A SONG OF LIFE-
“ Rolls the old world ever right. dear:
" Sun by day and stars by night, dear;
; Here is rhyme. and here is reason:
' Still the red rose comes in season:
In the fields the toilers sowing,
Hear the harvest hugles blowing:
Life. my dear, is joy and weeping—
Sowing time. and time for reaping.
Take thy task—if ioy or sorrow:
Still the dark wil bring the morrow:
In the storm the l irds are singing.
And the bells of heaven are ringing!
—Atlanta Constitution.
A. smumffidnr.
The hot summer sun was beating
down on the long white streets, and
making the flowers on the balconies
droopand even the leaves of the lime
trees hang listless and motionless in the
great heat. Not a single soul was to be
seen in the usually so crowded Andras-
5:; street in Buda-Pesth,and the old por-
ter of the Hotel Esterhazy sat half
asleep. his chair well drawn back into
the shade; he knew very well that no one
could disturb him at that hour.
Esme St. Maur lay down on the sofa,
lamenting that her fate had made her
spend this grilling afternoon in Buda-
Pest‘h. “However, I shall stand three
weeks of it. What time is it, Klimja?”
“Hal to past four, milady; but the gene
tleman mademoiselle expected is wait-
ing downstairs. and wants to know if
you will receive him."
“Certainly,” said Esme, lazily, fasten-
ing a pink rose into her belt.
A few seconds later a tall, sunburnt
man came into the room.
“So sorry, Arthur,” said the lady; “I
am positively too tired to move; this
heat is killing! I’m so glad to see you,”
she went on, looking up at him. “Let
me see, it is nearly three years since we
saw each other; what are you doing
here?” ,
The man hesitated a moment, and
then became pale, and his mouth
twitched.
“Iwas hurrying to England, Esme,"
he’said, “because I heard a report about
you that I could not credit. that you
were going to be married.” ‘
“Well,” said the girl, nervously pick-
ing ofl the leaves of her rose, “it is
quite true. No, no, Arthur, it’s no
use,” she continued. sitting up and put-
ting her hand on his arm; “sit where
you are and listen. You see, dear, it
had to come to this some day, and I may
aswell tell you here as anywhere else;
we cannot fight against fate, and the
fates are against us. Look! It would
be ten years at least before you could
marry me, and then I should be a mid-
dle aged woman. And, even if I could
wait, what am I to do during those ten-
years? Grandmamma, you know,” she
went on, turning her face, now appall
ing in its pallor, toward him, “only left
me £50 a year; and-since her death I
have been living, yes, living on my sis-
bsr?s husband! Think! The proud
Esme St. Maur actually living on
charity!”
"But surely,”
surely—T”
“Of course they don’t say so, but I
know, Iknow. They nave three chil-
dren to educate, and look at the position
they have to keep up!
income is by no means large, and I feel
I’ve no right to be a burden to them
when I’ve a good offer."
“Who is the man?” he said drily.
“Lord Hillsborough.” she answered,
her eyes down.
Arthur broke in,
“A man almost old enough to be your ‘
grandfather,” he said.
Then, in a thoughtful tone, he asked:
“Do you care for him?”
“No,” she answered. “but I respect
him more than—than any one but your-
self.”
“Esme,” said Arthur hotly._ “how
difierent you are! . How calculating
and worldly you have become! I re-
member my little Esme holding forth
fiercely that love was the one thing in
all the world; that to marry a man
without love was the greatest wrong a
woman could do him."
“Arthur,” she said, “what can I do?
Iintend, if I marry Lord Hillsborough,
to bea good wife to him; I cannot be
that with another man’s image in my
heart. I must live it down; I must
force myself to forget it.” .
Arthur 'Walked away to the balcony.
“Do not make it harder for me,”
said Esme, her voice full of sobs; “what
am I to do? I cannot do anything to
earn my living. Look at me,” she said,
bitterly, drawing herself up to her full
height; “a. perfect woman, strong and
healthy, with a fortune spent on my ed-
ucation; and yet, n)w that I am thrown
on my own resources—why, a shop girl
could make a b.tter living than I could!
Bear it, dear!” she said, going over to:
him, “you know that this must be the
end!”
“Dearest,” he said, in a broken voice,
“it is only the i|eginning. You love me
and yet you marry this man! It is the
beginning of wretchedness for you, and
and him, and me. for all our lives.”
“Arthur,” she said slowly, “I have
made up my mind, and I will carry it
through. I am engaged to Lord Hills-
borough and shall marry him in Octo-
her. I cannot bear another scene like
this. Bid me good by and go now—for-‘ ,
ever,” she added, shivering slightly.
The man looked at her for a second
- and then took both her hands in his.
“Yes, sweetheart. I will bid you good
by and leave you forever. But let me
come in and spend this last evening
with you. It is not much to ask, and I
promise not to speak one word you
would not like. .We will have our cof»
fee on' this balcony among the flowers,
with the liglm. .rposite, as in those dear
old days when we first met at Ostend.
Saylmay come, Esme, for. auld lang
sync—the last eveninglshall ever spend
with you. ”
Three hours afterward the witchery
of the summer night had fallen upon
the city. Esme, sitting on her balcony.
moved her fan slowly to and fro, and
let the mystic beauty of the night steep
itself into her feelings. "On such a
night as this,” she thought. as the old
words of the immortal dramatist came.
into her mind; "I wonder if such a,
I know Frank’s -
W EE
light as this has played as weighty a
part 1n any one’s love story as in mine:
And thisis to be the last-ah!" as a
shiver of remembrance came over he 1'.
“how I shall hate the summer. nights
after this!” .
“All in the dark,” said a voice at Es
iue's elbow. and Arthur sat down at tin—
other side of the tiny table, where my
waiter was putting down the coffee
tray.
“Why not, Arthur,” she said. "Who
.aould be barbarian enough to have
lights brought now? Look at than.
queen up there 1” pointing to the moon.
The man opened his lips as it” to speak,
but shut them determinedly agii'n.
“I do not .give allegiance to two
queens.” -
“Don’t you?” she said laughingly, as
she handed him a cup of coffee; “but
"you are a faithful soldier, all the same.
‘I hope.”
“It pleases you to be merry to-night,”
he answered ,quietly.
“Have you ever read Mrs. BroWning’s
‘Mask,’ Arthur?” she said. “How little
men understand women, after all! You
should know that the thing we seem to
be is often only a cloak to hide what we
are really feeling. But there—we ta-
boood feelings for to-night.”
"Did we! I only remember promis—
ing to say nothing to reproach you, and
I shall keep my word.” He leaned back
and went on dreamily: “I suppose every
man has some particular way in which
he pictures the woman he loves. I al;
ways thought of you on a balcony, in a
white dress, surrounded by flowers, and
looking—well—aas you look to-night. I
shall remember you always so.” 4
“Arthur, your experience as a man of
the world must tell you that in a few
years your feelings will calm down;
you will come to London, and we shall
meet as friends.”
He looked across at her curiously.
“You speak to me as a man of the
world. I know I am speaking to a
woman of the world, not to the Esme
of three years ago. But even from
your calm standpoint of woman of the
world you are wrong. You believe that
my love will calm down. I know now
that it never will, and I prefer to end it
at its height, not to see it die a slow
death by the stages of afiection—I egard
—indiiferen¢e.”
“End it?” said Esme, “what do you
mean?” .
“I mean that after to-night I shal
never see you again—according to you;
own wish.”
“Arthur,” she said, “you misunder-
stand me. I meant only till you could
see me without—without loving me.”
“That will be never, dear,” he said,
"and as I am never to see you again, I
am glad to have seen you for the last
time as I liked to see you, best-as l
have always pictured you in my own
heart.”
“You are getting sentimental,” she
said, with a forced laugh. “Your cof-
fee will be cold.”
Arthur took the cup and poured afew
drops from a small green bottle into it.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I had a nasty
touch of fever a few days ago, and take
my drops in my tea or coffee like an old
woman.” ‘ '
“Fever, Arthur?” She bent forward
and looked at him. “Yes; you look
haggard and ill. I did not Iotice it
this afternoon. I wish you would not
go back to that horrid India! Why
don’t you take more care of yourself?
Are you going on to London now?”
“Oh, do not talk of me,” the man said
hurriedly; “tell me about yourself.
What have you been doing all these
years? Have you been in Ostend
again?”
“No,” she answered gently;
cared to go back there.”
“Then you really remembered and
cared, Esme?” The pain in his voice
was terrible to bear; but he suddenly
recovered himself. “This is quite like
one of those evenings. We only want
“I never
the music," he added in a different ’
tone.
A silence fell between them for a few
minutes. They seemed unable to talk
except on the subject they both wished
to avoid. Suddenly, as though in an-
swer to Arthur’s wish for music, the
curtain on the lower balcony was again
drawn back, and Paul de J aerschky
stepped out.
“Ah,” he said, gently, “on such a
night there is but one song, mia cara ;"
and his glorious voice burst forth with
passionate feeling into that song—the
wonderful love song that has touched
so many hearts:
"Have you forgotten. love. so soon, that night
that lovely night in June,
When down the tide. so idly dreaming, we
floated where the moon lay gleaming?
My heart was weary and oppressed Withsome
sweet longing, half confessed,
When, like an answer to my sighiug. your
hand in mine was gently lying,
0, love. that last long look that metl Can you
forget? Can you forget?" _
Esme bent forward with a sudden ex.
pression of agony, and buried her face
in her hands. “My God, not that, not
that!” she murmured. A great trem-
bling shook the man opposite her, but
he restrained himself. and drinking
down his coffee with one gulp, he leaned
.back in his chair with closed eyes.
Meanwhile the great singer went on:
“Oh! night of Love. charmed night of June!
that night we vowed by heaven’s own
moon,
That night of nights our troth we plighted.
for all eternity united!
Then first I knew your ‘heart, my heart, one
life, one soul, no more to part!
Ah! then I said, whate’er betide us, no, death
itself shall not divide us!
Ah, lovely. lovely night of June! Can you
forget. so soon—so soon?”
“Arthur, Arthur,” cried Esme, kneel-
ing down beside, him, “I have beende
[have been foolish! I cannot forget!
Love is the one thing in this world!
Rank—money are nothing. I do love
you! I will wait! "Why do you not
speak, love?” she cried, as the man sat
motionless. “Will you not take me in
your arms, kiss me, say you forgive
me?” His hand fell from her grasp.
The truth dawned upon hen—St. Paul’s.
Mr. Gladstone's father owned an ex-
tensive su ar plantation in British
Guina, an was a large slave or‘vner
there. A
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Copyright. New York Musical Echo Co., 1393.
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, Yours Truly—Concert Galen. .
WOMAN’S ADORNMENT‘.
. y , . .
Funcles‘of the Moment In the Domain of '
Fashion. .
(By Special Ai-rang'ement with the N. Y. Sam‘-
Everything- seems to point to a
short life for the perfectly plain skirt;
Checks are so much in favor that the
idea is carried out in trimmings. Thq
plain materials are made to .look
checked by carrying insertion or rib-
bon down and across at regular inter-
vals, thus, forming squares, ei-t‘her large
or small, as may be required.
.__,l._il.l.1
Some pretty capes we have seen
show how elaborately such garments
are made this season. The first one is
made of Citron-colored silk, lined with
the faintest pink. The trimming all
around is of white guipure lace em-
broidery, running up in deep graduated
points, and over it is a narrow trim-
ming of Citron-colored jeweled embroi-
dery in shorter points. A thick ruche
of chiffon and narrow lace finishes the
cape.
bHAA‘..-A- Jan... .A ...-
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died“
The home gown we noticed is o»!
mauve silk and has a bodice of darker
ltone. This bodice is very richly em»
broidered down each side of the from
in gold and pearl shades. It opens over
a full waistcOat of lisse of a_very dell-
cate shade of mauve and is studded all
over thickly with crystal trimming.
The sleeves are gauifered perpendicu-
larly from waist to elbow and finished
with a moderate put at the top. The
bottom of the skirt is finished with. a
puff of the darker sills.
.. 'c;J—.~..‘ .—n'4
To be fashionable a woman must be
bedecked with feathers. This is the
latest announcement of 'the Parisian
couturieres. But this does not mean
that feathers will appear in the old,
conventional ways. Not a bit of it.
They will be used to adorn the fash-
ionable woman in a manner never
dreamed of before.
Not only are they to be all the vogue
, in millinery, but they are to be a gen-
eral accessory to dress. And it is in the
odd combinations of wings, feathers
and aigrettes that the dictators of fash-
ion are reveling.
Ostrich plumes are no longer used
singly, but combined with a tuft of
:ock’s feathers or a cluster'of wings.
Groups of feathers are the fashion and
the day of the stately Prince of Wales
plume, used by itself, is over. ‘
MADE IN A HURRY.
Record for Converting Growing Wheat in-
~to Bread and Trees into Newspapers.
Our readers no doubt remember the
trial, some years ago, on one of the
large wheat farms of South Dakota, to
determine the quickest time in which
growing wheat could be cut, threshed,
ground into flour, and prepared for the
table. It was something less than an
hour from the starting of the reaper "
until the steaming hot‘biscuit were
upon the‘table. This was before the
days of the quick conversion of the
standing trees into paper. A similar
test of the power of invention has re-
cently been made in Austria—that of
determining in how short a space of
time living trees could be converted
into newspapers. At Elsenthal, on
April 17, at 7:35 in the morning, three
trees were sawed down; at 9:34 the
wood had been stripped of bark, cut
up and converted into pulp, becanie
paper and passed from the 'mill to the
press, from whence, the first printed
and folded copy was issued at 10
o’clock, so that in one hour and forty-
.five minutes trees had become news-
papers. The poetic declaration, “ser-
mons in stones,” becomes an actual
reality as to trees, and made so by the
wand of the inventor.
Norwalk Chronicler