The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 18, 1905, Page 4

YRY BALCH, having ilitary title from | shaving of notes, ken his place at the sequence of held ught at the house of uired of the old d steer that * called cklin. “Come talk It dismounted from ward and seated the nd we'll his od resumed his seat ker, made of are things visitor. i woolen Adam’s-appled thing was at s must wait they could st thinking as I hat the farmer's I've heard a f talk ever e 1 can t th of the cou They tell me success, but I ardest life of re- the chicken- 1, expecting a compliment, n him and saié, “Yes?” w. It has been t as near as any man’s life be Jucklin, what do you me g lived his life, he t's what 1 mean. Yau behalf of the farmer, don't represent him. He lives but your struggle has away from it. You are a speculator.” rants you the privilege of se, so go ahead.” ‘ow let us look at him The farmer ranges over landscape of life. In him of human nature are eighborhood contains every nd, undeveloped, you might say. old people love the country.” about that red steer ight, we'll get to him pretty soon. an who has worked on a farm all st as many pleasures to as the city merchant. r may in his time have bought d brick, but may be the merchant taken in by a bigger swindle. toward the and they both have to think about. And that is I there is to life—something to ab At a very early age we e in the past. The farmer has his past closer about him than other men have. They have secn the same sea- s he same endeared fields.” very true,” the colonel ad- “Now what will you take for that steer? 1 am im something of a d is his community hurmy.” 1 right, 1 don’t know of a finer steer anywhere than that one. But just wait a moment. Let's get at the farmer a littie closer. In a small way, the suc- cessful farmer is a statesman. Experi- @® & E é o (Copyright, 1904, by Belle Maniates.) N the Palm Room of the Waldort at a table partially obscured by a lot of palms sat John Browning. He was a man well past his first youth, of form erect and face bronzed by the sun that burned upon tropical battiefields. From his rather remote corner he scanned with interest every one who entered. “After seven years,” he thought, “I shouldn’t expect to meet any acquain- tances, but—ah, what luck!” A party of four were seating them- selves at a table near—a man and woman of middle age, a beautiful young woman with eyes that matched the violets sne carried, and a lemon- faced youth, receding of chin and swinish of eye. Browning was about to start for- ward when a voice at the nearest table spoke in subdued but carrying tones: AT e il '\\ 72\ it \ AR ence iz his guide, and we are told that all wisdom dates back to experience, It is true that he doesn't handle as much money as the banker, nor does he handle “Lyle Vaughan’s fiance! The en- gagement is conceded, though not an- nounced.” John Browning resumed his seat. “It would have been far better,” he thought. “if I had mnot called a halt on her affection for the trapper. Any- thing but this specimen! He is a link below the missing one!” One of the voices at the next table again had a hearing: “I admit he is not a howling suc- cess as to looks, but he has millions and antecedents.” John Browning scowled and tinued his cogitations. Seven years since Lyle had her first little ripple of romance which I end- ed. T'll again be a disturber of dreams —or nightmares. I ®ave a spur to her memory in my pocket now. Odd it should have reached me to-day.” He drew from his pocket a news- paper clipping which he gave to a con- nfw,’ 28 much bread as the baker, but the baker can eat only a certain amount, and the' money that the banker handles— money that can't relieve a real want of By Belle Maniates. 20! waiter, with livery. The violet-eyed woman looked up in amazement at the waiter and then her gaze again fell on the paper. It was a four-liner local giving the number of licenses issued, to date, to deer- hunters in Northern Michigan. When she had read it she looked around. Then she rose and he hur- ried to her with outstretched hand. “Lyle! Litlle Lyle Vaughn!” he said in a soft, caressing voice that his command would have failed to recog- nize. “John Browning! Now do I believe in the resurrection!” Her father and mother claimed his attention, and after his presentation to Herbert Stuyvesant he seated him- self beside Lyle. The waiter again approached and handed Stuyvesant a telegram. “My mother has another of her at- tacks,” explained Stuyvesant to Mrs. instructions as to de- THE SAN FRA:\ICISCO SUNDAY CALL P nature—ain't'doin’ his soul any particular good. - The doctrine' of contentment is an old-one, but a better one was never preached. * And ' the farmer ought to be the very model of contentment. He would be if he stopped to think. Men that set the world afire die in the flames. Great- ness at last acknowledges its weakness. In ‘this there is a valuable lesson. It should teach ius to be contented. We all cught to ask ourselves this vital question: What Is success? It ain’t noise, for silence must follow, and silence can Jast longer than sound. There never was a storm as long as the calm. They that find happiness in bluster will find misery in quietude.” 0085 Vaughn, and with a lingering glance at Lyle's impassive features he took a reluctant departure, Mrs. Vaughn at once gave Brown- ing an claborate and profuse descrip- tion of Stuyvesant’s fortune and pros- pects. “The lady doth protest too much,” thought John Browning, noting with amusement and satisfaction the infi- nite boredom in Lyle's face, an ex- pression dimly reflécted in her fath- er's quiet, even featyres. “You must go home with us, John,” insisted Mr. Vaughn as they were leaving. “I don’t care low late it is. 1 want to hear about those seven years and the wars.” “So do I!” chimed in Lyle. ‘When they reached the house Mrs. Vaughn pleaded a headache. The others sat by the open fire in the library. Soon the soft, blue veil of good cigars invoked. a wondrous tale of adventure from John Browning. Back in the shadows Lyle listened, and followed over battlefields and African farms. *“Your lecture is very good,” said the colonel, “but really, I should like to get down to that steer.” “We'll get down to him pretty soon. But you spoke about the farmer, and let us take one thing at a time. The steer will wait. That is a part of his duty toward man. Don't let him outdo man in politeness. The greatest thing about man s to teach some other man something. Each man is an illustrator of life. And the farmer, instead of bein’ the joke of the ignorant folks that live in towns, ought to be en- vied by the philosopher. He could give at least half of his time in winter to fruitful meditation, and in doing this he would not only store up contentment and pleasure | for himself in the future, but out of it -might come great benefit to mankind at large. Thought is the food of the soul. I remember when old Sam Persey was dyin'. I don't suppose there was a poorer manin the neighborhood. But some of the shallow-minded used to reproach him: for his happiness. They said he was thoughtless. But the fact is that he had more of the right sort-of thought than any man for miles around. He worked hard, made a livin’ and didn’t grumble. That ‘was thought to be some sort of mental disease—the fact that he didn’'t complain; and a joker told him he’'d better take somethin’ for it.” He did. He took things as he found them and tried to make them better and more cheerful. Well, when he was lyin’ on his death- bed, one of the neighbors asked him if there was anything that he particularly regretted. ‘Yes,” he sald. ‘In lookin’ back I remember an old nigger that had the rheu- matiz mighty bad. I went to his cabin ope night just before he died, and" in lookin’ back I recollect that 1 forgot to tell him he might be better the next day.’ Everybody ‘thought that old Sam’s mind was wanderin’. And it was=—wanderin’ “'back to-a time when he had neg- ~Jected to do a poor fellow. a mo- ment of good. The other day I passed through the old orchara Where Sam was burled. The apple tree above him is always the first one to bloom, and in.it the sweet- est singin’ birds make their nests. Nobody has tried to keep the grass green, but it is green of itself; and the wild flowers that grow there are like psalms burstin’ up out of the ground. There is a sermon, colonel. He laughed nearly all of his Mfe, and now the weeds about tfs grave come out in summer time and with their blossom seem to be echoin! his merriment. The man that makes the weed blossom is greater than the man that causes the rose to die. Wait a minute. The Bible was written mostly for the farmer. It is his book. He read it and established liberty in England. The King said, ‘Oh, no, it is my book. I am the anointed. Pay me.’ But the book had taught the farmer to think, and action was but a natural outcome.” R “Yes, that is all very true” said the colonel, arising. “But now let us talk i about that steer. I am in a hurry. What is he worth?” «“What do you suppose he's worth?” Limuel replied. “He looks all right, doesn’t he?” 2 “Yes, but steers are cheap,’ colonel. ““That may be. them very close.” “But what will you take for him?" “Take for him? You sald you wanted to talk about him, and I've humored vou. The fact is, he jumped in there just now to rest himself, and he doesn’t belong to me. Don't be in a hurry, colonel; don't be snatched.” (Copyrighted, 1905, by Ovie Read.) said the| I'm not keepin’' up with AFTER SEVEN YEARS--EVEN AS JACOB “[ feel like Desdemona to-night,” laughed Lyle, following him into the hall. “You've been very good to papa to-night, but I want a visit with you. Come down to-morrow morn- ing at 11. Mamma will be shop- ping then.” “snd Mr. Herbert Stuyvesant won't be here?” he asked. . “No; why should he?" She was a little discomfited by his steady gaze. “I overheard some people in the palm room and say he was your flance.” “He isn't,” she denied. “Not—yet! I believe he'd like to be, and mamma lies awake nights fearing he won’t be. Papa is trying to be reconciled.” “And you?" “And I—was fast falling in papa’'s state—until—to-night when—" “When—" “I read that clipping.” She was not looking at him as she spoke, and so did not see the dark flush that came to his bronzed face. “To-morrow at 11,” he said, tersely. “Who sent you the clipping™ “Plympton. He still hunts in Michi- gan every November.” “How it carried me back!" she sighed. “Those lovely days in the open!" It was very late when John Browning reached his hotel, but he did not go to bed until he had lighted a cigar and lived over again the deer-hunting sea- son of seven years ago, which a party of Eastern people, including Vaughn, Lyle and himself, had spent in North- ern Michigan.. Those were halcyon days when he and Lyle had tramped over fields lightly brushed with snow, through thickets and in the brown forest in pursuit of deer. At night they would return tired, happy and hungry to the big cabin, ready to start out again in the morn- ing. Lyle had ever been a gay little comrade with him, but up there in the great northland of ice and snow he be- gan to hope that he might not be too old, after all, to ask her to be still more than her “father’s friend.” At the end of two weeks, however, he acknowledged to himself his mistake. The party had secured a mew guide, a handsome young Canadian Frenchman, with soft voice and lustrous eyes. He knew every inch of ground and every trick of deer-hunting. Lyle, romantic, willful and head- strong, took snapshots of him in every conceivable pose. She demanded his services on all occasions and chatted with him in French, a language not understood by John Browning, who was deeply concerned at the young girl's fancy. He reasoned with her father one night that the weather was getting al- together too severe for Lyle up there, and it would be prudent Yor her to re- turn with the Crosbys the next day. Vaughn acquiesced. He usually did acquiesce in any suggestion from Browning. When her father announced to Lyle the next morning that she was to go home that day, to Browning’s surprise, she did not raise any objections. He thought, though, that she seemed very serious when he bade her adieu. The life and light went out of the party for him after her departure, and he was glad when the season ended. En route fo Lower Michigan he re- ceived a dispatch calling him farther west on business, which detained him until April. He arrived in New York to learn that Lyle was in college. In the latter part of the month war with Spain was declared, and as an officer in the National Guard he was mustered into the United States service and went to Cuba. Peace declared, he again re- turned to New York. This time Lyle and her parents were abroad. He fol- lowed, just missing them at every place in their erratic tour. Then had come the war in Africa and the “siren song of the bullet” lured him to the cause of the Boers. Now he was again in New York and was to see in the morning his little friend of the long ago who had grown into a charming woman. She teased him when he came into the library the next merning: “Still jealous of Plympton, John? You were such a stupid! Those cabin partitions were regular sounding boards. I heard you counsel to papa about my return. Of ccurse the ‘severe weather’ was not the reason you ordered ‘Temoval from station.” You really thought I was in love with that handsome half-breed!™ “And weren't you?" “John!” “But you talked of Mim, to him and with him incessantly. You must have had 127 photographs of him.” “That was partly because it plagued you."” “Partly? son?" * “Maybe I'll tell you some time?"” “When?" “After another lapse of seven years.” “Still,” he persisted, “you looked sad when you left for home.” ‘That was for the same reason.” ‘As what?" ; “As the one I am to give you seven years hence.” “I am not going to wait seven years to tell you what I have know since ycu were a little schoolgirl, and you with your power of divining, Lyle, you surely must know that, toa" “No,” she half whispered. know."” “You don't know, Lyle—that I have always loved you! I should never have had the hope and courage to tell you/” he said presently, “if I had not seen you with the inane Herbert last night.” She laughed a soft, happy little laugh. “I believe I won't waft seven years to tell you.” “No; tell me now.” “I have loved you ever since you gave me my first doll.” ‘What was the other rea- “I don't