Evening Star Newspaper, July 14, 1894, Page 20

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JULY 14, 1894-TWENTY PAGES. CORNER OF OUR STUDIO. SKYLIGHT CAMPERS How a Quartet of Ingenious Art Students Kept House. STUDIOS HIGH IN THE AIR The Greatest Enjoyment and Com- fort With the Least Expense. ——_s—__—. A BOHEMIAN LIFE eae eRe eee Written Exclusively for The Evening Star. HERE WAS NO sound in the life] room but the scratch- ing of pencils and pens, and the occa- sional impatient erasure of a false line. Dark heads fair bent over easels placed in a compact semi-circle around the platform, on which stood a dashing cavalier in elvet and satin, broad plumed hat and Sword poised as if to slay an imaginary @dversary; but roiling his soft italian eyes toward the clock, which lacked a few min- tates of noon. “Time,” some one called,and he stiffly de- Scended and disappeared behind the curtain f oriental stuff which, hanging across a corner of the studio, formed the dressing Yoom. He soon emerged; a very ordinary- ooking object indeed—a butterfly become a grub again—save for the child-like eyes and ingratiating smile which seem the heritage of all Italians. “Addio,” he said, with a funny little bob of the nead, and we nodded and smiled im return. There had been the quick scraping of chairs and easels on the charcoal-strewn floor, and sudden buzz of conversation,after the pose. Little groups gathered around the best pieces of work and praise and eriticism were frankly and good-naturedly given and taken. The utmost good feliow- ship prevalied, but not as much nonsense and laughter as usual, for it was the last Week of the year, and we were all rather @ad to think of leaving the dear delights of and the boxes, stained and curtained, and with rugs or something and a pillow or two, our cots could be divans by day, and, of course, we can all supply masterpieces to hang on the walls, and—and—" here she paused, quite out of breath, but enthusiastic. H'm,” 1 said, “i can imagine the spiritu- elle diet four girl art students living alone would think they could manage to subsist on. Bread.and pickles and tea for break- fast, pickles and tea and bread for lunch, and tea and bread and pickles for dinner, with an occasional cream puff for something hearty.” “We needn't at all,” she replied. “We could be just as sensible as possible, and have oatmeal and eggs and meat.” “I don't know anything about cooking,” said Dresden. “Oh, well, you could wash dishes, then,” said the Musmee. Dresden did not look en- Sach a Carefal and Artistic Polishing thusiastic, but she sighed and said: “I sup- pose I could,though I must say my fondness for it doesn’t amount to a passion.” We all laughed, and Jack said: “But, seriousiy, girls, why couldn't we? It would be cheaper than boarding, and it seems to me better every way. Of course, there would be some inconveniences, but, compared to the ad- vantages, I think they would be slight.”” And so we talked it over and agreed tf we all came back the next year we would think about it. A Letter From Jack. A few days later and we had scattered to our respective homes, and, as the sum- mer was very full and my return was un- decided, I forgot all about it, until one day in the fall I received a letter from Jack. “We've done it, wrote. “They say there is always room at the top, and we lights. Aren't you coming back, and don’t you want to share mine? Dresden and the Musmee have the oth. nd we are getting more in love wit every day. The studios are in a large, old-fashioned house, whose >wners have been force? up town by the nflux of “trade.” and the whole building has been converied into offices and studios. OUR OWN SPECIAL CORNER. the school life—the sympathy and_intel- lectual companionships and incentives to ‘work. We suddenly began to realize how Much we would miss when we were in another atmosphere. A Congental Quartet. Four of us who always ate our lunches together and blessed the frugality of our Fespective landladies sought our own es- Pecial corner, a big, old-fashioned mahog- any sofa, which filled one end of the hall. “Just look at that!” said the Musmee, after we were comfortably settled, as she tragi- €ally extracted a huge and hardened-look- ing sandwich from her bag. “And these horrid, g-easy, little cakes could be, war- Fanted to produce dyspepsia at sight.’ How €an one become an artist on such dict?” The Musmee is charming. Her eyes are bright and dark, like a bird’s, and, yes, they do slant a trifle, just a trifle, toward the temples, from which her smooth, biick hair is rolled straight back into a’ knot, With a dash of scarlet ribbon on one side. We all laughed at the flow of eloquence that the stolid-looking sandwich evoked, but ended by groaning sympathetically as We opened our own unattractive lunches. Dresden turned up her dainty little nose, end gently, but firmly, consigned the con- tents of her napkin to the waste basket, enly reserving an orange. Who They Were. Dresden is a dear. You know all the time she's only left her wreath of forget-me-nots, shepherd's crook and tiny blue slippers at home, even if she does wear a quaint, prim Uttle gown with a turno' ace collar. ‘The color comes and goes in her face like @ sweet briar rose, and her hair ts the color ef new straw. You would never think of | iscussing the coal bill with Dresden. ‘ ft too bad intively, “I am | toothpick, sim- Ply because the atmosphere of cooked food @nd scandal in my boarding house takes | my appetite away.” “It is horrid.” I heartily agreed. “Going {nto a boarding house again is the only | thing that makes me hesitate about com- fg back next year. Of course one does | @ccasionally meet as nice people as ones} gelf—ahem—" (cries of “hear!” “hear!")— “in the second-rate boarding houses our Bo too plethoric purses consign but, gh, the Philistines, which, according to the} Jaws of the land, one is not permitted ti Jack's Scheme. “Gi cried Jack, who had been very | quiet, “I have a scheme.” Now, when Jack | bas a scheme we usually listen very re- | spectfully, for she is the practical member of the quartet. She can look the most ty-! Fannical landlord in the eye and vanquish him, and book agents qual before her with- | ering glance. Her one weakness is mice, | and she says, though it is hard to realize, that at one period of her career she did erochet work. “Let's get two or three ms,"* she ¢ontinued, “and do light house- | eeping. We could have screens behind | which to keep a gas stove, and the potatoes, and skeletons and things; and we could| make be-u-to-ful cupboards out of dry goods I don’t know anything about the lower floors, but our neighbors are all artists and seem very nice—especially an old bach- elor next door, who has proved himseif a fairy godmother—so to speak—to us already, and from whom we borrow everything un- der the sun, from a mahl stick to a flatiron, and extra chairs when we have more cali- ers than places to sit on—which doesn't mean very many. He drives ail our nails for us and is consistently angelic. Some day I am going to offer to darn his socks for him and sew on his buttons. I don't think he is very successful, for he does his own cooking behind a curtain in his studio and I often see him going through the hall in the morning after water with the most pathetic and grubby-looking little coffee pot. “Do come. We want you very much, and are sure you will enjoy this Bohemian ex- Trying to Make Things Come Out Even istence. Of course I don’t pretend to say we have all the comforts of a home, and I don’t think I'd Uke to spend my whole life this way, but it is an experience you don’t want to miss. “Of course I will come,” I answered. iy return has just been decided, and I was wondering where I would live, so your Proposition came just in time. You can expect me next week. In the meantime, be kind to the O. B. I am prepared to love him like an uncle." And I did. How I Arrived. I arrived earlier than I was expected, and all the girls were out and the doors locked. The hall was cold, but having no place else to g0, I prepared to make a martyr of my- elf, and after I had disposed my guitar czse, traveling bag, umbrella and so forth artistically around me, I perched on my trunk and made up my mind I would die ef cold and starvation before they came. But I had only begun to take a melancholy pleasure in my romantic fate when a door cpened behind me, and I turned to find a very kindly pair of blue eyes regarding me over their spectacles. I knew at once to whem they belonged, and asked him if he knew when the girls would return. He evi- dertly kad heard of me, and said he thought it would be some time, but per- haps he could heip me. So, with a button hook and hat pin, he picked the lock and I entered what afterward proved to be ve found two beautiful ones with sky-, Paradise, though I didn’t quite recognize it then. The Paradise. ‘The room was large, with a big skylight, through which was our only glimpse of the outside world—an expanse of blue sky and the top cf an ornate white marble build- ing. Our Venetian sky scape, we called it. I cannot conscientiously describe the fur- niture as luxurious at that time. It con- sisted of a ve-divan—I mean in one corner —a large desk, a table, a corner cupboard, manufactured with great ingenuity and the help of the kind old bachelor and out of the extra table leaves; a curtain pole and some old pink and olive silkaline curtains. There was also a screen, with old rose panels, which was very effective against the soft olive of the cartridge paper on the walls. To this I added my divan, which, like Jack's, was a cot with part of the legs sawed off (by the K. O. B.) and covered with a spread of dull green—Jack’s was coppery—and various square pillows with odd covers. Also a tan goatskin rug, which locked very pretty on the dark polished floor, An immense Chinese lantern in the alcove and an elegant and simple pedestal for my cast of the Venus of Milo, made from a shoe box and stained and curtained Jack's One Weakness Was Mice. like the shelves, and concealing a painted tin wash bowl and pitcher on a wire stan- dard. We had three plain chairs and one low rocker,which I always had to use at meals, being the tallest and the only one whose chin would reach above the table when oc- cupying It. The walls were soon @@vered with the best of our sketches end Paintings ani the whole effect was really very charming. We uved gas stoves for cooking and heot- ing, but as our cooker had only one lid it required great intellectual ability to keep ticee tain.s hot at cne and the same time end the feats of an East Indian juggler would grow pale by contrast. Nevertheless, we found them most satisfactury, and 1 would like to write an eulogy on them right here—their cleanliness, comfort, economy, &c.—but, as Kipling says, that is another story. jon of Work. We divided the work equally among us and it really proved very light. Though we did not swear by our palettes end mahl- sticks to faithfully and conscientiously per- form our duties we felt just as ‘strongly the responsibility of making our little home— for such it was, though temporary—bright and attractive. Dresden and the Musmee had a studio, which, besides a skylight, had a window overlooking the square, and the ledge ot which was ornamented with the milk can, butter dish, &c., and to our intense surprise the landlord didn’t object. The potatoes— shall I reveal it?—we kept in a box under the divan. Poor Dresden! 1 can see her now, paring potatoes as if they were dynamite bombs, and the Musmee getting breakfast, bearing the frying pan in one hand and the coffee pot in the other, a determined little look in the corners of her determined little mouth and in her eyes: “For Art,” with a very capital A. dack and I didn’t mind very uvch, Given: Jack x a cake of sapolio—a dazzling result. I soon earned the title of Madame le Mere. I don’t know just why, except that I was the biggest, interviewed the grocer and al- ways insisted on the girls wearing rubbers and carrying umbrellas when it only looked as if it might rain before they returned. I also had to keep the accounts, and Sat- urday nights found me immolated on the altar of duty, my head bound by a net towel, the girls speaking in hushed tones and moving on tiptoe, while I frantically tried to make things come out even. ‘There were four parties of skylight camp- ers like ours within two blocks, most of them men. Almost without exception, they lived that way from economical motives. Poor fellows! They came out very spirit- uelle looking in the spring after a course of oatmeal and condensed milk. No one but an artist knows what an ar- tist will endure for the sake of art. Simple Amusements, Our amusements were very simple,and the 400 were not included. One evening a week we had a sketch class, and on another we read and spoke French, under the guidance of one of the girls who had lived and studied in Paris. Sunday nings we were always at home after 5, and our friends knew they were welcome. The big Chinese lantern was lit, and the light from the gas stove was as melow and charming as a wood fire. At 9 or half-past we had Russian tea, sandwiches and cake, served on our very assorted china; but oh, how good It tasted! while we discussed exhibitions, art meth- ods, artists, books, music, our own hopes and fears for the future,and friendly coun sel_and criticism were excnanged, There was only one standard, and that was absolute truth. No society’ shams or self-deceptions flourished long in that at- mosphere, and we all knew we stood for what we actually were. Afterward the men always helped us to wash the dishes, and the glass and china received such a careful and artistic polish- ing as we didn’t often bestow on it. We had theater parties occasionally when there was anything especially good going on, and sat in the “pecnut gallery.” Though the men went with us, we always insisted that it should be “Dutch treat,” for we knew they had no more money ‘than they needed. Then there was an occasional dance at the school, of which the fancy dress ones were our favorites, for, with a few yards of cheese cloth and a ‘great deal of time and ingenuity, we manufactured wonderful and artistic garments at very slight ex- pense, The Master's Visit. But the best of all was when the master came to dinner, as he sometimes did, to the dove cote. as he called our rooms. “Now isn't this charming?” he would say, as he entered, laughing like a boy, and panting from the long flights of stairs. “Isn't it delightful?” Then when his overcoat was laid aside, the pockets of which always looked very bulgy and queer, he would carefully unwrap a big bunch of carnations or roses from their tissue paper covering, which after being duly exclaim- ed over would be placed on the center of the table and mingle their fresh fragrance with the spicy odor of the rose jar, which always stood open to remind ‘me of my home in the south. After dessert the mysterious-looking packages would be pro- duced from the overcoat pockets, and their contents spread over the table—funny, fas- civating little Japanese nuts, tiny,’ rosy lady-apples, or richly colored tangarines. And then over our coffee he would talk to us—and oh! those dear, delightful talks. With the language of a poet, the color sense of an artist, the truth of a scientist, he laid before us the beauties of heaven and earth. Quaint, droll, witty, Inspired, by turns, he held us spellbound. Unworld- ly as a child; making an idyl of the sim- plest pleasures by the poetry of his imagina- tion, he was like an avenging god, when fighting for the purity and beauty, the truth of the principles on which he based his life and teaching. I know not how we can ever be grateful enough for his influ- ence, or ever repay his untiring patience and help. Happy days! full of work and congenial companionship. I think we will all feel that it was the best part of our lives. And to you, Dresden, the Musmee, and Jack, who helped to make it so pleas- antly unforgetable, I kiss my hands, and hope that life will blossom for you as well in January as May. a \ A BIRD OF PASSAGE Beatrice Harraden in Blackwood's Magazine. It was about 4 in the afternoon when a young girl came into the saion of the little hotel at C. in Switzerland, and drew her chair up to the fire. You are soaked through,” said an elderly \ledy, who was herself trying to get roasted. “You ought to lose no time in changing your clothes,” “I have not anything to change,” sald the ) Young girl laughing. “Oh, I shall soon be | ary!" “Have you lost all your luggage?” asked the lady, sympathetically. said the young girl, “I had none And she smiled a little mischiev- as though she knew by instinct that her companion’s sympathy would at ence degenerate into suspicion. “I don’t mean to say that I have not a knapsack,” she added, considerately. “I have walked a long distance—in fact, from Zz ‘And where did you leave your compan- ions?” asked the lady, with a touch of forgiveness in her voice. “I am without companions, just as I am without luggage,” iaughed the girl. And then she opened the piano, and struck a few notes. There was something caressing in the way in which she touched the keys; whcever she was, she knew how to make sweet music; sad music, too, full of that undefinable longing, like the holding out of one’s arms to one’s friends in the hopeless distance. The lady bending over the fire looked up at the little girl, and forgot that she had brought neitker friends nor luggage with her. She hesitated for one moment, and then she took the childish face between ber hands and kissed it. “Thank you, dear, for your music, said, gently, “The piano is terribly out of tune,” said the little girl suddenly, and she ran out of the room and came back carrying her | knapsack. “What are you going to do?’ asked her companion. “I am going to tune the piano,” the little girl said; and she took a tuning hammer out of her knapsack and began her work lin real earnest. She evidently knew what she was about, and pegged away at the notes as though her whole life depended on the result. The lady by the fire was lost in amaze- ment. Who could she be? Without jug- gage and without friends, and with a tun- ing hammer! Meanwhile one of the gentlemen had strolled into the salon, but hearing the sound of tuning and being in secret posses- sion of nerves he fied, saying, “The tuner, by Jove!” A few minutes afterward Miss Blake, whose nerves were no secret possession, hastened into the salon, and in her usual imperious fashion demanded instant si- she ave just done,” said the little girl. “The plano was so terribly out of tune; I could not resist the temptation.” Miss Blake, any one sald, took it for granted that the little girl the turer for whom M. le Proprietaire had promised to send, and having bestowed on her a condescending nod, passed out into the garden, where she told some of the visitors that the piano had been tuned at last, and that the tuner was a young woman of rather eccentric appearance. “Really, women how pro- it is quite abominable thrust themselves into every fession,” she remarked, in hei voice. “It is so unfeminine, so unseemly.” There was nothing of the feminine about Miss Blake; her horse-cioth dress, her waistcoat ard high collar and her billy cock hat were of the masculine genus; even her nerves could not be called femi- nine, since we iearn from two or three doctors (taken off their guard) that nerves are neither feminine nor masculine, but common. “I should like to see this tuner,” said one of the tennis players, leaning against a tree. “Here she comes,” s: Miss Blake, as the little girl was seen sauntering into the garden. The mea put up their eyeglasses, and saw a little lady, with a childish face and soft brown hair, of strictly f:minine appear- ance and bearing.” The gout came toward her and began nibbling at_her frock. She seen.ed to understand the manner of goats. and played with him to his heart's content. One of the tennis players, Oswald Everard by name, strolled down to the bank where she was having her frolic. ‘Good afternoon,” he said, raising his cap. “I hope the goat Is not worrying you. Poor little fellow! This is his last day of play. He is to be killed tomorrow for table d’hote.”” “What a shame!” she said. be killed, and then grumbled at! “That is precisely what we do her said, laughing. “We grumbie at thing we eat. the grump “Fancy to every- And I own to being one of st, though the lady in the horse- cloth dress yonder follows close upon my heels.” he was the lady who was annoyed at me because I tuned the piano,” the little girl said. “Still it had to be done. It was plainly my duty, I seemed to have come for that purpose.” “It has been confoundedly annoying hav- ing it out of tune,” he said. “I've had to give up singing altogethér. But what a strange profession you have chosen! Very unusual, isn’t it?” “Why, surely not,” she answered, amused. “It seems to me that every other woman as taken to it. The wonder to me is that any one ever scores a success. Nowadays, however, no one could amass a huge for- tune out of it.” No one, indeed ar, laughing. take to it?” “It took to me,” she said simply. wrapt me round with enthusiasm. I could think of nothing else. I vowed that I would rise to the top of my profession. I worked day and night. But it means incessant toll for years if one wants to make any hea ay.” “Good gracious! I thought it was merely a matter of a few months,” he said, smil- ing at the little girl. “A few months!” she repeated, scornfully. “You are speaking the language of an amateur. No; one has to work faithfully year after year, to grasp the possibilities and pass on to greater possibilities. You imagine what it must feel like to touch the notes, and know that you are keeping the listeners spell-bound; that you are taking them into a fairy land of sound, where petty personality is lost in vague longing regret.” confess I had not thought of it in that * he said, humbly. “I have only re- garded ft as a necessary, everyday evil; a, to be quite honest with you, I fail to replied Oswald Ever- “What on earth made you “Tt se now how it can inspire enthusiasm. I wish I could see,” he added, looking up at the engaging llitle figure before him. Never mind,” she said, laughing at his distress; “I forgive you. you are not the only per: it as a necessary evil. My poor old guar- dian abominated it. He made many sacri- 3 to come and listen to me. He knew I liked to see his kind, old face, and that the presence of a real friend inspired me ith contidence. “I should not have thought it was ner- vous work,” he said. “Try it and se," she answered. “But surely you spoke of singing. Are you not nervous when you sing?” “Sometimes,” he replied, “But that is slight): very proud of his And, after all, on who looks upon rather stiffly. different.” (He was inging, and made a great fuss about it.) “Your profession, as I remarked before, is an unavoidable nui- sance. When I think what I have suffered from the gentlemen of your profession, I only wonder that I have any brains left. But I am uncourteous “No, no,” she said. your sufferings,” “Whenever I have specially wanted to be ‘Let me hear about quiet,” he said, and then he glanced at her childish little and he hesitated. “it seems so rude of me,” he added. He was the soul of courtesy, although he was an amateur tenor singer. “Please tell me,” the little girl said, in her winning way “Well,” he said, gathering himself to- gether, “it is the one subject on which T can be eloquent. Ever since I can remem- ber I have been worried and tortured by those rasc: I have tried in every way to escape from them, but there is a cruel fate working against ‘me. Yes; I believe that all the tuners in the universe are in league against me, and have marked me out for their special pre “All the what?” asked the little girl, with a Jerk in her votce. “All the tuners, of course,” he replied, rather snappishly. “I know that w nnot do without them; but, good heavens! they have no tact, no consideration, no merc: | Whenever T've wanted to write or read quietly, that fatal knock has come at the door, and I've known by instinct that all | charce of peace was over. Whenever I've been giving a luncheon party, the tuner has arrived, with his abominable black |bag and his abominable card, which | said, laughing, | ful. who never listened to what | masculine | 1 has to be signed at once. On one oc-/ casion I was just proposing to a/ girl in her father's library, when the tuner struck up in the drawing room. 1 left off suddenly, and fied irom the house. But there is no escape from these fiends. I believe they are swarming about in the air like so many bacterla. And how, in the name of goodness, you should deliberately choose to be one of them, and should be so enthusiastic over your work, puzzles me beyond all words. ‘Don’t say that you car- ry a black flag, and present cards which have to be filled up at the most inconven- ient time; don’t: He stopped suddenly, for the lttle girl was convulsed with laughter. She laughed until the tears roiled down her cheeks; aud then she dried her eyes and laughed again. “Excuse me,” she said, “I can’t heip my- self; it's so funny. “It may be funny to you,” he said, laugh- ing in spite of himself; “but it is not funny to m “Of course it isn't,” she replied, making a desperate effort to be serious. “Well, tell me something more about these tuners. “Not another word,” he said, gallantly. “I am ashamed of myself as it is. Come to the end of the garden, and let me show you the view down into the valley.” She had conquered her fit of merriment, but her face wore a settled look of mis- chief, and she was evidently the possessor of some secret joke. She seemed in capital health and spirits, and had so much to say that was bright and interesting, that Os- wald Everard found himself becoming re- conciled to the whole race of tuners. He was amazed to learn that she had walked all the way from Z, and quite alone, too. “Oh, I don’t think anything of that,” she said; “I had a splendid time, and I caught four rare butterflies. I would not have missed those for anything. As for the go- | | ing about by myself, that is a second na- ture. Besides, I do not belong to any one. That has its advantages, and I suppose its disadvantages ;but at present I have only dis- | covered the advantages. The disadvantages will discover themselves “I believe you are what the novels call an advanced young woman,” he said. “Perhaps you give lectures on woman's suflrage or something of that sort?” “I have very often mounted the platform,” she answered. “In fact, I am never so happy as when addressing an immense au- dience. A most unfeminine thing to do, isn’t it? What would the lady yonder in| the horse cloth dress and billy-cock hat say? Don’t you think you ought to go and help her to drive away the goat? She looks so frightened. She interests me deeply. 1 wonder whether she has written an essay on the feminine in woman. I should like to read it; it would do me so much good. “You are at least a true woman,” he ‘for I see you can be spite- ‘The tuning has not driven that away.’ “Ah, I had forgotten about the tuning, she answered, brightly, “but now you re- . me, I have been seized by a great "t you tell it to me?” he asked. she answered. “I keep my great ideas for myself, and work them out in secret. And this one is particularly amus- ing. What fun I shall have!” “But why keep the fun to yourself?” he said. “We all want to be amused here; we | all want to be stirred up; a little fun would be a charity.” “Very well, since you wish it, you shall be stirred up,” she answered; “but you | must give me time to work out my great idea. I do not hurry about things, not leven about my professional duties. For I have a strong feeling that it is vulgar to be always amassing riches! As I have neither |a husband nor a brother to support, I have |chosen less wealth, and more leisure to enjoy all the loveliness of life! So you see | I take my time about everything. And to- | morrow T shall catch butterflies at my |leisure, and lie amongst the dear old pines, |and work at my great idea.” “I shall catch butterfies,”” said her com- |panion. “And I too shall lie amongst the dear old pines.” “Just as you please,” she said; and at that moment the table d’hote bell rang. The little girl hastened to the bureau and spoke rapidly in German to the cashier. | “Ach, Fraulein!” he sald. “You are not [really ‘serious’ “Yes, I am,” she said. “I don't want | them to know my name. It will only wor- ry me. Say I am the young lady who tuned ‘the piano.” She had scarcely given these directions |and mounted to her room when Oswald | Everard, who was unusually interested in his mysterious companion, came to the bu- reau and asked for the name of the little ady. “ls ist das Fraulein welches das Piano gestimmt hat.” answered the man, return- ing with unusual quickness to his account book. No one spoke to the little girl at table @hote; but, for all that, she enjoyed her dinner, and gave her serious attention to all the courses. Being thus solidly occupied, she had not much leisure to bestow on the conversation of the other guests. Nor was it specially original; it treated of the short- comings of the chef, the tastelessness of the soup, the toughness of the beef, and all the many failings which go to complete a mountain hotel dinner. But suddenly, so it seemed to the little girl, this time-honored talk passed into another phase; she heard the word music mentioned, and she became at once interested to learn what these peo- ple had to say on a subject which was dear- er to her than any other. “For my own part,” said a stern-looking old man, “I have no words to describe what |@ gracious comfort music has been to me all my life. It is the noblest language which’ man may understand and speak. And .I sometimes think that those who know it, or know something of it, are able at rare moments to find an answer to life's perplexing problems.” The little girl looked up from her plate. Robert Browning's words rose to her lips, but she did not give them utterance— “God has a few of us whom He whispers in the ear; The rest may reason, and welcome; 'tis we musicians know.” “I have lived through a long life,” said another elderly man, “and have therefore had my share of trouble; but the grief of being obliged to give up music was the grief which held me longest, or which per- haps has never left me. I’ still crave for the gracious pleasure of touching once more the strings of a violoncello, and hearing the dear tender voice singing and throbbing and answering even to such poor skill as mine. I still yearn to take my part in concerted music, and be one of those privi- |leged to play Beethoven's string quartets. But that will have to be in another in- carnation, I think.” He glanced at his shrunken arm,and then, as though ashamed of this allusion to hi: own personal infirmity, he added hastily: “But when the first pang of such a pain over, there remains the comfort of being a listener. At first one does not think it a comfort; but as time goes on, there is no resisting its magic influence. And Lowell said rightly, ‘that one of God’s great char- es is music.’ * did not know you were musical, Mr. Keith,” said an English lady. “You have never before spoken of music.’ * “Perhaps not, madam,” he answered. “One does not often speak of what one cares for most of all. But when I am in London, I rarely miss hearing our best players.” At this point others joined in, and the various merits of eminent pianists were warmly discussed. “What a wonderful name that little En- glish lady has made for herself!” said the major, who was considered an authority on all subjects. “I would go anywhere to hear Miss Thyra Flowerdew. We all ought to be very proud of her. She has taken even the German musical world by storm, and they say her recitals at Paris have’ been brilliantly successful. I myself have heard her at New York, Leipsic, London, Berlin and even Chicago.” The little girl stirred uneastly tn her chair. “I don’t think Miss Flowerdew has ever been to Chicago,” she said. There was a dead silence. The admirer of Miss Thyra Flowerdew looked much annoyed, and twiddled his watch chain. He had meant to say Philadelphia, but he did not think it necessary to own to his mistake, “What impertinence!” said one of the la- dies to Miss Blake. “What can she know about it? Is she not the young person who tuned the piano?” “Perhaps she tunes Miss Thyra Flower- dew's piano!” suggested Miss Blake in a loud whisper. “You are right, madam,” said the little girl, quietly. “I have often tuned Miss Flowerdew’s piano.” There was another embarrassing silence; and then a lovely old lady, whom every one reverenced, came to the rescue. “I think her playing ts simply superb,” she said. “Nothing that I ever hear sat! fies me so entirely. She has all the tender- ness of an angel's touch.” “Listening to her,” said the major, who had now recovered from his annoyance at being interrupted, “one becomes uncon- scious of her presence, for she ts the music itself. And that !s rare. It is but seldom nowadays that we are allowed to forget the personality of the player. And yet her personality is an unusual one; having once seen her, It would not be easy te forget her. I should recognize her anywhere.” As he spoke, he glanced at the litle tuner, and could not help admiring her dignified composure under circumstances which might have been distressing to any one; and when she rose with the others, he followed her, and said, stiffly: “I regret that I was the indirect cause of putting you in an awkward position.” “It is really of no consequence,” ste caid, brightly. “If you think I was impertincnt. Task your forgiveness, I did not mean to be officious. The words were spoken before I was aware of them.” She ‘passed into the salon, where she found a quiet corner for herself, and read some of the newspapers. No one took the slightest notice of her; not a word was spoken to her; but when she relicved the company of her presence, her imperunence | Was commented on. “i am sorry that she heard what I remarked Miss Blake. “Dut she di seem to mind. These young women ® 0 out into the world lose tne edge of their | sensitiveness and femininiiy. Ways observed that.” “xiow much they are spared then!” an-| Swered some one. Meanwhile the little girl slept soundiy. She had merry dreams, and finally woke up laughing. She hurried over her breakfast, and then stood ready to go for a buttertly hunt. She looked thoroughly happy, and | evidently had found, and was holding ‘tight- ly the key to life’s enjoyment. Oswald Everard was waiting on the bal- cony, and he reminded her that he intend- ed to go with her. “Come along, then,” she answered; “we must not lose a moment. They caught butterflies, they, picked flow- ers, they ran; they lingered by the wayside, they sang; they climbed, and he marveled at her easy speed. Nothing seemed to tire her, and everything seemed to delight her, the flowers, the birds, the clouds, une grass- 8, and the fragrance of the pine wood: “Ts it not good to live?” she cried. “Is it not splendid to take in this sceated sir? Draw in as many long breaths as you van. Isn't it good? Don't you feel now as though you were ready to move mountains? I do. What a dear old nurse nature ts: How she pets us, and gives us the best o: her treasures!” Her happiness invaded Oswald Everard’: soul, and he felt like a schoolboy once more, rejoicing in a tine day, and his iiberty: With nothing to spoil the freshness of the air, and nothing to threaten the freedom of the moment. “Is it not good to live?” he cried. indeed it is, if we know how to enjo: They had come upon some hayinakers, and the little girl hastened to help them. There she ‘was in the midst of them, laugh- ing and talking to the women, and ‘helping them to pile up the hay on the shoulders of a broad-backed man, who then conveyed | his burden to a pear-shaped stack. Oswald | Everard watched his companion for a mo- ment, and then, quite forgetting his dig-| nity as an amateur tenor sing: or, he too lent his aid, and did not leave of until his companion sank exhausted on the ground. | “Oh,” she laughed, “what delightful work for a very short time! Come along; let us | go into that brown chalet yonder and ask | for some milk. I am simply parched with thirst. Thank you, but I prefer to carry | my own flowers.” “What an independent little lady you | are,” he said. “It ts quite necessary in our profession, I can assure you,” she said, with a tone of mischief in her voice. “That reminds me that my profession is evidently x0t looked! upon with any favor by the visitors of the | hotel. 1 am heartbroken to think that I have not won the esteem of that lady in the billy-cock hat. What will she say to you | for coming out with me? And what will she say of me for allowing you to come? I wonder whether she will say, “How un- feminine!” I wish I could hear her! Suppose you care,” he said. “You seem to be a wild little bird.” “I don’t care what a person of that de- scription says,” replied his companion. ‘What on earth made you contradict the major at dinner last night?” he asked. “I was not at the table, but some one told me| of the incident; and I felt very sorry about it. What could you know of Miss Thyra Flowerdew?” “Well, considering that she is in my pro- fession, of course I know something about her,” said the little girl. “Confound it all!” he said, rather rudely. “Surely there is some difference between the bellows-blower and the organis “Absolutely none,” she answered—“merely a variation of the original theme!” As she spoke she knocked at the door of the chalet, and asked the old dame to give them some milk. They sat in the stube,and the little girl looked about, and admired the spinning wheel, and the quaint chairs, | and the queer old jugs, and the pictures on the wall. “Ah, but you shall see the other room,” the old peasant woman said, and she led| them into a small apartment, which was evidently intended for a study.’ It bore evi- dences of unusual taste and care, and one could see that some loving hand ‘had been | trying to make it a real sanctum of re- finement. There was even a small piano. A garved book-rack was fastened to the wall. j The old dame did not speak at first; she | ve her guests time to recover from the tonishment which she felt they must be | experiencing; then she pointed proudly to | the piano. | “I bought that for my daughters,” she said, with a strange mixture of sadness | and triumph. “I wanted to keep them at home with me, and I saved and saved and | got enough money to buy the piano. They | had always wanted to have one, aud I thought they would then stay with me. They liked music and books, and I knew | they would be giad to have a room of their own, where they might read and play and) study; and so I gave them this corner.” Well, mother,” asked the little girl, * where are they this afternoon?” “Ah!” she answered, sadly, “they did not care to stay. But it was natural enough; | and I was foolish to grieve. Besides, they come to see me—" es “And then they play to you?” asked the | little girl, gently. “They say the piano is out of tune,” the| old dame said. “I don't know. Perhaps | you can tell.” The little girl sat down to the piano, and struck a few chord: Yes,” she said, “it is badly out of tune. | Give me the tuning hammer. I am sorry,” she added, smiling at Oswald Everard, “but 1 cannot neglect my duty. Don’t wait for me.” 1 have ai-| will wait for you,” he said sullenly; and he went into the balcony and smoked his pipe, and tried to possess his soul in patience. When she had faithfully done her work, | she played a few simple melodies, such as | she knew the old woman would love and understand; and she turned aw when she saw that the listener's eyes were moist. | “Play once again,” the old woman whis- | pered. “I am dreaming of beautiful things.” So the little tuner touched the keys again | with all the tenderness of an angel. “Tell your daughters, e said, as she Tose to say good-bye, “that the piano is now in good tune. Then they will play to you the next time they come. “IT shall always remember you, made- moiselle.” the old woman said; and, almost unconsciously, she took the childish face and kissed it. Oswald Everard was waiting for his com- panion in the hayfield; and when she apol- ogized to him for this little professional intermezzo, as she called it, he recovered from his sulkiness and readjusted his nerves, which the noise of the tuning had somewhat disturbed. It was very good of you to tune the old dame’s piano,” he said, looking at her with renewed interest. “Some one had to do it, of course,” she answered, bright “and I am giad the chance fell to me. What a comfort it is to think that the next time those daughters come to see her they will play to her and make her very happy—poor old dear!” You puzzle me greatly,” he said. “I can- not for the life of me think what made you choose your culling. You must have many gifts—any one who talks with you must see that at once; and you play quite nicely, to “fam sorry that my profession sticks in your throat.” she answered. “Do be thank- ful that I am nothing worse than a tuner. For I might be something worse—a snob, for instance.” And, so speaking, she dashed after a butterfly and left him to recover from her words. He was conscious of having deserv- ed a reproof, and when at last he overtook her, he said as much, and asked for her kind indulgence “I forgive you.” she said, laughing. “You and I are not looking at things from the same point of view, but we ve lad a splendid morning together, and I have en- joyed every minute of it. And \omorrow I go on my way.” “And tomorrow you go,” he repeated. “Can it not be the day after tomorrow?” “I am a bird of passage,” she said, shak- ing her head. “You must not seek to de- tain me. I have taken my rest and off I go to other climes. ‘They had arrived at the hotel and Oswald Everard saw no more of his companion until the evening, when she came down rather late for table d’hote. She hurried over her dinner and went into the salon, She closed the door and sat down to the piano and lingered there without touching the keys: twice she raised her hands, and then she let them rest on the notes, and half-un- sciously they began to move and make | sweet music, and then they drifted into Schumann's “Abendiied,” and then the little girl played some of his “Kinderscenen” and scme of his “Fantasie Stucke,” and some of bis songs. Her touch and feeling were exquisite, and her phrasing betrayed the true musician. The strains of music reached the dining room, and one by one the guests came creeping in, moved by the music and anx- fous to see the musician. ‘The little girl did not lock up; she was in a Schumann mood that evening, and only the players of Schumann know what en- | the present.” thralling possessicn he takes of their very spirit. All the passion and pathos and wild- reas and longing had found an ii terpreter; and those who secret, and which had won f honor as comes only to few. She under- stood Schumann's music, and was at he? best with him. Had she, perhaps, chosen to play his mu- sic this evening because she wished to be at her best? or was she merely being im- pelle? by an overwhelming force within ber? Perhaps it was something of both. Was she wishing to humiliate these | ple who had received her so coldly? This little girl was only human; perhaps there | Was something of that feeling, too. Who can tell? But she played as she had never played in London, or Paris, or Berlin, oF New York, or Philadelp! At last she arrived at the Carnival, and those who heard her declared afterward that they had never listened to a more magnificent rendering. The tenderness was So restrained; the was so refined. When the last notes | Marche des Davidsbundler contre les Phil- we o away, she glanced at Os- val verard, who wi nding * almost dazed. eal 2 a “And now my favorite piece of all,” she said, and she at once began the Second Novellette, the finest of the eight, but sel- dom played in public. : What thenon® Say of the wild rush of the leading theme, and the pathetic longing the Intermezzo?— a #4 “The murmuring, dying notes — fall as soft as snow on the sea;” an¢ “The passionate strain that 4 Refines the bosom it trembles "tkrougn®? What can one say of those vague aspira- ticns and finest thoughts which possess the very dullest smongst us when such musie as that which the little girl had chonen, catches us and keeps us, if only for a pass- ing moment, but that moment of rarest worth and loveliness in our unlovely lives? What can one say of the highest musia, except that, like death, it is the great level- er; it gathers us all to its tender keeping— and we rest. ‘The little girl ceased playing. There wae not sound to be heard; the magic was still holding her listeners. When at last they had freed themselves with a sigh, they pressed forward to greet her. “There is only one person who can play like that,” cried the major, with sudden in- spiration—“she is Miss Thyra Flowerdew. ‘The little girl smiled. “That is my name,” she said, simply; and she slipped out of the room. ‘The next morning, at an early hour, the Bird of Passage took her flight onward, but she was not destined to go off unob- served. Oswald Everard saw the little fig- ure swinging along the road, and he over- took her. “You little wild bird!” he said; “and so this was your great idea: to have your fun out of us all, and then play to us and make us feel, I don’t know how—and then to go.” You said the company wanted sti: up,” she answered; “and I rather fancy have stirred them up. “And what do you scppose have done for me?" he asked. ee “I hope I have proved to you that the bel- lows-blower and the organist are sometimes identical,” she answered. But he shook his head. “Little wild bird,” he said, “you have given me a great idea, and I ‘will tell you what it is—to tame you. So good-bye for *Good-b; she said. “But wild birds are not so easily tamed.” Then she waved her hand over head, and —— eee _____ went on her way singing. AN EARLY TOBACCO HABIT. A Baby Not Three Years 014 Smoker and Chews the Weed. From the Chicago Times. George Ernest Noyes, the two-and-one- half-year-old son of E. C. Noyes of Charies- town, Mass., is an infantile wonder. He has the germ of greatness wrapped in his small frame and may one day be a notori- ous criminal or a famous man. There will be no monotonous mean in life for little Georgie. He is 4 very short and chubby little mortal, with an immense amount of animal spirits, is little Georgie, who greete the visitor to the house, if he be a mala with “Gimme a cigalette,” and considert candy and sweetmeats as not in the same class of delicacies with cigarettes. He never esks for confectionery, his mother says, but prefers a cigarette, or sometimes a good chew of tobacco will satisfy him. He two lerge brothers insists. cigarettes with them. The baby’s pas sion for tobacco is a well-developed one, for whenever he asked what he ‘wants any one to give him he in- variably replies a cigarette or a cigar. In fact, this always seems to be uppermost in his mind as the one and all-consuming desire of his infantile existence. He is rot an extraominary child in other things, for he did not learn to walk until over year and a half old, but his powers of con- versation indicate a quick mind and an ability to imitate his elders. Has a Wide Vocabulary. For instance, he talks very plainly, ang@ his vocabulary ts full of picturesque ex- pletives and pyrotechnic flourishes of pro- fanity. But to see the little fellow smok- ing is not only a revelation, but it is en- tirely contrary to the contention that every one has to learn to use tobacco and that the education has to be obtained at the expense of several sick headaches. He takes a cigarette between his first and second fingers, holds it as carefully and as gingerly as a “chappie,” lights it as he has seen others do, gets it going in good shape, and then proceeds to enjoy it like @ rough “fiend,” for he inhales the smoke and exhales it through his nostrils as hand ay any one else. ‘He appears to enjoy it, for he will smoke the cigarette down as far as he can hold to it, and he does not seem to be affect, by inhaling, it does not make him cough. He has smoked one whole cigarette and al- most consumed a second without being sat- isfied and without wanting to stop. does not get a chance to smoke cigars very much, but he knows what they are when he goes to a store will run up to cigar counter and, raising himself on toes, will grasp at them, calling all while for one. ———_ Never Kissed a Woman. From the Owingsville (Ky.) Outlong. James W. Hasty, a sixty-five-year-old bachelor, was born within two miles of this place. He is a gunsmith and watch fixer, and has not been five miles away from here in twenty-five years. He lives in his shop, keeps house by himself with a dog and two cats, and never saw a ratle road train or a county seat in thirty years, He never kissed one of the fair sex in his life, and says be can hardly imagine how such fruit would teste. He has no bad habits, and is strictly moral. —--- se2 Wanted No Interference. From Life. Mrs. De Fashion (to her new Chinese cook)—“John, why do the Chinese bind the feet of their women?” John—“So they not trottee ‘round kitchen and botheree cook.” eee —$—$—$——$_————_——————— ———————_—_———— ee ese telegraph wires are conveniené things, are they not?” —_—_—_——— ee —_——_—_— ———— 22 ser es See rather beneficial ar “Good Lordy! This must be something ‘ebout the income tax.”