CHILDREN'S CORNER

Evening Star, Issue 12865, 14 July 1906, Page 10

CHILDREN'S CORNER

THE IDEALIST.

[By Ethel M. Louie.]

It was a cold, grey afternoon in midwinter, and traces of a recent snowfall might be seen in the strsets, where discarded heaps of snowballs proclaimed thi fact that afternoon school had interrupted a youthful battle, and a mud-bespattered snow man made a dreary shelter for a shivering Irish terrier. The streets were almost empty as a tired-looking governess, walking quickly homeward, spied the animal, and with a sudden timid glance round opened her lunch basket and tirew a crust towards it.

'"Little brick!" involuntarily burst from a man pacing drearily behind. Tho governess turned quickly, a bright flush on her sharp-featured face, and the man raised his hat as he passed her. "People have gone to Heaven for less than that, madanie, if old records are to be believed," he said gently, and turning the corner was soon lost in the gloom of th. afternoon. He laughed softly to himself as he thought of the incident. " Poor little soul, and she looked half-starved herself !" he said, and gloomily kicked away a stone that, stopping up the gutter, threatened to flood the pavement. The water gushed gratefully down, and the man laughed again. "Ton my word I believe life might be compared to you," he muttered, addresising the gutter. " Poor beggars of mortals glide along, happily enough, each with their own little individual ripple, till a stone blocks up the waj', when, hey presto, everything comes to a standstill. Net result, an insane gurgling and spla hing that only makes matters wor.--e. Some charitable individual removes the stone, and we bubble and gurgle as if nothing had happened till we come to the next stone, when the performance commences again, with only this difference: that at each successive stone we make an angrier gurgle than at the preceding one, and a less joyful bubble each time we aTe released." He laughed once more, somewhat bitterly this time, and, hands in pockets, walked quickly on- The warm suggestive odor of a confectioner's met his nostrils, and, glancing up, the words " Coffee, threepence a cup." met his eye. Hurriedly feeling in his pockets for the only coin he knew was there, he balanced it on one finger meditatively. "Well, little friend, vou were to have been invested in cigarettes, but you shall go to prove the final degeneration of a hard-up idealist. You shall enable mo to luxuriate on coffee and buns, .so- that ' eating, drinkinc, and being meny' I shall not, necessarily die to-morrow."

On tiie steps of the shop crouched what at first sight looked like a bundle of rags, from which, as the man passed, there came a childish sob. He stopped, as if someone had struck him, and with a comical mixture of dismay and disgust stooped down. " Heavens! You don't mean to say you're something alive! Here, I say!" and he gave the bundle a gentle poke, which resulted in the appearance of a tangle of fair curls, and then a somewhat grimy tearstained face.

The journalist, stared. "Bless mo if you're not a little girl!" he ejaculated, and started clumsily mopping her eyes with his pockethandkt-rchief. " Now, here's a prettv go. I haven't an idea what I ought to say to you; evidently something's wrong. On merciful heavens, don't!" as the child's lower lip began to tremble ominously. "Look here." he sat on the step beside "her, "do be a sensible little kiddie and tell a fellow what's the matter."

The question was fatal. A great gnlping sob broke from the child, and she crouched down again in a piteous heap. The young man looked around in a distracted fashion! There seemed to be no one in sight. The thought that he had been very cold ocenred to bin 35 a solution of the mystery. "I have it," he said. "I believe you're crving because you're cold, you poor little beggar!" He put one .of the little icy bands in his pocket, and commenced rubbing the other vigorously. A horrifying idea struck him suddenly. " You're not hungry are you?" he asked, noticing for the first'time the pinched features. Or#:e again came that heart-rending sob, and "I aint 'ad nothink to tat all day " made the journalist start to

his feet, and stride into the shop with the little urchin in his arms.

"Give this child something to eat," he said to the buxom woman behind the counter; "as much as ever she can manage without being ill." He threw down the sixpence. "I shall) be back in lew than five minutes."

The woman stared when he came backShe bad not expected to see him again. Laying two shillings on the counter: ** Will that cover it?" he asked, still in the same bewildered way, as the woman began to explain that the waif belonged to her charwoman. She smilingly handed back one 6hi)ling. u I reckon she can easy make herself ill on a shilling," she said. " Won't yon have nothink yourself, sir?" but with a curt " No ttaai-ks " ho had left the shop.

A tall, well-dressed man wsu waiting for him outside, and before the journalist cou'd speak he had taken his arm, and was walking briskly beside him " Well, Frank Verdon," he said " I've never counted up ho-*' many times I've had occasion to inform you you're a born ass; anyhow I'll tell you so again. I've watched this little performance from the lime you took tbat little gutterchild in until you, vulgarly speaking, ' paid the piper.'" " It's like your confounded impertinence, then!" burst out Verdon hotly. "1 presume you don't question my right to dispose of my Crcesus-like fortune," he sneered, "as I will?"'

The other was imperturbable "It was an overcoat last time," he said, as to himself. " I suppose that regard for the feel nigs of your fellow-pedestrians checked any desire to come home coatless. What can it have been this time?"

The expression of annoyance pas.\i>d quickly away from Verdon's face, and \o gave vent to a great laugh, " No, you old bully," he said, " it was mv great grandfather's watcb chain, if you will have it." He laughed again, then stopped suddenly, and as he caught sight of the other's face his own became stern. "Look here, Tom, my very good friend." he said stormily, "in"your zeal you are rather apt to become officious. There is a limit to my good nature, you know." The other's blustering, boyish laugh rang out. :< Oh, there is, is there?" he roareif " les, about the same limit as there is in a bottomless well apparently. My dear chap, I'm not going to say anything about the watch chain. Considering that you looked like a first-class mute when I first saw you, and' Tike a—like a—blithe blackbird now, I wouldn't say a word if you "anted to pawn your'boots and go home bare foot. You might tcl! a fellow what's happened, though." "Such as it is," Verdon replied, "the news is exhilarating. I received my conge from the 'Echo' Office this morning." "What?" questioned the other amaaedly. stopping stock still. Lerdon walked on. "Don't be a fool," he said composedly. "It was bound to you know. I'm not} going to write lown to their standard, and Adams has been looking for an opportunity for kicking mo out for a long time. Told me this morning, in his elegant arid cultured fashion, that a man who'd been seen coming out of Goldstein's evidently had no regard for his position." , r

" The beastly, low-down cad ! Hope yon reminded him who installed him in thai ■ditor's chair."

"I? Oh, I didn't say much. Just put ■>n my hat and wa'k.d out. don't vou know, in up-to-date stage fashion. I daresay t'll occur to me to-morrow that I'm no 'onger part of the machinery of the 'Echo.' Oh. what a time we poets have!" He vhKled gaily. "The funniest thing happened this morning while. T was putting my -hings together before I left mv office. Jimmy, the office boy. came in and showed ■ne a rhymed advertisement of Block's Pills—you know the soi't of thing—and while he put things straight I ran off 'wolve brilliant linos about the polls, signed Jimmy's name, and gave them to Eim. Fie went out like an arrow, and came backhalf an hour with ten shillings. 'Beet thing they've ha,:!, eir.' he said. * ' You bet I didn't say who wrote it! 'Taint .often they pays on the spot.' Ye £jods! ImaTine it. old chap! Delicious rondels, finesound'mg sonnets, noble elegies, all finding ttnuT reward only in the writer's heart; and then—half a guinea for a rhvme extolling quack pills! What a top'sy-turw world r He wheeled round suddenlv and faced his companion. " By. tho way. friend Tommy, how much did Vou get for the 'Dream ' sketch? Hope old Isaacs plumped out handsomely this time. It was the best thing you've done, and some dav, when I'm not in such a joyful mood, I'm goine to write a poem on the pin kin ess of those s -ashe-lls. You're going to be a great man <omc day, Tommy'—a ge£at man, Mr Foulis, though I says it '" Foulis grasped the other's arm convulsively. "Will yon be rational, man?" he • isked. "Don't lot's discuss the 'Dream.' 1 didn't sell it; but here's a very serious reality to be faced." " YOU DIDN'T SELL THE 'DREAM'?" gasped Verdon, incredulously " No, I didn't; but I don't care much A buyer will probably turn np whan 1 least expect him. But, look here, Frank, old man, this ' Echo' business is *oin<» to he Oh, stop that insane wnistling! D'you thank I haven't known for about half an hour there's som*-thin g behind all this? 'Spose it's some beastly poetical inspiration too good to share ' wvth an old .pal."

The whistle stopped abruptly, and Votdon's white face seemed to grow whiter His companion liad to lean towards him to hear hi*> words.

"Tommy, old boy, don't ever say & word to me about it again ; but Mildred's father owns the ' Echo,' you know—.took it, in fact, when my dad dtted—and, well, this business soit—of—makes—a— final break, somehow. The old man never semed verv kern en me. except for Mildred's sake. don't you know ; and now " The gay whistle rang out agniin, " Oh, what \i rummv world it is t"

Foulis hod no word fco say. The ' Echo' had brought in only a pittance since the new fdatnrs reign began, but it meant a certain position, and Verdon's first book, though impractical from a monetary point of view, gave fine promase of future suecess. Tho fate of his second still hung in the balance, and even the writer's deter mined optimism chafed under the dilaioriness of his publishers. Now, Foulis ruminated droarily, things looked black indeed With Mild Ted removed from the horizon it would go hard with the whiite-faced dreamer, wliose every dream had been woven nivcteriously around her in such sweet bonds.

Poulis had never been in lore himself, but ii curiouw sympathy had arisen within him for the*o two brave lovers—the man with his fine ideals and his persistently following ill-luck; the bright-eyed girl, with ht-r thoughts always so loyally turned towards that dazzling dreamland of "Frank's hnture."

Now he felt helpless and dumb, and in rilence the two reached the outer door of their rooms, hung up their hats, and passed each into his own sanctum. Verdon's whistling oorrura ced again, and Fonlis slammed hi 9 door that he might shut out the sound.

He was surveying his discarded picture ruefully, when a loud crash from the, Pert room made ham start up suddenly and dash into the room that was to Verdon smoke room, study, and bedroom. The writer lay on the floor, tearing excitedly at his shirt collar, an overturned chair and table beside him. Fonlis kreked them impatiently away, and kneeling down ripped the collar open. With a sudden catch in bis breath Verdon's head fell back, and he lay insensible on the knees of the dismayed artist. ,

There was no one in the house, Fouli* knew, and laying Verdon gently down he dashed into the bathroom for water. When ho returned, the joTrrnaldsb was tsifcting U p f passing his hand warily over Ms face and muttering. Fordii held" the water to his lips. "What's that, old man?" he asked, as softly as if speaking to a sirk child. Verdon profiled gently. "There's only onn thing that strikes me just now," he whisreiecU half-ineondbly, and as Foufis with a gr"at effort pulled him up and laid him on the bed ho rrrnrrrnnred: " God—God it's greater than I can bear." A horrible fear clutched the artist's heart. at> for the first time he noticed two open

letters on the writing table, Vesrdori's eyea followed his, and has feeble voice beseeohed : "Read them, Tommy, old boy; oh, for pity's sake read them out aloud, for otherwise I shafl think I've died and gone where 'the good poets go'" He laughed, and the sound wenifc to Foube's heart. WRb a sudden bound he took up the first letter. It was from Verdon's publishers, and bore the ample message; "We nave the honor to inform you that your book has been accepted, and is now in the press.— Broad. Blake, and Co." The second was on perfumed paper, and the artist tated.

" No—read it, read -frt, man!, Shout out every word, or I shall, think I dreamed

" Dfsir old fellow," read FouEs, his fincfers trembling 60 that, the paper crackled, " father and Mr Adame have had some words about your dismissal tils morning, and—hold your breath. Frank—it is Adams who is dismissed, and you are to .fake his pla*e, bo dress in your Sunday bertp my brave editor, and como to dinner with us to-night.—Mildred." ; .

As, an hour later, the ar^t-walked.back to h* room, ijt was he who whistled softly and as he took up Ids palette he laughed' Now. (if I were a cynic," he said,.! -1 snould say vt was a precious good thin* he hadn't pawned his dinner coat.*

"A RAINY-DAY TREAT."

When the Folsoms were children—there wpre «ven of them—their mother conceived the idea of givmg them what she called "a rainy-dav treat." Thev lived two miles ti«n school, and often in the course of the year a storm kept them in the house. That m<ant a trying day for the elder folk, for spven healthy children could orerrun the place and leave no quiet corner for reading dr talking. So the never-tired mother would fiet on foot a corn-popping, or an appleroasting, or a charade party, or a pieturepastmg "bee." or a spelling school, or a candy pull. Whatever the "treat" ,vas nrother was the leading spirit in it, and every child had a good time, and Jielped the others to do the same.

]\lanv years passed over the happy family One by one they left the old farm, until Lo <>no was left but dear "Aunt Eunice," as everybody called her—the good angel of nii'ny a fanidy, although she had do children of her own. Living alone in the old bouse she was not free from lonely longmzs for the merry days of childhood and youth. Out of the homesick desire for kinsfolk—he could no longer call on her neighbors—grew her plan of a " rainy-day treat." Whenevei a storm shut her in, she set about contriving some unexpected pleasure for somebody. Once it waa a long letter to poor old Betsy Sweet, who was in the almshoui-e at Barton, fifteen miles away, and who longed for news of her former neighbors. Another time she made some of her oldfashioned molasses candy, and packed a generous box of it to the widow Droun, to >rLom no one had given a package of sweecs iinoo she was a girl. She knitted a bright dt-arlot sweater for Dick Toz, a half-witted toy, whoso mother could scarcely find food tor his mouth, much more clothes for his oack She selected and packed off a bundle »i books for Mary Flint, kept in bed for three months by a broken hip and eager for reading (o pass the long,, slow days. One day she spent in writing to the minister a, note of thanks for his previous Sunday's sermon, and to the sexton a word of appreciation for the thorough d<-aning he had given the church. So Aunt Eunice's " rainvday treat" reached far and wide throughout her little circle, and left many a life the richer, because into her life had come i\ day "cold, dark, and dreary." the business of which she had conquered by tho radiance of good works.—' Youth's Companion.'