The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 18, 1897, Page 19

ez THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, APRIL 18, 1897. The younz man sat in a dejected atti- tude at the window. He watched - the doctor as he wrote out prescription on a neat little pad and rane for a messenger- boy to take it to the nearest drugstore. The doctor’s cool whaite fingers fluttered for a moment over his wrist. “Nervous system shattered,” he mur- mured to himselt. Then perfunctorily to his patient: “Five grains of my prescrip- tion will, no doubt, alleviate your pain and you will sleep. If not better in twenty minutes take the baiance of u_ze powder. By to-morrow morning you will be able to leave your room and takea | stroll in the Easter sunshine. Good-by.” | The doctor pulled on a pair of bandsome gloves, smiled benevolently at his patient and was gone. Frederick Wynne sat quietly for awhile with closed eyes. Then he turned and | looked out of the window of his hand: | some hotel suite. He expectea every minute to see the messenger-boy thread- | g his way through the line of vehicles | and streetcars carrymg the tiny parcel in bis hand. But his head was aching fright/ully and nis vision was obscured. The wind sifted in through an open win- | dow, buffeted the lace curtains and senta | newspaper flying from the table over the | soft, rich carpet. Lverything about this young man be- tokened wealth. His wardrobe was fine enough for the best. The elderly father in an Eastern city supplied him with | money freely, and had sent him on a trip around the world. Yet Frederick Wynne believed himself to be the most wretched creature in the world to-night. The doc- tor had skillfully evaded the fact thet he was suffering from a prolonged debauch. But, physically weak and morally de- graded, he could not bide his own humili- | ation. He pulled at his thin mustache | ana the perspiration stocd out on his forehead. The paiu in his head was mad- dening now. Where was the messenger- boy and the healing draught? Under the influence of strong excite- ment he rushed into the street. He had a dim idea that he should meet him and wrest the soothing powder from him. It | was almost dark, and the City was fast| becoming enveloped in a foz. He was conscious of the sudden flaming out of the electric lights across the dark path of evening, of men and women who walked in the strests, but who were as impal- pable as air to his unsteady bands and desf to bis impotent cries. Then he knew | | no more. H The first moment—it was days aiter- | ward—that Frederick Wynne could con- | sciously connect with his past life came to him one evening as he was stand- ing on a street corner. He was listening, | | with a group of men and boys, to the | showy oratory of a ward politician. The | intermittent glare of light from an arc | lamp lit up the rugged features and lent an unnatural pallor to the uplifted faces. The husky voice that proceedcd from the man upon the temporars platform alter- | nately wheedled and ridiculed. Every {now and then thers was a burstof ap- | plause from the listeners, and bats were thrown into the air. Wynne reached for | his own, with an enthusiasm borrowed from the crowd. As he litted it be was | conscious of a tender spot upon his head. Just then the orator burst forth into his peroration. He shouted: “From Occi- | dent 1o Orient, from frigid north to sunny | south”—Wynne waited te hear no more. | *Occident, Occident,” he murmured | vaguely in the ears of the jostling crowd. | Curious eyes were turned for a moment | on the shrinking figure, and a good- | | natured laugh issued from the men, Wynne heeded it not. He was grasping at some elusive fact, as he stumbled on. The speaker's words had called to mind | the name of his hotel, from which he | must have lost his way while out walking. By dint of much inquiring he found his | way to the hostelry, which was brilliantly alizht. He walked directly to the office. “The key to my room, please.” The voice was quiet and gentlemanly, but the clerk eyed him with suspicion. ““What is your name and the number of your room 7" Wynne's attitude was one of extreme dejection. He stood leaning weakly agsinst the desk. He put his hand to his ead. “I don’t seem to remember,” he said slowly, &s ii trying to grasp at half-for- | gotten things. “Perhaps it will come to { me."”’ *‘Ob, probably,” said the clerk. with a | eynical smile. *‘Meanwhile you had bet- ter go outside and walk up and down a bit. Itwill refresh your memory.” Much disturbed Wynne turned to obey. On nis way to the door he passed a large | plate-glass mirror, one of the showy em- | bellishments to the office. He gazed in | mute astonishment at the figure reflected therein. There was an old hat on his head | that might have been picked from the refuse of an ash barrel. He was without a cont, and his shirt sleeves were ragged and his trousers frayed at the bottom. A beavy growth of beard adorned his face. He raised one dirty hand after another, he clutched at the air with nis fingers, that he might be sure that the reflection was his own. The man in the mirror made similar movements and Wynne | turned away with a feeling of revulsion. | He was too weak to understand it. Per. haps it had been only a beautiful dream that he had once belonged to a rich and {influential family. He felt faint; he | would buy food and whea stronger he | could solve the mystery. He felt for his | purse. It was not there. | He stole out into the night a | air was chill and penetrating, but he | hardly thought of physical discomfort as | he wandered slowly down the street. He | crept inio the shadow cast by the naphtha |torch of an Italian fruit-vender. The odor of roasting nuts ana povping corn came gratefully to his nostrils. The | streets had grown quieter, but lights glowed defiantly from gilded 'palaces, and gay music floated out from dancehalls. Just then a blue-coated individual with a star on his breast came down the street with measured strides. Wynne with un- { erring instinct moved on. Moved on and on, ever pursued and ever flering, with mechanical step and drooping head, until the gray morning dawned. He was standing with two ragged boys and an untidy woman before the window of an uptown restaurant. The man with- in, wearing the cook’s cap and white apron, deftly turned the toothsome flap- jacks. The smoke of the frying batter floated out on the crisp morning air, and the hungry man nearly fainted for the iood be craved. A stoutly built young man Jeft the mid- dle of the street, where uperin- | hastily brunshed by Wynne, then turied back and tapped bim on the shoulder: “Do you want a job?"” he said. ‘Wynne made eager ponse. Noting his pinched face and woe-begone appear- ance, the stranger held outa small piece of silver. “Go in and get your breakfast. Then come to the corner and ask for Mulligan— Mister Mutligan, mind you.” Wynne found his friend half an hour later seated on a pile of sewer-pipe serenely smoking a cigar. “There's a pick and shovel,” he said curtly. ‘“We've cot to finish this job by to-morrow night and the men are on a strike.” Wyune toiled steadily all that day with unaccustomed hands. His energy was born of his extremity and his strength was that of two. Mulligan, walking up and down along the brink of the excava- tion, eyed him with an approval that bhe could not d szuise. At night when Wynne was scraving his tools he approached him. “If there's no wife or kids vou'd berter Come home with me to-night,” he said, smiling reassuringly. Wynne mautely assented. They rode on the street car to an_unpretentious cottage n the outskirts. Within it was untidy and uninviting, but it was a haven to the man who had been so rudely tossed about. Mulligan motioned him to a chair. “T'l] go and cook the dinner,” he said. “It’s bachelor’s hall with me.” Wynne bezgea that he might assist, and together they boiled the coffee and broiled the steak over the coal-oil stove. After ainner they sought the garden in the rear JJJ)J,\JJJ 1)1y U B ""JJJ.[.IJ,'JJ > ot the house. It was beautifnliy kept, in striking contrast to the houre. Mulli- gan seated himself uvon a bench and pulled at his corncob pipe. 1t was a late spring evening, rarely warm for the sea- son. The air was .fresh from a recent shower and carried warmth and fragrance on its gentle wings. The white blossoms in the tall lily hedge glimmered in the twilight like white faces in hoods of green. Mulligan watched the rings of smoke from his pipe as they dispersed in the soft air. Gradually his tongue loosened under the influence of the soothing tobacco. “You think,” be said, “that I asked you here to-night so them fellows woulda’t influence you to leave the job. reason,” and he lowered his voice and turned his face away from the fleeting Lght, “Every night when I come home from work I hope to see Nell coming round the houze to meet me, as she used to— tall and lovely as them flowers. We planted them together, and the sight of her walking amonz them made me think of poetry and heaven. When I smoked she would lay her sunny head down on my knee and whisper, ‘I love you, Jim.’ Fooll Fool! Somehow I'd forget that I was poor, plain Jim Mulligan. The majesty of love raised me. Bometimes It’s hard 1o be poor, Neil; you were meant for riches.” The only answer she would make would be, ‘It's you that Llove, Jim. “'One day there came a letter to this house. It was from the woman that had been my wife before I knew.Nell. She was unworthy any good man’s love, and I had been separated from her legally for five years. She signed herself ‘Your lov- ing wife.” Ifound it afterward crumpled under the table, as if Nell in an agony of mind had crushed it in her soft palms, That night when I came home Nell was woman not worthy 1o uniace my Neilie’s boots. That was six montbs ago. F'm don’t know what I may do to my:elf. Watch out for Mull, ligan!” you. Wi tending the construction of a sewer, He| The strain of exuliation With which | Well, maybe 1 did; but there's another| When spring came again, a fitful feeling gone. Not a word to tell me where or| *“Whatcan be better.” grumbled Mulli- why—only that little crumpled sheet | gan, “than Eyetalian labor at $1 a day?" under the table from a wretched, lying | A week later Easter morning dawned afraid to come home nights alone, for I | had been busy the day before settling his There's nothing to liva for now but | to take the overland train for his home in money, and I'm going 10 get rich, mind | the East that evening. Huis parter, after —Mr, Mul- | his custom, had risen early and gone out Muiligan finished his story was broken by 8 hard, dry sob. As if regretting his con- fidence he relapsed into silence. Thestars shone steadily in the heavens, and the two men rose up and went into the house. But exposure and toil had done their work. It was only after weeks of illness that Wynne rose languidly from his bed. Mulligan, who bad been unceasing in his devotion as long as Wynne was heipiess, could no Jouger curb his restless energy. He would leave early in the morning, calling out to Lis friend bgfore closing the door, “Keep a stiff upper Lip and make the house tidy, for Nell might core bome.” Wynne learned to dread the darkening of his expectant face as he greeted him without 2 word from the missing one at night. The long, quiet hours of convalescence were a revelation to Wynne. He wasnow keenly alive to his position. He held in Lis weak hands a few stout strands of his fraved past. There was the journey taken from his Eastern home, his suffering at his hotel and his subsequent awakening in the streets of a strange city at night. Where he had passed the intervening time he could only guess. He believed he had been sandbagged and robbed. It seemed strange that so influential a per- son as be had been could have dropped out of sizht Without causing a ripple on the social surface. He crept weakly to the newspaper offices and scanned the bulletin-boards with eager eyes. He ex- pected to see written thereon: range disappearance of a prominent young man. His friends, crazed wiih aoxlety, scour- ing the city. There was nothing of the sort there, | and bis vanity was wounded. He thought of writing home for funds, but the Wynne grit was slowly assertinz itself. His stug- gish life became aroused. He saw his | wasted opportunities stretch tehind him like an expanse of arid plain. He recog- | nized the sterling qualities of men of | Mulligan’s type. He believed if he could { redeem his wasted life and build anew the | tissues of character anywhere he could do J J o R J0 “PERHAPS IT WILL COME TO it among these people who did not know his past. Under the whip of necessity that zoaded them on be, too, might grow strong and energetic.: He resolved to drop his identity, now and here, and be known to the world by another name. | Itwas not strange that these two men, driven like cheff before the strong wind of fate, should continue as partners. Mul- ligan’s keen business eye, always open 1o the main chance, saw in his friend latent gifts that needed developing. Wynne was erateful to the good-hearted Maulligan. The firm of Mulligan & Brown, contrac- tors, took all sorts of jobs at low rates. It swept the streets, removed garbage, built sewers and prospered. of restlessness took possession of Wynue, It had been six months since the firm was established, and money had accumulated to his account. He began to have home. sick daye. He remembered the services ag the little church of St. Paul's in Bed- | ford; ths lilies in the chancel and the | surpliced choir. They clung to him as dreams of childhood do to weli-grown men. With his memories came a strong, desire to see his home sgain. Many a | night when his partner was peacefully | sleeping in the next room, he was plan- | ning for his future. He could t hold |of his father's husiness with a strong band aand a resourceful brain. Money meant humanity to him now. One Sunday morning as they lingered over the eggs and bacon he told Mullizan that he must goaway. His friend was aghast, | “Why, old fellow, you can't go in this busy season. We’ ure to get the con- tract for sprinkling the streets.” But Wynne stoutly persisted and Mul- ligan finally gavein. He had to be con- tent with & promise that Wynne wou!d return by the 1st of June if he should find nothing better to keep him away. again with its glorious promise of immor- tality. Freaerick Wynne slept late. He affairs and packing his trank, for he was Avpril is the most beautiful month of the year. Iam aware that I have said this of January, of February and of March, but it is equally true of April. These are the days when it isa joy to be afield in the early morning hours, while the prass is yet wet, and before the town below has begun to rub its eyes and turn over in bed. Itis, in fact, the month when the fuliy awakened year rises, clothed on in loveli- ness, to begin fulfillment of ius early promises. It is the true Easter month, the joyiul procession of all things risen. Those ancient pagans were not far from the truth when they instituted thespring- time festival of nature’s awakening which we of a newer age and faith have turned 10 sacred use. How, since the world be- gan, 1ts peoples in every land have cele- brated the year's resurrection. The feast of Ostara, the Christian Easter, the old mythof the sleeping Princess, beloved of childhood, trace the recoid of this in- stinctive returning to the new beginnings; the yearning for to-days that shall be bet- ter than our yesterdays! The hot days of the past week have seemed aimost like the full tide of sum- mer, crept upon us unaware, but there is siill a certain unmistakable youthfuiness about the growins things. The year is yet young, not with the wild, suggestive tenderness of its eariier immaturity, but full ot youth's vigorous promise. Most of the fruit blossoms have “'set,” but enough fragrant white bicoms still gleam amid the fresh green of the new foliage to keep in mind the beautiful orchard snows of scarcely a week tince, and to fill the nights with subtle fragrance. The grasses and ME.” dreams by happy voices and joyous laugh- ter. He sleepily made his toilet and went into the living-room. There was Mulligan, his face beaming with happy smiles, His arm was about the waist of = tall, foir, young woman. Wynne knew in an instant that it was Muiligan’s Easter and that this was something of what Easter meant, Mulligan proudly presented her to his friend, and told with infinite pathos the story of her loss and reappearance. The women's eyes, ablaze with love, rested proudly on her husband. It was only a brief tale. Nell had been engaged as nurse in a hospital sincs that cruel day when she had found an erring woman'’s letter to her husband. A woman had died in her arms last night, but not until she had told her nurse of her scarred life and exonerated Mulligan from blame. Nell laid the tired hands at rest and kissed the sin-worn face. Then she prepared herself to return to her home and hus- band. A bandsome, sun-burned young man walked into the nearest church that £aster morsing. He followed the respon- sive readings, and the choir sang heavenly strains. The little rector told in sym- pathetic Enghsh the story of the risen Lord. Frederick Wynne thought of Mul- ligan's great good fortune, and there was a thankful spiritin bis heart as he pon- dered over his own iil-desert and the new life that was born into h He placed his hat soberly on his head, he walked out of the church door into the balmy sweetness of the sprinz day, FLORENCE HARDIMAN MILLER. House-Hunting for a Living. A bright young woman in Philadelphia makes her living by house-hunting for other peaple, Her own troubte in finding the desired sort of domicile put the idea into her head. She has made meuvs with the real hunts bouses on commission. Besides, she receives a fee of 5 shillings from the family for which she finds the house. All that is necessary is to give her explicit instructions as to what is wanted, and if such & place is to be found inside the city on the porch to smoke and read the paper. [} limits she finds it. ——.————— When is a candle properly vexed? Wynne was atoused from pleasant | When it is put out. | | no le forage planis are in bloom, and it is deli- cious to lie down amid the piled-up clover and alfileria and note the myriad minute blossoms that make the earth mare bril- Hant than an Oriental rug. There are manners and manners of lyipg in the grass, but there is only one way, and that is 1o forget all about one’s self and one’s surroundings and lie flat upon one’s back. Only then is it possivle to see the wondrous beauty of tall tree tops agsinst the sky ; tonote the shadowy outlines of the distant hilis. Colors come out with poculiar vividness seen from among the grasses, combinations un- dreamt of before are revealea by looking athwart the slopes. We catch the blue of the sky reflected in the grass and the fow- ers, as well as in the pools. We see the green of rrass and the yeilow of poppies, the white of the wind-tossed orchards shining back against the heavens and re- alize how absolutely the world is & whole, t wayside weed living or dying to itself. .- Nature, out here, has arrayed herself in Easter garments. An Eastern paper of the date of April 4 reached mre this weei, andin it was exultantly noted the “first crocuses” were peeping cut and other blossoms might soon be expected. It were worth a trip across the continent to greet the first crocuses, but, lacking that, we haye Lad a wealth of blossoms this spring and the hills are alive with color, 0id Californians tell me that we “have ne »ild flowers compared to what bloomed in the early days.” Yet on the hills beyond me I may wade throtgh seas of cream- cups and baby-blue-ey s growing so thickly that neither sod nor grass can be seen. A glance thronugh the oper door at my hand shows great purple patches of brodeaia, and’ poppies and . buttercups make ihe slopes a mass of color. Down in the meadow below me a child is gathering her apron full of the treasures, and her little bobbing white ‘bonnét seems just on a level with the tall pink mallows through which she wanders. Within a stone's throw the yeilow iris blooms royally, and its cousin, the biue- eyed grass, has literally carpeted the -slope. Some love the wild violets, others the lilies of the field, and for all the glori~ ous poppies are full of delight, but to me the blue-eyed grass is the most beautiinl thing that grows. 1t has g more delicate, wavering grace of form than the true iris, a tenderer color than the violet, and the very.democracy of its growth out here is but an additional charm. It is a chil- dren’s flower, like the jolly buttercup, ‘and, compared to the Easiern variety, our -blue-eyed grass is a fairly rugged blossom. The first trees to come into ieafage here- abouts are the osier willows. The swamp willows follow quickly, and later, as depre. cating the cold clime, so different from that of its native land, the Oriental wil- low, the “weeping willow” of common parlauce. One should see these trees when the leafbuds have just unfolded to understand the full beauty of the phrase in which the Arsbian Nights' chronicler describes all fair youth, ‘*graceful as a sprig of Oriental wilow”—albeit, there seems a certain lack of fitness in speaking of one of those long, down-drooping sprays of feathery green as a “sprig.”” The liveoaks come out about the middle of March in a glory of golden foliage that soon turns a dark, glossy green. These old trees make their annual change of rai- ment with a decent dignity that is charac- teristic of them, putting on the new man- tle and then, sheltered by its radiant folds, dropping the old one leaf by leat softly to the ground. A listle hzard who invaded my house the other day was less particular. It was a het day, and it may be he was too warm; or perhaps his new suit was just com- pleted, and he was anxious to note the fit. At all events he seemed oblivious of my presence, but fussed about for awhile, ranning back and forth along the table's edge, and finally went through a series of gyrations that at first led me to fear he was about to emulate ‘‘the squeechycumsquees that swollers their- selves.”” He stretched and twisted and presently began to rub his head vigorously with his tiny front claws. Then, sudden- Iy, and with the greatest apparent ease, he turned his skin backward, from the jaws, and slipped out of it as easily asa lady might draw her hand from a glove. He was 2 little breathless after the per- | tormance, and for a long time lay quite | still. At last he seemad to take notice of | me. He lifted his head, as though listen- ing intently, his throat began to throb, and he finally turned and scuttled away, leaving his old clothes on my writing- table. The little cast-off garment is a pretty thing, delicate and transparent, and the wee, empty hands and feet have a curiously appealing air. This is a great year for butterflies. Ido not remember to have noticed so many for several seasons as throng the air this spring, fitting beautiful reminders of the Easter season, for have not they, too, burst their bonds and come forth to a glo- rious resurrection? This dainty creature here on the alder, with his-white wings, mottled with black and pale-green, what does he think of the bright world into which he has come? He leit the chrysalis but yesterday. A week hence he will have reversed his pretty wings, wrapping them about bis body as these creatures do, in death, and his little day will have passed, but the sweet old mythos will repeat itselt season after season, the Prince will kiss the Princess to surprised awakening, we shall bail the goddess Ostara, patroness of the springtime. “Who knows,” says Michelet, “‘but that I am the chrysulis of a man?’ A Government Orchard. The French is tae only Eurovean Gov- ment that maintains an orchard for the special cultivation of the apple. It is in the garder: of the Luxembours, in a snug corner, and well protected by being com- pletely railed in. Two hundred and fifty varieties are cuitivated, and hither come all the pomologists of France for cuttings. | When the fruit in this Government apple orchard is ripe it is divided into four lots. The finest fourth is sent to the President of the Republic and figures at the official dinners af the on. The second js for the Prefeet of the S:ine; the third for the | Military Hospital in Paris, and the fourth goes to the large restaurants of Paris. | There are 180,000 acres of apple orchards in the United Kingdom, producing 100,000 tons of fruit, realizing about £10 per tou; & ton of fair guality will make from 100 to 20 gailons of cider—of which' 12,000,000 gallons afe produced annually. The av- erage consumption of apples per head of ‘population is 11 poun this entails the importation of from 900,000 to 1,000,000 barrels yearly from other sources.—Tit Bits, T — e e