Herald and Planter (Hallettsville, Tex.), Vol. 3, No. 14, Ed. 1 Thursday, October 29, 1874 Page: 1 of 4
This newspaper is part of the collection entitled: Texas Digital Newspaper Program and was provided to The Portal to Texas History by the The Dolph Briscoe Center for American History.
Extracted Text
The following text was automatically extracted from the image on this page using optical character recognition software:
Volito s f -
A WEEKLY NEWSPAPER, DEVOTED TO POLITICS, ABT, LITERATURE, AGRICULTURE, STOCK RAISING, AND THE ENCOURAGEMENT OP IMMIGRATION.
VOLUME III.
HALLETSVILLE, TEXAS, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1874.
ÜT
SOAP-BUBBLES.
by x. b. colquitt.
The children are blowing soap-bubbles
Of many a chaining tint,
With purples and yellows and crimsons
Of opaline glimmer and glint.
They are beautiful spherical rainbows,
And seem to be fashioned of mist,
Of golden and green and scarlet,
And tender amethyst.
Their domes are picture-galleries,
Showing CHsoade and mountain in turn.
With a wealth of waving tree-tops
And carpets of leathery fern;
They have dashes of summer sunsets,
And hues of the morning, too,
The violet.grays of evening,
And the morning's rapturous blue.
They are radiant prisms of glpry,
And gleam like the purest gems,
Jewels fit for tin- settiug
Of princely diadems.
But they are as evanescent
As the mist*of a tropical morn,
Or the bright unrest of a bummtag-bird'to breast—
A word—a flash—4t is gom l
—Chriitian Union.
JOHN ST. GEORGE.
John St. George must have laughed
when he found he was dead.
A shocking thing to write? Oh, yes, 1
dare say. But look you ! Suppose from
the dawn of your earliest intelligence
your whole life had been possessed by a
beautiful aspiration and a golden hope,
ippose thai with increasing kno'
d years there grew apace In your soul,
said Eugene, " you've forgotten (he end-
ing of it, haven't youi Orpheus treated
with contempt the Thraclan women, who
were devotees of BaMius; and for revenge
one da^, In the midst of a wild orgy, these
w sp
Suppose that with increasing knowledge
ye
until it turned itself around the very roots
of your being, the belief that it was your
mission on earth to work out that beauti-
ful aspiration and realize the golden hope.
- Weil, what then? Would that make
anybody laugh when he found he was
dead? Truly, no. But that is not all. I
have read that sometimes the desert trav-
eler lifts up his eyes and sees, only a liftie
way beyond, a glorious landscape of living
greenness, with fountains and streams of
crystal water and shade trees. His eye
brightens with hope; his parched lips al-
ready seem to lave in the sweet water. He
lashes anew the patient beast that carries
him, and rushes frantically forward. All
day he urges himself across the sands, full
of a hope which grows fainter as the shad-
ows lengthen, until at the going down of
the sun the glorious mirage disappears al-
together, and the fainting traveler is far-
' ther away from the sweet fountains and
the shade trees than he was in the morn-
ing.
Suppose you fix your eye on the golden
hope so far beyond and above you.
Through weary years and years you toil
with all your might, and strain every
nerve to work out your aspiration. You
labor like a bond slave, while others stop
sometimes to play; you are awake and at
work while others sleep ; you push on
across the hot sands whi'e oi hers stop to
rest, and at last—what then ? When the
shadows lengthen, and the darkness falls,
and you are too weary ever to work any
more, you are further from the beautiful
aspiration than you were in thedawn ; the
golden hope has vanished, and you can no
longer see it at all, because your eves are
go blinded by the unwept tears of disap-
pointment. ' Would you not rejoicc to lay
the burden- down, and be away with the
dead ? If there were no life hereafter,
death would be a blessed rest; if there
were a hereafter, then In the ble.ssed new
life you might be free from the weight
which has clogged you here—yea, in that
blessed hereafter you might still win the
golden hope which had vanished from
your fainting eyes here.
So I say John St. George
laughed when he found ne was dead.
He hadn't laughed much for ten years be-
fore that, poor sonl! So If he wa=; ever to
laugh again through the whole couise of
his eternity, ic must have been after he
was dead. Jolly enough he was, too,
when he was a boy, and lie always had his
joke with the best of them, until after his
marriage. Then he "settled down."
He was a musical composer In a humble
way. Nothing great or grand you know,
like the old masters and those. He wasn't
even a bit like the modern gentlemen
who write fashionable Italian opera. He
was only a simple, humble composer of
ballad music and dance waltzes, pretty
enough In their way. and sweet enough,
all of them. Nothing more than that,
though when you listened attentively to
his later songs at times a strange quiver
would run through the tender, graceful
melody, almost a discord it seemed there,
which was a fiünt suggestion of something
ineffably powerful and profound, of a
thought struggling to shape itself into
sound Ineffably beyond and above the
smooth-gliding ballad notes.
John St. George had his dream, like all
the rest of us, God pity us !
' He was handsome, merry and popular,
and found a good sale for all his music.
Ought to have been happy, oughtn't he,
according to all human j uagment ? So he
was, but we are laying bare the secret
thoughts of the young man's soul, now.
He was happy enough In the enjoyment of
the present good; but happier still in the
thought of the future which should be
bétter—the thought of the song which he
should one day write. That was the
dream of John St. George. He had a friend
who was a° poet, a fair-haired enthusiast
that never wrote verses wherein trees
rhymed with breeze. In his confidential
moments John St. George said to the poet
sometimes:
"Write me the words of my songt
The ancient Orphic legend is always In my
mind, Eugene. Apollo himself gave Or-
pheus a golden lyre, and taught him to
play it. Therefore the singer moved
through the foreste and enchanted wild
beasts; the good ship Argo heard him and
glided softly down Into the sea;
the moving rocks which would have
crushed the ship heard his enchanted lyre,
and were fixed in their places, and the
ship moved on in safety; next the
sleepless Celchian dragon .which guarded
the «olden fleece heard the music of the
divine singer, and was soothed to slumber.
O, Eugene I Nobody knows It, but some
day I shall write a song. When I have
lived enough and learned enough. My
song shall draw tears from ladies' eyes,
and make world-hardened men re-live,
while they hear it, the chivalrous and ten-
der dreams of their youth. My song shall
be a song of everlasting youth. Children
shall hear it and laugh; old people shall
listen and weep, because of all the remem-
brances of the sweet, vanished time which
It re„<all8; and It shall enchant all the
world Into being young again, with the
noblest part of youth. That shall be niy
song, Eugene, and you are to write the
words of It."
" Now, speaking of that Orphic legend,"
cfaz- Bacchanalian creatures lald'hold on
the divine singer and tore him all to pieces;
To be sure, the muses collected the frag-
ments of him and burled them at the foot
of Olympus, and the nightingale sang
lovingly over his grave, but that was only
floor consolation for being torn limb from
imbby a pack of frenzied lady drunkards.
Notice whar the interpretation thereof is.
Orpheus, the disciple of Apollo, represents
pure intellect; the gross, crazy Bacchantes
are the mere pleasures of the senses. In-
tellect is torn to pieces and destroyed by
the senses at last. Beware of the ending,
St. George."
"Fol-d'e-rol!" said John St. George.
St. George was a wonderfM performrr
on the piano, and a good singer besides.
He belonged to the St. Csecilian Musical
Society. One afternoon some members of
the society thought it would be a fine
thing tb run up to the pretty little neigh-
boring city of X-— ana serenade some of
their acquaintances—the family of the
Mayor or the town among the rest. The
Mayor's daughter was the handsomest
young lady in the State, people said. John
St. George went with the other veung
men, not to serenade the Mayor's daugh-
ter particularly, because he bad-never seen
her. Moreover.Tie did not care especially
for handsome young; ladies. But John
St. George was the best and rarest of so-
cial spirits, so the young men begged him
to go with them.
They spun merrily along in the train to-
ward X., laughing, joking and humming
the airs wherewith they were to* enchant
the X.'ans. Suddenly St. George leaned
forward to the next seat and very carefully
extricated something which had caiight
under the edge of a brass-headed nail in
Hie back of the seat. He. held It up
triumphantly between the thumb and fin-
ger.
" By Jove 1 fellows, look" what I liave
found." "
It was the tip of an ostrich plume from
a lady's hat. Hue and delicate.1 The plume
had been a black plume,long, feathery and
waving, daintily tipped with orange. A
faint. Sue perfume seemed to linger around
it. The young man held it up to view a
moment, and then deposited it solemnly In
his vest pocket.
" There," said John St. George, " when
I find the girl who lost it—that's,my
wife."
I he young men laughed.
" May be she's black," said one. "May
be she's married already," said another.
" May be she won't have you," suggested
a third.
" You'll see," replied St. George.
At X they left the train and walked
through the street. A large, pretentious
looking dwelling attracted their attention.
St. George had occasion to remember it
well years after that. It was a most re-
markable looking mansion, particularly_ln
the laying oil of colors. It WüS painted a '
vivid yellow, to begin. The cornice was '
a most brilliant red, the window-shutters
were bright grass green, the celling of the
. . r- '-blu
veranda about the house was sky-blue, and
all the columns were glaring white.
John St. George stood stock still at the
sight of it, and laughed immoderately, as
ill-bred young men will do in a strange
town.
" 1 think that fellow had better haul the
rainbow down and tack it up on his house
at once," said he.
Eugene Aruot poked him in the ribs.
Hold your tongue, man. His Honor the
Mayor's residence."
St. Georgelaughed again. *' Hia Honor
has an eye," he said.
But the time came when John St.
George thought that rainbow-colored res-
idence the most charming mansion in the
world.
Some of the serenading party had the
honor to be friends in -the family of his
Honor the Mayor. They called to pay
their respects to his Honor's family,'and
took John St. George with them. "His
Honor's carriage stood at the door as they
carne up, and a most beautiful you
lady was just stepping gracefully out
it. ° Eugene Arnot nudged St. George's el-
bow.
"His Hpnor'sdaughter," he whispered.
His Honor's daughter returned the salu-
tation of the little party like a queen, and'
bowud to St. George, sweet, stately-and
ladylike. She was pleased and flattered
to meet the handsome young composer.
St. George, with his artist eye and intu-
itions, thought he had tiever seen so beau-
tiful a woman, whose manner at the same
time was so perfect'. She turned to lead
der the place from having an air of
ness ana newness, and proclaiming
the housetops that it is the abode <
raw-
from
anew
rich. What makes the new rich always
build his home In that manner? I don't
know.
But that was what his Honor the Mayor
did, and that was what his Honor the
Mayor was. Her Honor the May
was something different. She was the
living Incarnation of Yankee "drive,."
There are people whose whole physlogo-
my reminds you invariably of some inan-
imate object. Her Honor the Mayoress
was like a pair of tailor's big shears,
ugly and sharp. And for her ever.
dress sha usually wore a black gown
white polka dots in it, like so many awi
white eyes, everlastingly staribg you o1
of countenance. But the beautiful
ter was' wholly charming to Ji _
George, and she seemed rUlly as much
pleased with him.
Was it a match? Was it love at first
sight? Did the course of true love ran
smooth ? Softly, softly, and one at a time.
To tell the truth, John St. George had
never loved any woman half as muck
as he loved the ideal of his wonder-
ful unwritten song. I think he had
dreams so much about that that he had
never given mufíh thought to young la-
dies. His eye wascharmed with the sight
of Margaret, as it woHld have been with a
pale, gorgeous lily, but 1 am sure no sweet
dream ot her ever nestled in his heart.
The sweet dream of his unwritten song
nestled there. A. spell was over him,
though. To tell the truth, equally on the
other side, fair Margaret had made up her
mind to inake a connuest> of John St.
George, and to marry him. Women will>
do the like. In fact, I've knowq it happen
myself. So a spell, which-he c6uld not
break, was thrown over Jobo, St. George.
At last Eugene Arnot said: /
" You're in lovti with nis Honor's
daughter." : ti is
"No, no!" he replied* #iI2m only in
love with a dream—tne; dream of my,un-
wrftten song. I'm going to Italy, Eugene,
tb study."
" Then I think I'd-start íqmiQnraw,, Jf I
were you," answered Eugene, drily.
When he came to think It over he . tflm-
self concluded Eugene's advloé^whs
He made his preparations "
his friends. IleBjtfo#
self in magnificent toilet, and visited her
friends, and made long trips of travel, and
wherever she went his Honor's daughter
was the admired of men and womeir. And
St. George? Was at home in a shabby
coat and trousers, perplexing his soul In
a desperate attempt to keep the house to-
gether and make both ends meet, and
grinding out waltzes and polkas more dis-
tractedly than ever. John St. George was
more "Industrious" than ever. He had
never dreamed a wife was so expensive an
article of furniture.
" We must have a new carriage and a
horses, Instead of a single
said his wife one da'
pair of 1
Margaret till the!
ready to sail he' i
ter, and told her he was going away to
udy in the native land of the old
masters. Then preséfltfy*BBít<50Típliat in
^ZSjSHtSK/IL your
friendship haa been to mc, and, when i
am over the sea-
it. George
look at the feather in her bat," he
whispered.
She turned her graceful neck at that mo-
ment so that the rich, waving plume of her
dainty hat came full into view. It was a
black plume, faintly shot through with
ing orange, and a little of the tip of
gone. St. George blushed scarlet,
and hung his heqd like a sheepish school-
boy.
His Honor's daughter was a beauty of
the magnificent sort, like Queen Zenobia
or some of those old ones. She was apa'«,
brunette, with á beantifUl hand, a large,
gorgeous creature, with great,alow, Ijrorn,
liquid eyes, like ox-eyea Junó. Her-name
was Margaret, and she had sense enough
to write It so. She wouldn't babyize her-
self to th^extent of making an ie out of
herself.
She charmed the artistic intuitions of the
soul of John St. George. But the fother
" queenly wo-
She tuiroed her" head
ras it a sob which ,shoOkijttie Stately
iroat? He laid down his .bat and took
the beautiful hand ln his own. A tear-fell
on the hand which he extended. Marga-
ret was crying. A look of intensé pun
and trouble flitted across his face.
'«If I have causedj
or Borrow, Miss Margaret,
can never forgive - myielE''
She shook away from his clasp and cov-
ered her face with both hands, and tears
rolled down her lovely fingers. He sat
down beside her and gently drew away the
lovely fingers, and it was- ail over with
him. He kissed the tear-stained cheek
softly, and said: ... . .
"I never thought you cared for me,
Miss Margaret—If I might venture to hope
that I could be besldeyou always "
That was how shebroughtdown her
game.
John St. George went Out.lltfough the
doors of the
man, and saying to' himself already, half-
regretfUlly—we may as well tell the truth,
you know—that now he had two dreams
instead of one. His fate was his own fauit
after that, do you say? and he was a fool
for being weak enough to'let her trap
him ? On 1 yes; of course. But I guess
we are all fools, more or-less.
Next time ^society" saw his Honor's
daughter a splendid diamond engagement
ring shone Upon her beautiful hand, and
John St. George wasn't going to Italy
right; away. In due time there was a
grand wedding in the rainbow mansion.
Twish we might close here, add dare say
you do, too. But the story which I start-
ed to'tell you Is not yet ended . The grand
wedding is only the l^egin^lng of that
story.
His Honor's daughter' thovght she had
secured a rich man. She was mistaken.
man-
for
... ihore
Iban she ever knew, or cared to know, be-
cause, likeJRosamond,in " Mlddlemarch,"
she measured a man's geniusby the money
he gained ; IfatWwa«n<#*^p^u6l ndi.
For that crime, when she discovered it, Ills
Honor's daughter never-forgave John St.
z
It shortly became _
8ciousness of John St.
give up Italy and study, for
£nd work'for his wife. A flue'
e would be, truly, Who -.
mother of this gorgeous, queenly wo-
l made a singular impression upon
i,' he remembered, afterward1. His
and mother of this
man ■■
himpHHH ■
Honor, the Mayor, was a puffy parvenu,
one of the " new rich," as the French ssy.
You might have known that from the
trees around his great, rainbow-colored
house. They were the merest saplings,
no thicker than' your thumb, some of
them. That is howlt-ls always. Your
" new rich," no matter how rich he is.
never has á comfortable cosy old houi
with beautiful, great old ' '
looms of the human race
Not he I Your " new rich!', selects a bare,
bald spot, and presently builds himself a
costly, bald-headed house, Without a tree
or a vine around it. Then he sods the
ugly, yellow dirt over the top, and brings
wagon -loads of little slim saplings and tries
to coax them to grow and adorn the bnre
spot and the splendid bald-headed- bonse,
Mid not an angel from heaven could bin
con-
must
resent,
of man
__ Ih't and
wouldn't maintain" hir*w1ft wmrfortably.
John St. George was more than willing to
testow on his Honor's ¿laughter every
>os8ible comfort and luxtiiyv So he
iheerfully gave up one of his two dreams
for the time, and devoted~hlmself exclus-
velyto the other 1____
In went to work manfUUy jta the old
racks, .pouring out tender, graóefUl bal-
lads, dreamy WfflftSSs, and brisk, sparkling
polkas, with a facility and rapidity which
astonished himself.
" St. George's marriage liMfmade a man
of httn." said a brisk merchant to
Arnot. "He is ten times as Industrious as
he used to be."
But somehow it didn't seem to strike
noth-
halfeor-
if he
>hlc legend.
thegold-
" and
or
Eugene In the same way.
ing; but only gave a "
roW shake oT the h
ed reading Of
bered it as
i shores of I tal
rflher/-"
,^s aaMr
" Mr. St. George keepi 'MtiSe, and Mrs,
alter a nouse,"sald his Honor's da „
"and surely ^ou don't expect me to
o?r •'
ishto,
Accot
ordered
snd discharged
himself: JI
ing I
Mrs. St. George ■
single one,
" But, my dear, ^can't afford It," said
he.
"Afford! there it is again! You've said
that wretched word two or three times,
lately. I wonder what you married n*
for?"
John St. George smote his forehead.
" God knows I've wondered that myself a
hundred times," he said to himself.
"Why couldn't you teach music?"
grumbled his wife, " if you must work
Uke anv common man ? "
" So I will, Margaret. You shall have
your carriage," replied St. George.
People wondered when he began to re-
ceive music pupils. But the undertaking
prospered, and his Honor's daughter was
more magnificent than ever. A great
change came over St. George, though.
When he went out to the sidewalk some-
times, to accompany his queenly, splendid
wife to her carriage door, those who did
wan of his Honor's daughter, only that
the footman was ever so much oetter
dressed. The change in St. George be-
came unspeakably painfUl to Eugene Ar-
not, and a few or the friends of other days.
How about Italy and the wonderful
unwritten song?" asked Eugene one day.
Sc. George tried to smile, but the smue
died in a mournful sigh. " I ve not for-
gotten it yet, but sometimes I'm afraid
now I'll never write It. Eugene, I don't
know why it is, but my life is a failure."
" I know why It Is," muttered Eugene
Arnot; " confound women!"
"Hush!" said St. George, with calm
dignity. " In this world every one must
give a part of his life for the life and hap-
Iness of others, and sometimes the part
ie is forced to give out of his life is the
best part. In another world I hope we
shall all have better sense. When I die I
want you to have them chant over my
grave the melody of the song which was
never written.'^
Eugene Arnot looked at the other keen-
y. " What melancholy nonsense Is this Y"
he exelalmed. " Are you losing your
senses, St. George?"
"Yes," answered St. George, calmly.
" I am."
The pale, nervous, shabby little man
went back to his waltzes ana his pupils.
He did better and better, began actually to
get on la the world, In spite of the fear-
ful drain at home, and his Honor, the
juffy-faced father-in-law, smiled approv-
ngly. One day St. George actually
mentioned the old dream again to Eugene
Arnot.
" If I do as well as this, one more year,
and don't go crazy before the year is out, I
do believe! can go to Italy after all."
It is a blessed provision of creation that
wo do not know the future, even three
days ahead. Three days after he had
spoken to Eugene, John St. George was
standing beside the piano, timing the les-
son for a wretchedly stupid pupil. The
pupil made horrible havoc of .both time
ana tune, and St. George was suffering
fear fUlly.
"La, la, la," said the master, timing with
his huid.
" Turn, turn, turn," thumped the stupid
pupil.
"I think I'll sit down,", said the mas-
" Now go over ágdln louder—la, la,
Heroes, Every Oae of 1km.
In a sub-report of his recent fight With
the Indians, General Miles says:
" I deem it but a duty to brave men and
faithful soldiers tct bring to the notice of
and WU-
rolstn g/i the part of a
this oiinmand) with the request that the
actors be rewarded, and their faithfulness
and bravery recognized.
" On the night of the 10th Inst,
consisting or Sergt. Z. I. Wo
Company I, Privates ,
A, John Harrington, Company H," and
George W. Smith, Company M, Fifth
Cavalry, Scout* Ames Chi
liam Dixon, were sent as
patches from the camp of
on MeCleUan Creek, Texai
ply, I. T. At 6 a.m. on .
approaching the WashitaBlver,
met and surrounded by a band i
dlans, Kiowas and Comanches, who
recently left their agency, and at the flrst
attack all were struck. Private Smith
tally and three others severely wounded.
Although enclosed on all slde«,and by over-
whelming numbers, one of them succeeded
while they were under a severe fire at short
range, and while the others with their
rifles were keeping the Indians at bay, in
digging with his knife and hands a slight
cover. After this had been secured they
placed themselves within it, the wounded
walking with brave and painfUl efforts, and
Private Smith, though be had reoelved a
mortal wound, sitting upright within the
trench to concesl the crippled condition of
their party from the Indians.
" From early morning until dark, out-
numbered 26 to one, under an almost con-
stant fire and at suoh short range that they
sometimes used their pistols, retaining
their last charge to prevent capture and
torture, this little party of five defended
their lives and the person of their dying
comrade, without food, and. their only
drink the rain-water that collected in a
pool, mingled with their own blood.
There Is no doubt but that they killed
more than double their own number,
besides those that were wounded. The In-
dians abandoned the attack at dark, on the
"The exposure and distance from the
command, which were necessary Incidents
of their duty, were such that for thirty-six
hours from the flrst attack their condition
could not be known, and net till midnight
of the 12th could they receive medical at-
tendance or food, exposedduring this time
to an incessant cold storm.
"Sergt. Woodhaul, Private Harrington
and Scout Chapman were seriously wound-
ed. Private Smith died of bis wounds on
the morning of the 13th. Private Bath
and Soout Dixon were struck, but not dis-
abled.
"Thesimple recital of their deeds, and
the mention of the odds against which they
fought, how the wounded defended the
«lying, Mid the^yinar aided the wonnded
by exposure to fresh wounds after the
power of action was gone, these alone pre-
sent a scene of cool courage, heroism and
self-sacrifice, which duty, as well as incli-
nation, prompts us;to recognise, but which
we cannot fluy honor."
nrjoMT p.
face.
"How ma
Taylor," are—„ _
together a handful of
"Hi
text
thing.
Eft* "Why*ltyebetw*?«>
IjáStóM ||1
*«vS¡ ■
■><** '
Wrinkles are the flrst tell-tales of a lost
couth, and the wrinkles make their way
n a very stealthy manner. " " ■
comes the faint marking of
about the corner of the eye, and on
each side of the mouth. Assuredly it Is
ter.
la."
Abeavy
was the master.
Turn " began the pupil.
body fell to the floor. It was I
The
for
thrilled through
" ughter and the servants came running
Idly. They lifted the master to a sofa.
IUUy IOU iv uic uuuié Av non iuo uinewi •
L'he pupil opened the door and screamed
or Mrs. St. George, with a scream that
hrilled through the house. His Honor's
_ daughter
with scared eyes and disordered hair,
wringing her hands.
irge is dead! I killed him," she
cried.
"That you did, ma'átai, and may God
've you for It," answered Eugene Ar-
He was not dead, though; not yet. He
gered for a day or so, and[recovered
ionsness
He said hardlv anything inl
gible, however. Once in a while he
babbled feebly about Orpheus and the Bac-
chantes and a great song, but there was
no sense to it, his Honors daughter said.
Once, too, he looked out the window ifith
* had covered the whole
"I don't like walla of bonces covered
with green vines," muttered St. George,
"it's too much like living in a grave."
He did not say anything after that, ex-
to mumble something about a song.
i the sun went down and row again,
oepttc
there came to Hie feW who loved J<
George the saddeM of all human
etice—the-time we begin to say was
of i< of oar friends.
me Arnot placed a pretty gray m<
over his friend's grave. And he
carved on the gray stone, after the name
and age of the dead, the inscription:
"an tmjmnunpD rout."
Sometime when Eugene Arnot visits
St. George's grave, so vividly does the re-
I * „ i grave, so vi
membranes of all that Is
him, that he half
ble sentient
have taken up the refrain
H Oommtreial,
Ths most prolific (
lestrov forming stoc
•res of
The Footprints of Time.
perfection of their maturity. That little
lne, indicative of the fUrrowed future, is
no mere age than the one scariét leaf of
pie in the midst of the green wood 1s
autumn. It is the shadow of the herald if
you wUl; but it is not the real thing.
And so on with all tho rest But it is not
so with our friends. The gap made ~
tween the past and present by years of
■ÜÜM' Üii " ' 1. You left a
senoe is abrupt, unexu
blooming, sleek-haired, slim-walsted ¡
you finda fitted, hollow-ej
ed woman, the mother of Cimurw. «unw-
ed with bad health and tired of her life.
Or you encounter a stout and florid mat-
ron whose bulk is a burden '
a matter not for admiration I
Whose early shyness has woi
en plaoe to a free-and-easy
that may he genial but it
girlish sentimentality has
blushes, and who now
hsr devotion to cham]
salad as among the
worth taking trouble for, and
pleasures ofthe palate as superior to ev-
ery other enjoyment. To be sore, paring
thlnesle I
id talks of the
In your
s eye those snperflu-
you can make out the
and the lips have f
ln montí "
Is that roguish
heart leap when it
Ing point torn "
innocent and i
Where is that
was so oonsclous where
tobiush for? Is It that
tells of lesa tenderness
it Is all you will have of the sweetness,
bsshfUlness that onoe seemed to you
moat exquisite graee on earth.
■ « *«• .'!■■■ -■
Thb
adds the
Sí'lí
E&"
ground is
thatupof
Virginia City (
then tro no i
——
Upcoming Pages
Here’s what’s next.
Search Inside
This issue can be searched. Note: Results may vary based on the legibility of text within the document.
Tools / Downloads
Get a copy of this page or view the extracted text.
Citing and Sharing
Basic information for referencing this web page. We also provide extended guidance on usage rights, references, copying or embedding.
Reference the current page of this Newspaper.
Kyle, S. Lee. Herald and Planter (Hallettsville, Tex.), Vol. 3, No. 14, Ed. 1 Thursday, October 29, 1874, newspaper, October 29, 1874; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth178844/m1/1/: accessed April 23, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting The Dolph Briscoe Center for American History.