XIII.
Creede,Colo., May 13, 1892.My Dear Fitz:—You ask me how theChronicleis doing. It is doingbetter than the editor. I have been reducing expenses on every hand, but since the state land sale, the boom has collapsed, so that from one hundred dollars a week, we have got up to where we lose three hundred a week, with a good prospect for an increase. The responsibility has grown so great, that I begin to feel like a Kansas farm, struggling to bear up under a second mortgage.I have been elected assistant superintendent of the Sunday-school, umpired a prize-fight, been time-keeper at a ball game, have been elected to the common council from the Bad Lands by an overwhelming vote, but I have received no salary as editor of theChronicle.Tabor has written another note, and perpetrated some more poetry:“Among these rose-bejeweled hillsWhere bloom the fairest flowersWhere the echo from the mines and millsThis little vale with music fills,We spent life’s gladdest hours.“And still within this limpid streamWhere sports the speckled trout,Her mirrored face doth glow and gleam;’Twas here I grappled love’s young dream—And here my light went out.”Isn’t that enough to drive a young woman to cigarettes? Some girls it might, but it will never disturb Polly Parsons.CupidIf I did not know Harry as I do, I should say he was learning to love Miss Parsons very rapidly, now that she is rich, but I will not do him that injustice. He has loved her all along, but the prospect of losing her is what makes him restless now. Men who have lived as long as you and I have, know how hard it is to ride bythe side of a beautiful woman over these grand mountains on a May morning, without making love to her;When the restless hand of NatureReaches out to shift the scene,And the brooks begin to warble in the dell;When the waking fields are fluffyAnd the meadow-lands are green,And the tassels on the trees begin to swell.Ah, these are times that try men’s hearts; but poor Harry, he is so timid; why I should have called her down a month ago, if I had his hand.She is too honest to encourage him if she doesn’t really care for him, but she must, she can’t help it, he is almost an ideal young man. Maybe that is where he falls down; I’ve heard it said that a man who istoonice, is never popular with the ladies. Perhaps that is why you and I are pouringour own coffee to-day. Swinburne says—“There is a bitterness in things too sweet.”Polly’s father is here. He brought a Chicago capitalist with him, and the Sure Thing has been sold for sixty-one thousand dollars. I was sorry to learn of the sale, for it will take away from the camp one of the richest and rarest flowers that has ever adorned these hills.Since the great fire, we have all moved to the Tortoni, on the border of the Bad Lands. The parlor is very small, and last night when Harry and the “Silver Queen,” as we call her now, were talking while I pretended to be reading a newspaper, I could not help hearing some of the things they said. Harry wanted her photograph, but she would not give it. She saidshe never gave her pictures to young men, under any circumstances. When she found a young man with whom she could trust her photo, she said she would give him the original. Harry said something very softly then; I did not hear what it was, but she said very plainly, very seriously, that she would let him know before she left.Man reading newspaper“And you go to-morrow?” he asked,and it seemed to me that there were tears in his voice.“Yes,” she said, with a sigh that hinted that she was not altogether glad to go. “Papa has bought the old place back again; we shall stop in Denver for mamma and my little brother, and then return to the dear old home where I have spent so many happy days—where I learned to lisp the prayers that I have never forgotten to say in this wicked camp; and I feel now that God has heard and answered me. It may seem almost wicked, but I am half sorry to leave this place; you have all been so kind to me; but it is best. Father will give you our address, and now, how soon may we expect you in Chicago?”“How soon may I come?—next week—next year?”“Not next year,” she said quickly;and although I was looking at my paper, I saw him raise her hand to his lips.“And will you give me your photo then?” he asked.“Yes,” she whispered, and I wanted to jump and yell, but I was afraid she might change her mind.“I wish you would sing one song for me before you go,” said Harry, after they had been silent for some moments.“What shall it be?”“When other lips,” he answered.“But there should be no other lips,” said the bright and charming woman.“I know there should not, and I hope there may not, but sing it anyway and I will try to be strong and unafraid.”As Miss Parsons went to the piano, I left the room, left them alone, and as I went out into the twilight, Iheard the gentle notes as the light fingers wandered over the keys.“When other lips and other hearts—”Came drifting through the trees.“In language whose excess imparts,”Was borne upon the breeze.Ah, hope is sweet and love is strongAnd life’s a summer sea;A woman’s soul is in her song;“And you’ll remember me.”Still rippling from her throbbing throatWith joy akin to pain,There seemed a tear in every note,A sob in every strain.Soft as the twilight shadows creepAcross the listless lea,The singer sang her love to sleepWith, “You’ll remember me.”Truly yours,Cy Warman.
Creede,Colo., May 13, 1892.
My Dear Fitz:—You ask me how theChronicleis doing. It is doingbetter than the editor. I have been reducing expenses on every hand, but since the state land sale, the boom has collapsed, so that from one hundred dollars a week, we have got up to where we lose three hundred a week, with a good prospect for an increase. The responsibility has grown so great, that I begin to feel like a Kansas farm, struggling to bear up under a second mortgage.
I have been elected assistant superintendent of the Sunday-school, umpired a prize-fight, been time-keeper at a ball game, have been elected to the common council from the Bad Lands by an overwhelming vote, but I have received no salary as editor of theChronicle.
Tabor has written another note, and perpetrated some more poetry:
“Among these rose-bejeweled hillsWhere bloom the fairest flowersWhere the echo from the mines and millsThis little vale with music fills,We spent life’s gladdest hours.“And still within this limpid streamWhere sports the speckled trout,Her mirrored face doth glow and gleam;’Twas here I grappled love’s young dream—And here my light went out.”
“Among these rose-bejeweled hillsWhere bloom the fairest flowersWhere the echo from the mines and millsThis little vale with music fills,We spent life’s gladdest hours.“And still within this limpid streamWhere sports the speckled trout,Her mirrored face doth glow and gleam;’Twas here I grappled love’s young dream—And here my light went out.”
“Among these rose-bejeweled hillsWhere bloom the fairest flowersWhere the echo from the mines and millsThis little vale with music fills,We spent life’s gladdest hours.
“Among these rose-bejeweled hills
Where bloom the fairest flowers
Where the echo from the mines and mills
This little vale with music fills,
We spent life’s gladdest hours.
“And still within this limpid streamWhere sports the speckled trout,Her mirrored face doth glow and gleam;’Twas here I grappled love’s young dream—And here my light went out.”
“And still within this limpid stream
Where sports the speckled trout,
Her mirrored face doth glow and gleam;
’Twas here I grappled love’s young dream—
And here my light went out.”
Isn’t that enough to drive a young woman to cigarettes? Some girls it might, but it will never disturb Polly Parsons.
Cupid
If I did not know Harry as I do, I should say he was learning to love Miss Parsons very rapidly, now that she is rich, but I will not do him that injustice. He has loved her all along, but the prospect of losing her is what makes him restless now. Men who have lived as long as you and I have, know how hard it is to ride bythe side of a beautiful woman over these grand mountains on a May morning, without making love to her;
When the restless hand of NatureReaches out to shift the scene,And the brooks begin to warble in the dell;When the waking fields are fluffyAnd the meadow-lands are green,And the tassels on the trees begin to swell.
When the restless hand of NatureReaches out to shift the scene,And the brooks begin to warble in the dell;When the waking fields are fluffyAnd the meadow-lands are green,And the tassels on the trees begin to swell.
When the restless hand of Nature
Reaches out to shift the scene,
And the brooks begin to warble in the dell;
When the waking fields are fluffy
And the meadow-lands are green,
And the tassels on the trees begin to swell.
Ah, these are times that try men’s hearts; but poor Harry, he is so timid; why I should have called her down a month ago, if I had his hand.
She is too honest to encourage him if she doesn’t really care for him, but she must, she can’t help it, he is almost an ideal young man. Maybe that is where he falls down; I’ve heard it said that a man who istoonice, is never popular with the ladies. Perhaps that is why you and I are pouringour own coffee to-day. Swinburne says—
“There is a bitterness in things too sweet.”
Polly’s father is here. He brought a Chicago capitalist with him, and the Sure Thing has been sold for sixty-one thousand dollars. I was sorry to learn of the sale, for it will take away from the camp one of the richest and rarest flowers that has ever adorned these hills.
Since the great fire, we have all moved to the Tortoni, on the border of the Bad Lands. The parlor is very small, and last night when Harry and the “Silver Queen,” as we call her now, were talking while I pretended to be reading a newspaper, I could not help hearing some of the things they said. Harry wanted her photograph, but she would not give it. She saidshe never gave her pictures to young men, under any circumstances. When she found a young man with whom she could trust her photo, she said she would give him the original. Harry said something very softly then; I did not hear what it was, but she said very plainly, very seriously, that she would let him know before she left.
Man reading newspaper
“And you go to-morrow?” he asked,and it seemed to me that there were tears in his voice.
“Yes,” she said, with a sigh that hinted that she was not altogether glad to go. “Papa has bought the old place back again; we shall stop in Denver for mamma and my little brother, and then return to the dear old home where I have spent so many happy days—where I learned to lisp the prayers that I have never forgotten to say in this wicked camp; and I feel now that God has heard and answered me. It may seem almost wicked, but I am half sorry to leave this place; you have all been so kind to me; but it is best. Father will give you our address, and now, how soon may we expect you in Chicago?”
“How soon may I come?—next week—next year?”
“Not next year,” she said quickly;and although I was looking at my paper, I saw him raise her hand to his lips.
“And will you give me your photo then?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered, and I wanted to jump and yell, but I was afraid she might change her mind.
“I wish you would sing one song for me before you go,” said Harry, after they had been silent for some moments.
“What shall it be?”
“When other lips,” he answered.
“But there should be no other lips,” said the bright and charming woman.
“I know there should not, and I hope there may not, but sing it anyway and I will try to be strong and unafraid.”
As Miss Parsons went to the piano, I left the room, left them alone, and as I went out into the twilight, Iheard the gentle notes as the light fingers wandered over the keys.
“When other lips and other hearts—”Came drifting through the trees.“In language whose excess imparts,”Was borne upon the breeze.Ah, hope is sweet and love is strongAnd life’s a summer sea;A woman’s soul is in her song;“And you’ll remember me.”Still rippling from her throbbing throatWith joy akin to pain,There seemed a tear in every note,A sob in every strain.Soft as the twilight shadows creepAcross the listless lea,The singer sang her love to sleepWith, “You’ll remember me.”
“When other lips and other hearts—”Came drifting through the trees.“In language whose excess imparts,”Was borne upon the breeze.Ah, hope is sweet and love is strongAnd life’s a summer sea;A woman’s soul is in her song;“And you’ll remember me.”Still rippling from her throbbing throatWith joy akin to pain,There seemed a tear in every note,A sob in every strain.Soft as the twilight shadows creepAcross the listless lea,The singer sang her love to sleepWith, “You’ll remember me.”
“When other lips and other hearts—”Came drifting through the trees.“In language whose excess imparts,”Was borne upon the breeze.Ah, hope is sweet and love is strongAnd life’s a summer sea;A woman’s soul is in her song;“And you’ll remember me.”
“When other lips and other hearts—”
Came drifting through the trees.
“In language whose excess imparts,”
Was borne upon the breeze.
Ah, hope is sweet and love is strong
And life’s a summer sea;
A woman’s soul is in her song;
“And you’ll remember me.”
Still rippling from her throbbing throatWith joy akin to pain,There seemed a tear in every note,A sob in every strain.Soft as the twilight shadows creepAcross the listless lea,The singer sang her love to sleepWith, “You’ll remember me.”
Still rippling from her throbbing throat
With joy akin to pain,
There seemed a tear in every note,
A sob in every strain.
Soft as the twilight shadows creep
Across the listless lea,
The singer sang her love to sleep
With, “You’ll remember me.”
Truly yours,Cy Warman.
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