid depths what seems to be a horrible, exultant chuckle, as if some demon were laughing to himself at the ruin and death which meet the eye on every side. And then, when this noise so eerie and unnatural at such a time has died away, one hears only the swish and swirl that are inseparable from the move- ment of a large body of water, with now and then the crush of a falling building or the shrill, horrified shriek of some drowning wretch whose struggles against death in its most horrible form have been in vain. Cincinnati is inundated. For days and days the waters have been rising slowly, it is true, but each succeeding night has seen the uncanny monster that seeks to destroy the city draw nearer and nearer. There is no noise, no shout of foemen or thundering cannon as when armies meet, but it is the very absence of this chance for action that makes the situation all the more terrible. The cold, black waters have been on every side, waiting patiently for the moment when, with one mad rush, they shall leap down upon their prey as the tiger springs from the jungle upon the unsuspecting traveler, and engulf alike the LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 253 living and the dead. That time has come, and with a hoarse roar of triumph the hungry demons of the deep have worked the destruction of everything th;:t opposed them. What were once streets filled with people are now great rivers, and on their surface is to be seen the debris of a wrecked and ruined city. And mingled in this debris are dead bodies wrecks of humanity with which the pitiless waters are hurrying away. It is the incarnation of ruin. Two young men, Gaston and Victor stout young fol- lowers of the type one sees so often among the peasantry of Brittany, but with features that show refinement and education are standing at one of the upper windows of a building that has not yet succumbed to the flood. But its time of destruction is close at hand. Already the walls are crumbling, and in a few moments the noble edifice, but yesterday so proud and stately, will have gone down in the general ruin. The young men know this. Their cheeks are blanched. They know that soon there will begin for them a struggle with death which can end only in defeat. The lips of Victor move, but the words they are uttering are rendered inaudible by the roar of the waters. His companion shouts to him: "What are you doing?" he asks. " Praying for my parents. My death will kill them. They live in Coshocton." "I also have parents," says Gaston. "They live in Akron. Include them in your prayers." Victor nods his head. Suddenly Gaston utters a cry. "My God!" he says. "Look!" Victor raises his head. Coming swiftly towards them 254 LAKESIDE ^fU SINGS. is a beautiful girl. She is drowning. Gaston shrieks again. " It is Beryl ! " he cries. " Beryl Hopkins, my betrothed ! " As he shouts the name to Victor the winds bear his voice to the girl, and she recognizes her lover. With the sight all he-r strength seems to return. " Thank God ! " she exclaims in clarion tones, " I can save you, although I myself must die," and by a mighty effort she plunges one hand beneath the waters. In a moment it reappears, grasping something which, as she sinks for the last time beneath the waters, the noble girl hurls through the window at which Gaston and Victor are standing. ******* Five minutes later the building has sunk beneath the seething torrent, but Gaston and Victor are safe float- ing securely down the stream in a craft which no storm, however severe, can wreck. Gaston sits in its stern, guiding its course, while Victor sleeps peacefully under the bulwarks. She had thrown them her overshoe. POETRY ON TAP. " I want to see the poetry editor," said a young lady who stepped very briskly into the room "the gentleman that puts all those lovely pieces in the paper every Satur- day. Don't you think they're sweet ? " The horse reporter nodded acquiescence in the saccha- rine character of the efforts alluded to. " I would like to see him personally," continued the young lady, "because it would be so nice to talk with him LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 255 about Tennyson, and Longfellow, and all those other dear old things, wouldn't it?" The personal friend of Maud S. again inclined his head. " You don't think he'll be in again this afternoon, do you? I'd like awfully to see him. But perhaps you can help me. I'm in an awful fix." "What's the matter?" asked the horse reporter. " Why," continued the young lady, " I live over on the West Side, and we've got a literary society, and at the next meeting I am down to read a paper on ' Poetry as an Art,' and " " Is poetry an art ? " asked the horse reporter. " I thought it was an affliction." "Well, I don't know about that," said the young lady, "but anyhow I've got to get up this paper, and it occurred to me that perhaps one of you editors could assist me. I want to get some extracts from the works of our best- known poets to illustrate what I shall say. Now there's Mr. Tennyson, for instance; he's written some fine poetry, hasn't he? " "Yes. Alf has occasionally shot some pretty fair verse athwart the literary horizon." "Could you give me a specimen of his style?" eagerly asked the young lady. " I never read a line of those big poets in my life nothing but what THE TRIBUNE poets write." "We have got some daisies from Daisyville on our staff," said the horse reporter, "but if you want a few gems from the old masters I suppose you can have them. Tennyson's 'May Queen' is one of his most popular poems. Want some of that ? " 256 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. "Why, yes, I should think two or three verses would be just the thing." "Well," said the horse reporter, "it goes like this": You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear: To-morrow'll be the boss old day for pop and ginger beer; And when they strike the pie, mother, I'll say my little say For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May. There's many a nifty girl, they say, but none lays over me; There's Margaret, and Mary, and cross-eyed Lucy Lee; But you bet your life I take the cake, and of biscuit sweep the tray; So I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May. " Do you think that is enough?" asked the young lady. "O yes; these verses will give 'em an idea of Alf's gait. Variety is what they want, you know. You ought to have something from Bryant. His ' Indian Girl's Lament' is pretty well thought of." " Is it? I'm sure I don't know. I shall leave it all to you." "Well, I can give you a chunk of it." " Do, if you please." " This is the way it starts ": An Indian girl was sitting where Her lover, Walking-Flea-Patch, lay; Beside her stood a spavined horse That sadly chewed some musty hay. Upon a stump herself she flung, And then this simple lay she sung: " I've placed the bottle at your head O Walking-Flea-Patch, so that when You strike the town and paint it red You will not miss your Laughing-Hen, Who, sitting in the wigwam, will Adore her noble warrior still." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 257 "Now, you see," said the horse reporter, "those se- lections cover the childish glee and loving trustfulness rackets. What you want to finish with is something pathetic something that will make the young women sniffle. Hood's ' Song of the Shirt ' ought to do that nicely. Suppose we sling 'em a few lines of that." Very well," said the young lady. " You know I depend wholly on your judgment in this matter." "Well, here it is": With fingers weary and worn, In a little five-room flat, A woman sat with eyelids red Trying to trim a hat. Rip, turn, twist, Then give it a spiteful flirt, While beside her lies like a ghostly thing Her husband's buttonless shirt. O girls, with brothers dear! O girls who hope to be wives! Remember that shirts with buttons are The dream of men's hard lives! Rip, turn, twist, Till your hands are weary and worn But the winds will sweep with a wailing sigh Through the pants that are ever torn. "You're very kind," said the young lady, preparing to go- " Don't mention it. Come in again when you think we are all out." 17 558 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. FORGAVE HER PARENT. " Do you dance?" " No, I dropped on myself two seasons ago," was the response, in a strong, manly voice. Veronica McGuire looked up at George W. Simpson, an expression of wonder and surprise in her soft, velvety eyes. Very beautiful was this girl, as she stood in the dim, half-light of the conservatory, the pearly flesh and rounded curves of her arms and shoulders seeming more than humanly beautiful, while the rose-laden air of the place seemed only fit to kiss the wine-red lips of so wonderfully fair a maiden. " I am sorry you do not dance, Mr. Simpson," said Veronica, after a momentary pause, "because it is really the one thing in which I may truthfully lay claim to being proficient. As you have no doubt discovered before this, I am a wretched hand at conversation, an original idea never seeming to find birth in this empty head of mine." George looked fondly down upon her bang. " I am afraid you are rather inclined to deprecate your own abili- ties," he said, throwing just a shade of tenderness into the rich tones of his pure voice. " You play nicely, and you certainly sing well." "Only passably, my dear Mr. Simpson," was the laugh- ing reply; "you really must not flatter me too much, because I am vain enough already. But, by the way> have you heard ' Over the Garden Wall ' yet? " " No," was the reply in tones that were tremulous with emotion, " I never heard the tune, but I have had occasion to go over the wall once or twice." LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 259 " It is a beautiful thing, said Veronica. " There is a weird sadness, and yet joy, about the music that carries one completely away. Do you not find it BO oftentimes? " "Yes," replied George, "it is pretty darn weird to get over a wall on a dark night and dive down into an alley that you don't know anything about." "You are just too funny!" exclaimed the girl, looking at him steadily. As she did so his eyes met hers, and the rich color flooded her cheeks, making them more radiantly beautiful than ever. Turning quickly, she stood with averted face and downcast eyes, and for a moment no word was spoken. Finally, George stepped to Veronica's side and took the little hand that was toying with a rose into his broad palm. She did not start, or seek to with- draw it. [Right here it might be stated that Chicago girls are warranted not to shy.] George held the dimpled prisoner for a moment, and then raised it to his lips. "Mr. Simpson! " exclaimed the girl, "you do not seem to know what you are doing. Remember, sir, that " "Oh, I know all about it," said George. " I know that you are rich and uneducated, and that you can never hope to soar in the empyrean heights of literature and knowledge where I reside permanently. But, my love for your father's check-book will overcome all this. I appreciate fully the sacrifice I am making, but you must not seek to dissuade me." "And do you then love me so clearly, George?" the girl asked. "Certainly, my darling. Without your love life would be nothing but a four-flush to me. All my happiness is LAKESIDE MUSINGS. centered In my love for you. Can you deliderately cast that love aside, darling?" For answer she raised her pure, sweet face to his, and placed a large three-for-fifty-cents kiss on his innocent Wabash avenue lips. THE RESULT OF A RAISE. Out upon the solemn stillness of the star-lit night pealed the tones of the church bells those brazen- throated harbingers of peace and good will to men. Sweet was their jangling as they rang out to all alike the rich and the poor, the old and the young, the invalid on a bed of pain and the sturdy man who had never known sickness a farewell to the old year that would so soon be gone forever. It was on this night a night whose every hour is hal- lowed and softened by the tender memories that cluster round the latest moments of a dying year, that Pansy Perkins, the soft-eyed, olive-skinned belle of the social circle in which she moved, stood beneath the mellow glow of a turned-down gas jet in the parlor of her father's palatial residence and looked, with a sad, pitying expres- sion on her pure, North Side features, at a young man who was nervously pulling at a don't-look-cross-or-it-will- fade-away-mustache, while a look of pain flitted ever and anon across his features. " No, Cigarette-Charley," she said, using the name by which he was known among the wild, reckless set with which he. associated; "I can never be your bride. I LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 261 know that you love me deeply and truly, and that to win a love like yours is something of which any woman might be proud. I will not deny, Reginald " and here the girl stepped closer to him and placed a soft, white hand in his, while the deep, brown eyes that could lure a soul through Inferno or to St. Louis gleamed forth with a topaz tint that intoxicated with the sweet nectar of love all who came within their gaze "that with you I could live happily forever in the Lotus islands of a Chicago boarding-house, but my father says and you know now I adore my dear, kind papa that you are not of the ner- vously-active, pushing sort that always gets ahead in the world; that he does not object to my marrying a poor man, but that man must be one who will rise in the world 'a hustler from Hustletown,' as dear papa says. So we must part." " Pansy Miss Perkins," said Reginald in those deep, thrilling tones of his. " I can not indeed I can not let you go! Stay one moment only one moment!" How that rich voice rang in her ears! Despite herself it moved her strangely. " Very well," she said, " I will stay." Darting hastily to the hat-rack in the front hall Regi- nald fumbled for a moment in the upper left-hand pocket of his overcoat and drew therefrom a piece of white paper. Returning to the parlor he knelt beside the fauteuil on which Pansy had thrown herself in an agony of grief, and kissed away the bitter tears of pain and sorrow that were welling up into the beautiful brown eyes. " See, my darling," he exclaimed eagerly, placing the paper before her. " Look at this, my precious one." Pansy opened her eyes and gazed languidly at the paper. "What is it, Tootsie?" she murmured. 262 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. Drawing himself up proudly, and holding in one hand the paper and in the other his pan-cake hat, Reginald Green said in proud tones: " It is a notice of my promotion to the ribbon counter. Hereafter my salary will be twelve dollars per week. Pansy, my precious one, we are saved." The girl looked up at him lovingly. " You bet we are," she said, and her arms were clasped about his thirteen- inch neck in an ecstacy of passion. MYRTLE GOT THERE. "Has Myrtle come home?" The speaker was a richly-dressed woman of perhaps forty summers, although it might have been possible to have added an autumn, and perhaps a couple of late springs to the account that Time, that faithful but relent- less chronicler of the word's doings, its lights and shades, its gala days and sorrowful anniversaries, had slowly but s -irely set opposite her name on the closely-written pages of that book which no man has read. The person to whom she spoke a delicately-formed girl with deep, hazel eyes and flaxen hair that hung between her faultlessly-molded, but not too fat, shoulders in a simple braid, looking not unlike a new rope tug of the kind used on horse-cars stood on the veranda of a handsome villa in the south of England, tapping gently with a croquet-mallet which she held in her hand a tiny foot that peeped out from beneath the fleecy folds of her piegnoir dress. Suddenly she started slightly, and a look LAKESIDE Ml' SI.VGS. 263 of pain passed over the delicately-chiseled features of her perfect face. She had hit her corn. This corn was the only sad chord in the otherwise perfect symphony of Ethelberta De Courcey's life. Often when gliding dreamily through the measures of a soft, sensuous waltz that set all her senses pulsing in harmony to the music, her nose resting trustfully on the shoulder of Percy Montrose, her affianced, had she been suddenly called back from the beautiful realms of rose- tinted meditation by some one stepping on her corn. Sometimes in the desolate moments that followed one of these painful society events she would almost sob out her grief to the world, and often in the still watches of the night would come to her the thought that even a bunion would have been better. Although of a timid, shrinking nature, and possessed of a reserve that insurance companies might envy, Ethelberta had an iron will, copper-fastened and clinched on both sides, and a proud spirit that could not brook the slightest affront. In point of spirit and reserve no girl among the proud aristocracy of haughty Albion was bet- ter fixed. Once, when an elder sister had in a moment of passion charged her with eating slate-pencils to im- prove her complexion, Ethelberta had only looked at her with an expression of withering scorn, and said calmly, "I shall never speak to you again." It was nearly an hour before she borrowed the other girl's chew of gum. Percy Montrose was the only man she had ever loved. He was a handsome, manly-looking fellow of twenty-six, and came of an ancient Saxon family that got a start in 264 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. life by stealing evergreen trees in Norway about Christ- mas time and shipping them to England. Ethelberta did not know this. The one thought of her life was that she loved Percy with a wild, passionate love that was almost wicked in its intensity. He was in her thoughts by day and her dreams by night. She had told him of her love freely and fully. Often, when sitting on his trusty right knee in the parlor of her father's house, her head resting in perfect confidence just below his clavicle and above his right lung, had she murmured softly to him that she lived only for his love, and that without the oasis of his affection life would be a dreary desert upon which the sun beat pitilessly down. It is not every young man that can be an oasis all by himself, and Percy naturally felt pretty corky about the fact. * * * * * * * Shortly after Ethelberta's mother had gone over town and left her daughter standing on the porch, alone with her thoughts and corn, Percy Montrose came sauntering up the graveled walk that wandered gracefully through the front yard until it reached the sidewalk. The girl greeted him with effusion and a kiss. He took both. In a little wljile they walked together to the croquet- lawn and began to play. Both were experts at the game and neither could gain an advantage. Finally Ethelberta's ball was in a favorable position. With her dainty foot upon the ball, and mallet upraised, she was the picture of beauty and grace. Should she make the shot the game would be over. Just as the mallet was descending with a graceful sweep, Percy's voice was heard. "You garter has come down," he said. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 265 The mallet fell with crushing force. There was a wild whoop of anguish, and Ethelberta fluttered toward the house on one leg like a wounded bird. She had hit the corn, and never spoke to Percy again. " Did Myrtle come home? " some may ask who remem- ber the opening sentence of this story. I should smile. She not only came home, but she played out the game with Percy, and subsequently mar- ried him. WHY SHE LOVED HIM. "Bon soir, ma cher." "So long, Charlie." Winsome Lillian McGuire touched with ruby-red lips the tips of her taper fingers and flung the kiss after Vivi- an Featherstone as he sauntered carelessly down Blue Island avenue. She could never bear to call him Vivian, because her brother had once lost eighteen dollars on a horse of that name, and ever afterwards it recalled a flood of bitter recollections as she thought of how Ber- tram McGuire came home that fateful evening and placed his boots carefully on the piano before retiring to rest in the little chintz-curtained bed that had held him since the days when he was a prattling child the pet and pride of the family. She had seen him putting on his hat with a shoe-horn the next morning, and wept bitter, scalding tears to think that one so noble, so fly, should not know enough to get a bottle of seltzer aperient in such a time of desolation. " But he is my brother, my only brother,' 2 66 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. Lillian had said to herself, "and I will not desert him, even if he is a chump about some things." So she had gone to him softly as he stood in the front hall trying to put a number nine head into a number seven hat, had put her arms caressingly around his neck, and said: "Why don't you drop on yourself, and get a soda cocktail?" She spoke the words in a tenderly tremulous voice a voice almost choked with the sobs that were welling up from her beautiful bosom at the thought that a McGuire should be so beautiful and yet so raw. It was in the ripe September days following this event that she became acquainted with Vivian Featherstone. He brought Bertram home in a hack one evening, stood him up gently against the front door, and rang the bell with a tender pathos that told its own story. When Lil- lian went down-stairs and let her brother fall into the front hall she found in his overcoat pocket three lemons. With a woman's instinct she knew at once that Vivian had placed them there. " How thoughtfully kind of him," she said, as the thought of how Bertram's head would ache in the morning came over her. They did not meet, however, until some weeks later, when a soiree dansante at the house of a mutual acquaint- ance brought them together. An introduction followed, and the usual light conversation of the ball-room was begun. Vivian spoke about the new theory of horizontal cleavage in red sandstone, and from that their talk natur- ally drifted to the subject of the new Court House. "I saw you going past there the other day," said Vivian. " Indeed! " was Lillian's reply. " And why should you notice me? " LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 267 " Because of the peculiar color of the ribbons on your hat," he said. The girl blushed deeply. " Why do you wear lemon-colored ribbons on a dark hat?" he asked, bending over her tenderly, and taking her little white hand in his. '' Can you not guess? " was the reply. " Do you not remember the night that Bertram was paralyzed ? I found the lemons in his overcoat pocket, and my heart told me who had placed them there. Is it strange that I should love one who was so kind to my dear brother?" "And do you really love me, Lilliai?" he asked, in eager tones. For answer the little head dropped on his shoulder. He raised it gently and looked into the pure sweet face uplifted to his. ' Have I won you, my angel ?" he mur- mured in low, earnest tones. " I should twitter," was the girl's reply, and again her head sought his shoulder. SOCIAL ROMANCE. " Good-bye, Myrtle." " So long, McGuire," replied the girl a tall, lissome beauty with dark, gleaming eyes and a wealth of auburn tresses that would have been red anywhere outsiJe of a novel. She stood on the veranda that June evening, the honeysuckles clustering in vivid beauty all around her, while he to whom she spoke lingered at the foot of the 268 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. steps, standing there irresolutely, with the evident hope that the proud beauty, whose four-clollars-per-pair silk stockings he saw gleaming fitfully in the half-light of the gloaming, would say the word that would bring him back to her side to seal again with burning kisses and honeyed words of love the vows that had been but just broken. " Must I go, sweetheart? " asked Ethelbert, looking up with a wistful, will-it-ever-quit-raining-during-race- week expression on his pallid face. " No, Ice-Cream Charlie," replied Myrtle, using the pet name by which he was known at home; "you had better go away and try to forget me try to let the pleasures which men have always at their command, sweep away from the horizon of your life the black pall of disap- pointment that now hangs so heavily athwart its utter- most rim. My faith in you, once so strong and bright, is gone forever, and it is best that we should part now. " There can be no revocation of this cruel sentence, then? " he asked. "None, whatever," was the girl's reply. " I have twit- tered, and my chirp admits of no recall." Ethelbert went sadly away. ******* A year has passed. The winter, which came so sud- denly and crept gently along in soft, white snowy robes, has gone. The sweet spring days, with perfumy hints of rose and woodbine, and fresh emerald leaves and climb- ing vines, and bursting blossoms, is here. In the parlors of a stately residence a gay company of young people are assembled. It is the last party of the season, and LAKESIDE MUSINGS. ' 269 Myrtle Hathaway, the acknowledged belle of the year, is as usual the centre of attraction. She stands with charming grace beside a marble figure of Psyche that ornaments a recess in the conservatory, and is chatting gaily with Bertie Cecil "handsome Bertie," the women call him who has the beauty of an Apollo and the savoir rirrc of a hired man. " What has become of Ethelbert McGuire? " Myrtle suddenly asks, " I have not seen him in ever so long." Bertie looks at her with an astonished expression. " Do you not know, then? " he says. The girl shakes her head. " I supposed you had heard," he said. " Ethelbert met with a disappointment about a year ago; the old story, they tell me, of a man's love for a faithless woman. He never speaks of the matter, but God knows he suffers enough. It is not a light grief that will make a man indulge in dissipation until his life is a wreck." Myrtle's face became pallid. " Is he so very dissipated? " she asked. ' I should gasp," replied Bertie. " He smokes cig- arettes every day now." Myrtle reeled, and would have fallen had not Bertie caught her. " You are ill, Miss Hathaway," he exclaimed in anxious tones. " Something I have said has caused this." Recovering herself by a mighty effort, Myrtle spoke: " I am better now," she said. " It was nothing but the pie." "Ah," said Bertie, " I had forgotten the pie." 270 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. DIDN'T GET IN. The Old Subscriber came up stairs and to the editor Remarked that if a paper wasn't managed solely for The public weal, he'd missed his guess considerably far. " I've noticed in your journal that the price of wheat and oats Is daily placed on record, likewise Legislative votes A vigilant reporter all the wicked doings notes " But here's a little matter that you seem to have forgot: My answer to the theory that worlds are made red-hot It shows that more than Huxley knows each night I have forgot." Up spoke the weary editor unto the aged man: "I'll print your able argument that is whene'er I can; But just at present we are working things down to hard-pan." The Old Subscriber still comes 'round; his faith has never swerved. His essay upon nebulae a better fate deserved; But it forms the lower stratum of a pile that's marked " reserved." CAMILLE. The south wind is sighing softly among the sturdy oaks, whose leafy branches shield from the pitiless rays of a July sun the velvety-soft lawn that stretches away to the eastward in front of a lovely Du Page County villa. On the veranda stands a girl, lovely beyond com- pare, to whom a man one whose sunny locks and beard of tawny gold hue tell plainly of the Saxon blood that flows in his veins is talking in an earnest manner. There is a loving look in his soft, blue eyes, and he speaks LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 271 with a tender earnestness that shows he is trying to get there. The girl is tapping lightly with a croquet-mallet the pretty foot that peeps out half timidly from beneath the pretty morning dress of soft, blue cloth, with two rows of ruffles up the back-stretch, and a polonaise that never cost less than twenty-two dollars. "Well, Bertrace, have you concluded to shake me?" says the man. The sunbeams flicker erratically down between the leaves, making little lights and shades on the veranda; the grasshoppers sing among the red clovers; the little foot, which has suspended its movement during the delivery of this interrogatory, resumes its occupation. Adelbert's gaze is still fastened upon the pretty face that looks slyly down, but the smile has fled. No answer comes. A moment longer, and the foot-taps cease; one or two irresolute moments of the body, and then the white arms, gleaming out from the loose sleeves, are round his neck, and the brown locks and the golden beard are mingled, while the little head goes down on his shoulder amid a storm of sobs. She has hit her bunion. THE SOCIETY REPORTER. A very short-haired and thick-necked young man softly opened the door of the fashion-editor's room yesterday afternoon, and, interrupting that party in the midst of a powerful article on the proper way of chewing caromels, 272 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. inquired if " he was the feller what put in the pieces 'bout sports 'n pastimes," because, if such was the case ? he (of the short hair) had an eighteen-pound bull-pup that he was anxious to match against any dog on the West Side for from $10 to $25 a side. " Don't forgit," continued the possessor of this remarkable canine, " to say that the dawg is ownded by our well-known fellow- citizen, Mr. Nibsey No-Shirt; 'cos all them West-Side blokes knows me, and they know I represent the South- Side gang. Throw in somethin' 'bout my bein' a patron of manly sports, and I'll give you a pup outer 'Red- Mouth Sal,' my favorit, the one that fit the fight two years ago in New York agin Reddy the Tarrier's brindle, wich is still considered the ekal of anything in those parts, defeating of him in sixteen minutes. I'll show her to yer," continued the happy possessor of so much ferocity, as he opened the door a little wider, allowing a bow-legged dog, with an under-jaw like a steamboat-deck, to enter the room. The fashion editor hastily removed his feet from the floor, and said that, while he had not the slightest doubt of the fighting qualities and general excellence of " Sal," he really didn't care about a pup; was obliged to the gentleman, however, for the offer. "She's got a pedergree," interjected the young man, "what'll make'yer eyes stick out." "Good gracious! where is it? I don't see anything of the kind around here," said the compiler of fashionable statistics, as he drew farther away from Sal., who mani- fested an unpleasant interest in his legs. " Wha-a-t! Don't yer know what a pedergree is? You'er a fine duck to be a managin' of the sportin' news, you are!" LAKESIDE MUSINGS. " But I am not the sporting man," said the reflex of the fashionable world. "You ain't, hey? Well, for the sake of the profession, I'm glad to hear yer say so. I was about half onto yer when you sprung that cigaret-case on me, and the min- nit I got a flash at yer yaller kid gloves and that there touch-me-not hat, I tumbled"; and the cheerful party in search of dog-fight started up-stairs. HERBERT'S DEATH. " No, Herbert, it can never be." She who spoke these words in a low, sweet voice, tinged with the melancholy that even an ingenue face of the most pronounced type could not conceal, leaned heavily against the front gate, while by her side, bending low over the little head with its wealth of golden bangs, and looking with earnest expectancy into the beautiful face, every feature of which was perfect, stood Herbert Hanafin. He had known Bertrace Houlihan from the time they were children together, and the boyish friend- ship of the past had grown into a passionate, all-absorb- ing love that swayed his whole nature. She was the pole-star of his existence, the first base of his life work, reaching not which he could never hope to tally. On this calm, star-lit night in June he had told Bertrace in his simple, earnest, Wabash Avenue way, of his love for her, and asked her to be his bride It was this avowal of his passion that caused the girl to speak the words with which our story opens. 19 274 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. They fell upon his ear with a dull, terrible distinctness that intensified the horror which their import caused. He had not expected this. For years he had treasured in his heart the picture of a vine-embowered cottage with Bertrace crooning softly a mother's lullaby to a dimple- faced babe their child while her love for him bedecked with sweet-scented roses life's pathway, and the child's innocent prattle made music far sweeter than that with which the silver-voiced siren of old so vainly sought to lure the strong-limbed Ulysses from his ship. When it came to figuring a long ways ahead Herb, was a pretty handy boy. And now, after years of rose-tinted dreams, the mist was swept away, the veil torn asunder, and the dim vista of the future, so lately a bower of sweet-smelling vines, through which the golden sunshine came in sparkling glints, changed into a trackless, arid waste, where des- olation reigned supreme. He had worked with every muscle, and nerve, and fibre of his being to stand at the head of his chosen profession, and now, when the goal was reached, and he stood peerless and alone in all his proud beauty, the head clerk of the ribbon-counter, a cruel fate had snatched from his eager grasp the prize for which he had striven, and left him a battered wreck upon the rocky shores of Desolation. " God grant, Bertrace," Herbert said, in broken tones, "that you may never know the anguish I am suffering at this moment. Heaven shield you, my darling, from all harm in the days to come days that will hold for me only misery and heart-ache. My love has been only a trifling episode in your life, but should misfortune ever cross your path, and the gaunt demon of despair enter your home, LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 275 I remember that Herbert Hanafin, the dry-goods clerk, is ever your friend ' and with these words the young man turned sadly away, and went out into the darkness. " He's pretty tart," said Bertrace softly to herself as she walked slowly towards the house. Once inside the palatial residence which Stuyvesant Houlihan had built for his only daughter, she entered the parlor and sank languidly on a fauteitil. Presently the door-bell rang. With her heart throbbing in eager expectancy Bertrace went quickly into the front hall, only to be clasped close to the shirt front of a handsome young man whose strong arms encircled her with a hay-press earnestness that admitted of no doubt. '"You have come, my darling?" said the girl, a bright smile illuminating her features, while the loving look and the trustful manner in which she placed her head above his right lung showed plainer than could words the depth of the love she bore him. " Yes, sis, I am here again," and implanting on her rosy-ripe lips a rich, pulsing kiss that would make your head swim, he walked into the parlor and took a cigar from Mr. Houlihan's box that stood on the mantel. ******* In the dim half-light of the front porch stood Herbert Hanafin, the stricken dry-goods clerk. Seeing his hated rival approaching the house after he had left Bertrace, he followed him stealthily and had witnessed all. When the lovers entered the parlor he turned again into the dark- ness and went swiftly away. At the corner of the street he suddenly slackened his pace, and then, with a wild shriek of anguish threw up his hands and disappeared, Herbert Hanafin had fallen .into the sewer, 276 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. DEATHLESS DEVOTION. " Myrtle, dear? " "Yes, George, what is it?" replied the girl, glancing shyly upward. The radiant glory of a summer moon shone down upon the earth this June night, bathing in all its mellow splendor the leafy branches of the sturdy old oaks that had for centuries shaded the entrance to Castle McCurtry and laughed defiance to the fierce gales that every winter came howling down in all their cruel force and fury from the moorlands lying to the westward of the castle. On the edge of the broad demesne that stretched away to the south stood a large brindle cow, and as the moon- light flecked with silver lustre her starboard ribs she seemed to Myrtle a perfect picture of sweet content and almost holy calm. "Is it not a beautiful night, dearest?" murmured the girl. " See how the moonbeams flutter down through the trees, making strange lights and shadows that flit among the shrubs and flowers in such a weird, ghost-like fashion. The dell is indeed clothed in loveliness to-night, sweetheart." "Yes," said George W. Simpson, "this is the boss dell" and then, looking down into the pure, innocent face that was lifted to his, he took in his own broad, third-base palm the little hand that erstwhile held up Myrtle's polonaise. As they stood there silently in the bosky glade George passed his arm silently but firmly around Myrtle's waist. The noble girl did not shy. LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 277 " Do you love me, sweetheart? " he asked in accents that were tremulous with tremulousness. Myrtle's head was drooping now, and the rosy blushes of Calumet avenue innocence were chasing each other across her peachy cheeks. George drew her more closely to him. If a mosquito had tried to pass between them then it would have been bad for the mosquito. "Can you doubt me, darling?" he whispered. "You surely must know that I love you with a wild, passionate, whoa-Emma love that can never die. Do you not love me a little in return?" For an instant the girl did not speak. George heard the whisking of the brindle cow's tail break in rudely upon the solemn stillness of the night, and ever and anon came the dull thud of the bullfrog as he jumped into a neighboring pond. Presently Myrtle placed her arms about his neck, and with a wistful, baby's-got-the- cramp look in her sweet face, she said & him: "I love you, George, with a deathless devotion that will eventually keep you broke." And with these fateful words she adjusted her rumpled bang and fearlessly led the way to an ice-cream lair. OUR GIRLS. "Good day, gentlemen." "Good day," said the horse reporter, looking up and discovering a young lady in the apartment. " I would like to show you a work which I am selling," 278 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. she began, " and am sure it will prove both interesting and instructive." " What's it about ?" asked the horse reporter. "The book," continued the fair canvasser, "is by one of our best known writers and speakers, and is entitled 'What Shall We Do with Our Girls?' The question is certainly one of paramount importance, and " Are your girls bothering you much this season? " in- quired the friend of Maud S. "Why, no," said the young lady, blushing violently " that is why, of course I haven't any daughters.' "Oh, you're out on the road telling people what to do with their girls before you're even married, let alone the mother of a few visions of loveliness ? Well, that's all right. Some of our best cook-books have been written by people who didn't know a gridiron from the Fifteenth Amendment." " But this question of what shall be done with the girls is really an important one," continued the young lady. " Have you ever given it a thought? " " I can't say that I have," replied the horse reporter. " I suppose we might tie 'em up in the back yard when a circus comes to town." "I hardly think you comprehend the question in all its bearings. What is the legitimate sphere of woman in what field of action can she best display and make use of the God-given talents, attributes of mental force, and physical grace with which she is endowed ? These are living, burning issues, and must be fairly met. When we see " "All right," said the horse reporter, "you can meet them if you want to. Woman's sphere, so far as I have LAKESIDE MUSIXGS. 279 been able to discover, is to never have breakfast on- time. It is no doubt a somewhat limited one, but she is gradual- ly reaching out into the great unknown, and will eventual- ly grasp with her lily-white fingers the black demon of Injustice that has so long oppressed her, and strangle in the very stronghold of its power the great Wrong which for centuries has baffled her efforts at advancement along the great highway of progress." "Why, that's lovely! " exclaimed the young lady. " You believe in lady-suffrage, don't you? " " Lady who? " " Lady suffrage believe that ladies should vote, and have all the political privileges that are accorded men. That's just what this book says. That chapter is per- fectly sweet. It's just lovely." " I presume so. But how about the chapter that says women should not cramp and distort their bodies with corsets and their feet with tight shoes? The gaunt de- mon of unrest that lurks in the maternal bunion may, in the child of that mother, become an ever-present mon- ster of pain." " Oh, those chapters are horrid! What the world is in- terested in are the nobler attributes of woman her soul and heart." "Yes, the soul-and-heart business is all right, but you must remember that the humble liver, working away un- ostentatiously, is also a pretty good scheme, and without health woman can never attain success. The deadly clasp of the steel-ribbed corset and the fatal grip of the gleaming garter are hurrying to early graves the women of our land. The beautiful eyes that should sparkle so brightly are dull and lustreless, the cheek whose white- 2&o LAKESIDE MUSINGS. ness should be relieved by the rosy blush of health is sallow and wan, and the fairest temple ever made is rendered a ghastly ruin by the one who should take the greatest pride in its beauty." " And will you buy a book? " asked the young lady. " I'm sure you talk beautifully." "No," replied the horse reporter, "I can not buy a book, because actions speak louder than words, and I do not wish to disturb the dramatic critic who is in the next room trying to write soul without a large S." OVERWHELMING ODDS. "Avast heaving." Capt. Foamcrest turned quickly on his heel after giving this order in tne sharp, decisive tone habitual to seafaring men, and continued to pace the quarter-deck of the Avenger with regular tread. With hands behind him and eyes steadily fixed on the oaken planks which upheld him he did not look like a man on whose mind was press- ing the weight of a great responsibility a responsibility that ere the sun sank to rest beneath the waters might ne- cessitate the shedding of human blood. For five minutes he paced the deck in silence, and then, turning with a show of impatience and speaking in a tone that betrayed irritation, if not anger, he again said: "Avast heaving." The man to whom the command was addressed, a fine, brawny fellow, with a clear eye and honest face in fact, the very model of a first-class sailor, drew in his head from over the bulwarks and replied: " I can not." LAKESIDE MV sixes. 281 " How long have you been in the American navy, my man?" asked the Captain, in not unkind tones. "Ten years, sir," was the reply. " And is this your first experience on th'e water? " " Yes, sir." " Very well; avast heaving as soon as it is convenient." Aye, aye, sir," replied the man, hitching up his pants respectfully. The Captain walked slowly aft and addressed the man at the wheel " Old Tom," a grizzled sea dog, who had sailed the Wabash under Secretary Thompson, and seen service off the rock-bound coast of Lemont when a hostile constabulary endeavored to attach a canal boat. " How does she head? "asked the Captain, looking into the binnacle. " West by south," replied old Tom, giving the wheel a turn and glancing aloft to see that the topsails were drawing. " I think we shall have a capful of wind from the north to-night," he added. " Yon cloud has a wicked look." "Very well," said the Captain. " I will tell the cook to lash the beefsteak to the galley and make fast the toothpicks, in case anything should happen." ******* Night has come. The Avenger is cleaving the water in gallant style, the white foam curling from her bow as she comes in stays and stands away on the starboard tack. The quarter- deck is deserted save by Lieut. Alltaut, whose watch it is. The Captain has gone below, and the steady, strident snore that is wafted upward tells that he is asleep. Slid- 282 LAKESIDE MUSINGS. denly one of the lookouts comes aft and touches his cap to the Lieutenant. " There's a sail on the port bow, sir," he says. Lieut. Alltaut takes his glass and looks in the direction indicated. " It is the pirate," he says, speaking calmly, as do all naval officers in books. " Send a man below to put a clothes-pin on the Captain's nose. And while you are there bring up my cutlass and a piece of pie." The man disappeared. , In the meantime preparations had been made for the approaching conflict. The men were stationed behind the bulwarks, and their faces wore a deter- mined look. Nearer and nearer drew the Avengtr to her prey until at last she lay alongside the dreaded oyster pirate of Chesapeake Bay. Not a sign of life was visible on the craft. From the mizzenmast a week's washing flapped dismally in the night wind. Lieut. Alltaut reached over the Avenger's side and grasped a shirt, thereby being enabled to hold his vessel steady. The men witnessed this maneuvre in silent admiration. Brilliant seamanship always commands respect. "Ship ahoy!" called the Lieutenant. A noise was heard aboard the craft, and an instant later Black Mike, the pirate, appeared on deck. He comprehended the situation in an instant, and drawing a huge knife from his boot sprang forward to cut the tail from the shirt to which Lieut. Alltaut was holding, there- by allowing the Avenger to drift into the darkness. The officer was on the alert, however, and felled the pirate to the deck with a piece of the Government pie which he LAKESIDE MUSINGS. 283 had not had time to eat. The man rose quickly, but thoroughly humbled. " Well," he said, sullenly, " you have caught me at last." " Do you surrender ?" asked the Lieutenant. " No," answered the pirate, with a horrible oath; " I will sell my life dearly." " Reflect on what you are doing;" and Lieut. Alltaul's voice trembled as he spoke. "You are at our mercy. At a signal from-me 100 copies of Secretary Chandler's report will be hurled on your deck." My God!" said the pirate; "are you, then, devoid of all humanity? " "Yes," replied the Lieutenant; "no quarter will be given if the battle is begun." The pirate looked into the portholes of the Avenger and saw the muzzles of the documents frowning at him. " Is this report the usual length? " he asked. "Yes." " And you have really got 100 copies aboard? " " Yes." " Then I surrender. A brave defense is one thing, but suicide is another." FEDORA ; or the Tragedy in the Rue de la Paix. Translated from the French of ADOLPHE BLOT. Illustrated. 12mo, cloth, 303 pages. A most original, powerful and exciting French romance. Every character must have had its living model. For high dramatic action, intense and thrilling interest and appalling climax, absolutely unsurpassed in modern fiction. It is a work which places its author at once among the most brilliant and powerful novelists of his time Albany Sunday Press. Since the appearance of " Les Miserables," nothing of French authorship hag elicited such unstinted praise. Newark (N. J.) Call. "Fedora" will be read because unregenerate human nature is bad. It is a French detective story, dealing, as all such stories do, with a mysterious murder, a sharp detect- ive, ah abandoned woman, and with intrigues, revelations and violent deaths. Harl- ftrd Evening Post. The story is highly exciting, and contains numerous love scenes peculiar to Paris. There is a strength of diction and brilliancy of rhetoric peculiar to the eminent French novelists. Newar k Daily Journal. As a detective story " Fedora" deserves to rank with Foe's " Murder of Marie Roget," and Miss Harriet Prescott Spofford's "In a Cellar." It fully equals them in intricacy of plot and ingenuity of execution. U hicago Tribune. The dramatization of " Fedora " has created a furore in Paris, and is regarded as one of the gems of Madame Bernhardt's repertoire. It is thoroughly French, and those who desire to read of crime and debauchery will find an abundant feast in " Fedora." Chicago Inter Ocean. The plot is remarkable in its dramatic handling, points of suspense, and in the art of baffling the reader. An inside view of the fast life in Paris, the courts of justice and the hidden ways of criminals, treated boldly and in full detail, but without coarseness or exaggeration. Boston Globe. WON AT WEST POINT; a Romance on the Hudson. By "FusH." 12mo, cloth, 300 pages. Price, $1.25 A charming American story, marked by brilliancy of style, keenness of satire, frolicsome wit and mirth-provoking humor. Irreproachable in tone, suitable for parlor or boudoir, and just the story to banish the dreary monotony of " riding on the rail." The valley of the Hudson has been the scene of many a song and story, of legend and romance. This book makes a contribution, and a charming one, to the list. * *** The tale is told with treat spirit, graphic coloring and considerable humor. The interest is maintained to the last. -Albany Sunday Express. This latest addition to native fiction literature is a witty, entertaining romance of the Hudson, with the great Military Academy as its turning point. * * * " Won at West Point " is a strong novel, and it can but please all classes of readers. It will be particularly interesting to those who have had experience at the Point. The novel is elegantly printed and handsomely bound. Troy (JV. Y..) Evening Standard. A hilarious sketch of the social life of cadets at West Point. * * * These chronicles of the cadets are jolly and life-like. Cincinnati Comin^rcial-duzctte. A lively story, based on gay incidents at the National Academy, written by a graduate of the class of '81 . * * * A pleasing insight is given to the interior of the School, with its workings, customs, jokes and impositions. The - book will be read with interest by a large class of readers. Indianapolis Daily Journal. Mailed, on receipt' of price, by RAND, McNALLY & CO., PUBLISHERS, 148, 150, 152 and 154 Monroe St., Chicago. THE BLACK SORCERESS ; a Tale of the Peasants* War. Adapted from the French of ALFRED DE BREHAT. Illustrated. 12mo, cloth, 300 pages. Price, $1.00. An old German romance, currying one back to feudal and chivalric times. Deeply interesting from first to last, and sufficitiitly so at times to make the flesh creep and the heart quiver at the recital of the brutal practices, hideous crimes and besotted superstitions of that benighted epoch. The story is full of astounding mysteries, hellish incantations and diabolical plots. A pood, old fashioned, romantic story, from the French of Alfred do Brehat by V. P. H The scene is laid in (iennany at the period of the Peasant*' War, in the first half of the sixteenth century. It dents with those ever popular and twin themes, love and war. Sarah, the mysterious nu*kd sorceress, dwells in the midst of an almost inaccessible swamp, and exerts a great influence over the 8ii perditions i>ensai>tv She proves to be imt an old hag, but the beautiful Zilda, for whom the hero, Count Louis, had once a in- fancy, and .who in jealous rage swears vengeance upon him and his betrothed. Th re is plenty of ini ideut. and in the end the good are made happy and the evil are punished. The book is fairly well illustrated and the letter-press and paper are unusually good. New York Herald. It is an old fashioned, historical novel. The scene is laid in Germany, and the tale is one of love, passion, patriotism, war, superstition, and magic. It is wierd and exciting. The characters ore mo t!y lovable, and even the Sorceress in her jealors fury inspires pity. Boston Globe. There is no lack of skill in the vividly painted characters, or the plot and counter- plot. Chicago Inter Ocean. FUN BETTER THAN PHYSIC. By W. W. HALL, M. I). 12m<>, cloth, 334 pages. Price, fl.OO. Maxims and precepts which he who runs may read, mark and inwardly digest, with amazing profit. It is the wisdom of the ages in concrete. Worth a whole apothecary shop full of patent nostrums. Well people who follow Dr. Hull's mandate? will never need a doctor, and sick people will soon "throw physic to the dogs." .* * * The author believes that good food, pure air and a cheerful disposition are better than phycic, and most of his ideas are full of homely practical wisdom and common BVH&Z. Philadelphia Prtst. * * The book in one which can be read at any time with profit, and on every page of which can be found some aphorism. The Day, Baltimore, Md. * * * One of Dr. Hall's most popnlar works, and very widely circulated. * A collection of nphorisni* and instructions, each a'nne^et of wisdom or of information on important subjects, more or .ess valuable. St. Paul Daily Dispatch. SUPPRESSED SENSATIONS; or Leaves from the Note- Book of a Chicago Reporter. Illustrated. 12mo, cloth, 254 pages. Price $1.00. Thirteen sketches of absorbing interest ( truths that are indeed stranger than any fie lion. Every great metropolis like Chicago has a moral cesspool, in which all possible crimes mingle and gurgle together, and beside which Bedlam is n, myth, .and Babylon is double-discounted every tweuiy-four hours. Tiiis book has already reached an enormous sale, and there is a constant demand for new and increased editions. A number of article* more thrilling than those which usually get into tke news- papers. Chicago Tribune. They are all of absorbing interest.- Chicago Times. For obvious reasons some changes have been made in names and locations, but the tales are what they purport to be leaves from the note-book of a reporter. Evening Journal. THE EXECUTIONER'S REVENGE. Translated from the French of LEONCE FEBBET. 12mo, cloth. 318 pages. Price, $1.00. A story of the French Revolution, in which the wild passions of that bloody period found vent in private feuds as well as popular upheavals. An intensely tragic romance. A very intense French novel by an able writer, most admirably translated. It is original in conception, a plot deep and well developed, the_ interest sustained to the very end. The dialogue is crisp and bright, the situations dramatic, and the whole story exceed- ingly well told. Toledo Blade. A fine piece of typographical work, and very creditable to the well-known house from which it is issued. Tho story is more dignified than the usual run of French stories. Indianapolis Daily Journal. WAS IT A MURDER? or Who is the Heir? From the French of FORTUNE DU BOISGOBEY. 12mo, cloth, 341 pages. Price, $1.00. A highly entertaining romance, relating to French provincial life and modern people. The plot is complicated, the characters superbly drawn, and the story so charmingly told that the reader's interest is fully sustained from the opening to the close of the volume. OVERLAND GUIDE, from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean. Illustrated. CHAS. 8. QLEED, Editor. 12mo, 845 page. Price, $1.00 in cloth, 50 cents in paper. Something quite different from the ordinary guide-book species. There is nothing ephemeral about it. It was not made to order, nor is it the result of an ill-digested cram at the libraries. It tells all about places of note on the great lines of travel through Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and California. Besides its descriptions of scenery, it is crowded v; ;t " information derived from personal inquiry and practical observation, and written in a pleasing, graceful style of conscientious accuracy and subdued imagination. It contains also the Mining Laws of the United States, repeal provisions and regulations, and Mining Laws of Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico. An invaluable book of reference or for solid information sought by the traveler, whether bent on business or pleasure. * * * It is indispensable. * * * No one taking the favorite western trip can afford to be without H. Kansas City Journal. * * * It is safe to say that no question asked by the multitudinous western tourists and immigrants remains unanswered by the editor of the Overland ffuide. * * * The numerous and fine illustrations with which the Overland Guide is embellished make it a handsome as well as a useful addition to any library. The Capital, Topeka, Kant. * * * The book forms, in fact, a veritable encyclopedia of information upon the population, agriculture, topography, geography, mineralogy, scenery and antiquities of the region which it describes, and upon these points is a ready-reference manual of the handiest sort. The Interior, Chicago. * * * It is a publication of great value to the thousands who for various reasons are interested in the region described. Chicago Times. * * * * It gives a vast amount of useful and practical information ne>er before compiled. * * The illustrations a e very fine. Detroit Free Press, RAND, MCNALLY & CO.'S MAP PUBLICATIONS Rand, McNnlly fc Co.'m Indexed Allan of the World, (gold only* by Subscription.) Containing large scale maps of every Country and Civil Division upon the face of the Globe, together with historical, statistical and descriptive matter rela- tive to each. 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