The Calumet Chieftain. (Calumet, Okla.), Vol. 2, No. 41, Ed. 1 Friday, February 18, 1910 Page: 3 of 8
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ZA.WEIL-t
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SYNOPSIS.
Richard Herring, returning from u win-
ter in the woods to his mother's farm
home, is overtaken by his uncle, accom-
panied by Ills occontrir Wife, coming it)
pay u visit at the farm. Aunt Jeruslia'H
•jw-ntions about Kniily Mutton, supposed
to be Derrins's sweetheart, reVeal the
fart that alio is in marry another. Disap-
pointrncnt stimuiat.-s Derrinu's ambition,
a Ad under the advice of Setli Kinney. a
hermit of the woods, he resolves to tit
hiinsell for eollrge. Kinney teaches him
'•reek and he passes his entrance examin-
Htionn truimpliantly, winning the approv-
al of tin* professor. Four y«*ars in college
obliterates the memory of Kmily. Herring
begins journalistic work in Chicago,
where lie meets llelcn Gordon, an artist.
Derring is promoted to art critic* on his
paper. I!eI«* 11 refuses to marry him and
hamper both their careers, but they on- i
ter into a eompanionship compact, ifelen i
suffers ill effects from sketching on tii" !
lake shore in January. Illness brings her '
Into closer relationship with Richard. J
Herring is called home by the illness of j
Soth Kinney. Seth dies, leaving Herring j
h small fortune. Herring returns to Chi-
cago. Helen starts on a visit to her home
In tlie east, and is killed in a railroad ae- j
« ident. She leaves a message for ltlch-
ard, saying: "I shall come buck to you if j
1 can. But if not " Derring throws him-
self into his work to find forget fulness.
He finds peaee in ministering to others
with no hope «>f happiness for himself. ;
Kor ten years Herring continues this i
work.
CHAPTER XIX—Continued
For the dilettante philanthropists
who posed amid the picturesque
squalor of the slums he had only the
keenest shaft of ridicule. It was his
insight that made those who were
taking up the work in earnest seek
his advice. While ho had not gone
into it in person, he was cognizant of
every step taken, and often, by his
shrewd counsel, balanced the senti-
mentality of over-enthusiasm.
The young men we're waiting to
consult him as to the best way of
dealing with a pair of philanthropic
cranks who persisted in thrusting
themselves into the work and who, by
their obtuseness, were undoing the
best results of the past year. While
waiting for Herring and discussing
the situation, they had drifted into
talking of his fitness for the work and
of the strange delicacy thi}t kept him
from it.
"lie stands ready enough to help
any of lis fellows that come to him.
Hut 1 suppose that's just it these
people don't get in his way and we
do Lucky for me, I did!"
A laugh tippled the undercurrent of
the speaker's words. He was seated
in an office-chair, his hat thrust back,
a shock of reddish-brown hair rising
straight above the broad white fore-
head. He looked as if he might be
the driver of an express cart or of
any vehicle that rumbled and rattled.
In reality, he was an artist of much
promise. His sketches had in them
depth of sentiment that gave even
greater promise than their technique.
Three years ago no one had believed
that he would ever be anything more
'han a dabbler in art He had had
seated himself at the desk, lie took;
up his pen and threw off the depres- (
siou with an effort. He was only.
tired. He would go away next week
for a rest. Meantime— (teaching for
a sheet of paper he began to write.
He wrote rapidly, referring now and
then to the letters he had pushed
aside, sealing each note as it was
finished and laying it on the pile at
hand. When the last one was done,
he ran over the scattered letters lie
fore him, filing some for reference,
tearing others across and throwing
them into the waste-basket.
He looked at his watch—nine
o'clock—half an hour yet. Kising he
stretched himself and looked about
the room. He moved to the window.
It was a moonlight night and shadows
hung luminous everywhere, irradiat-
ing bricks and tiles and trees. From
a tower near by the clock sounded,
spreading sonorously in the still air.
The curtain swayed a little in the
breeze and he looped it back. Return-
ing to his desk and moving the drop-
light to the table lie drew a big chair
beside it. lie searched among the
books on the table and took up a vol
ume of poems.
The poems were Conway's He had
seen most of tlieni before—in manu-
script. But he wanted to read them
again. He had not decided what to
you so? He doesn't seem to do any-
thing in particular. But somehow
after you once know him you can't
get along without him."
1 lis companion sat lost in thought
"I till ink it is because Derring needs
lis," lie said at last.
"Needs us?"
"Yes. 1 never knew a man that
needed people as he does. He gives
himself and never asks. But a love
like that must carry with it a need.
If Derring so much as lays his hand
on my arm, I feel a power between
us—a sort of spiritual magnetism
that I can no more resist than 1 can
resist my own heart. It somehow
asks as well as gives."
"Oh, well. Conway, you're a poet.
You can't expect a mere artist like
me to understand anything that can't
bo put into black and white. But he's
good enough for me."
"For your philanthropic cranks,"
said Herring as they laid the case be-
fore him, "you must have an organiza-
tion."
They protested in one breath.
"1 know. You think that as soon as
a movement has taken on organization
it has lost its vitality. That is a mis-
taken view of the case, my young
triends. Organizations were invented
to give employment to cranks. You
must make offices and put them in.
They will have so much to do run-
ning the offices that they will let
the poor" alone for awhile. When
movement is well under way it must say to liis visitor. The room was
have an organization as a life-pre-1 very still. Something burrejl at the
1 He Sank Back—the Face Was Gone.
server.
"I suppose it must," said the art-
ist with a sigh. "Can you help us
about the constitution if we come
around to-morrow?"
"Come to my room at ten. I'll be
free then "
They rose to go. But the poet
lingered a minute.
Herring looked at him inquiringly.
"It's nothing," lie said, smiling, "I
was only wondering if I might come
a little early?"
"To-night?"
"There's something 1 want tc
. vfii) rjbout—if I may."
' Of course. Come—" lit
"I was going to take
hand," he said
, you—"
"Meet you?"
"At the breakwater
thirty."
The poet's face lighted. "I will be
; there. It's something 1 can't decide!
i for myself—"
"Then don't expect me to."
"No. Von wilt help lue to see it. I
I am not sure of mvself.
screen, tapping iL with light touches
a June bug. perhaps. Herring paid no
heed. Ho was absorbed in the page
before him. The light fluttered a lit-
tle and he looked up impatiently, lie
turned it down, glancing towards the
open window, lie took up tlie book
again. But the poems had lost their
hold I lis eye was on the page, but
about him. around him, something
stirred. He raised his eyes slowly, j
looking towards the window. Against
the screen, faint against the moon
light, lie saw it—her face—smiling to I
him, the eyes shining mistily. I lei
| half rose, stretching out his hands to j
paused.f * - -s
a walk before
'Why couldn't
At niic
gone. But her voice, softly, was
speaking to him through the distance:
"You are coming—coming—coming
With a quick exclamation he turned.
The light at his side had gone out. I
The room lay in darkness, lie stared j
before him. She was not there. No
one was there. It was the common
prosaic darkle ss of a .Mine night.
CHAPTER XXI.
"She is like her."
"Yes."
There was a long silence between
theni. The breeze from the lake had
freshened. Little ripples scudded to
the moonlight. Faint clouds drifted
above them.
"1 should not mind being Chopin,"
said the poet. His eyes were on the
lake.
"No."
"He had his life. His heart wag
freed."
"Yes—and broke."
"1 know, i can't say it—yet. Uut
somehow I fce^ it. He had all that
life could give--even death—because
of love."
"And because he held it," said Her-
ring.
The other started. "You advise
me—"
Herring shook his head, smiling. ;
"Don't put it on me. You know—bet- j
ter than I can. I only know that
without love there is nothing. It is i
what life means—love—great or j
small. Out of the heart of it we came j
and to it we shall return. The heart
must love if it would live. It' a man
turns from it, puts it away, is afraid
of It—loses it—" He slopped sudden-
ly. A picture of the wood-road
Hashed before liini and Setli Olney's
bent figure, short and stolid. That
was what had happened to Seth. He
luid shut his heart, lie ceased to
live.
In a few words Herring sketched the
story of Seth's life. "That's wli.vt 1
mean," he said. "Ho let love go Hlg
life shriveled "
The poet's eyes glowed. "I shall
hold it," he said, quietly, "and if sha I
fails me—"
"You will still have love."
"Yes."
"You will love some one—sonie-
t liiug—"
lake Shelley?" The poet stole a
smile at him, half-humorous.
"lake Sholley, if you will," said
Derring, "or like Dante. The true sip
and the fi< kle drink at. the same
spring. All that is good in Shelley
came from his fickleness. It is the
soul that is dissolved—freed by love
-that makes glad the world. When
love goes, the soul grows hard, com-
pact—useless -except to fight with."
' Fxcept to fight with?" said the
poet. I am no fighter."
They nad turned again and were
walking to the north. Clouds ob-
scured the moon The dusk was faint-
ly luminous. Far up the distant road
a pair of crimson eyes glowed through
it, from an appioaching vehicle.
With one accc.nl they turned to
watch the lake. A summer storm
was gatln ring. Lightning played here
and there, in open flashes, on the dark
water. Deep mutters of thunder fol-
lowed it challenginglv. The wind "had
lulled. \ silence held the air, flutter-
ing with light, Fpon it, in the dis-
tance, sounded the faint purr of the
crimson-eyed vehicle. It resolved it-
sell into the puffing approach of an
automobile. For a moment the moon
strove to reassert itself. A silver
shimmer came in the darkness. The
striking,of l he, clock boomed through
if. I hey Y'oiilii<''ii'YtV>'l'Siroiii"s "*
Ten o'clock," said Herring. "They
will be waiting for us."
".lust a minute," pleaded the poet.
The hush of darkness gathered it-
self. Through it. sounded swift, whir-
ring puffs of iin' automobile louder
and nearer -with hurrying clanging
bell.
Herring glanced over his shoulder.
They were racing with the storm.
KIDNEY TROUBLE
Suffered Ten Years—Relieved in Three
Months Thanks to PE-RU-NA.
Fiztn,
n,.
CHAPTER XX.
for
\[( H< ;*>'
him at tli
paced up and
path of light a
The poet brol
don't know h< i.
fensive.
I't'.d found Conway waitiu
breakwater The
down, watching th
ross the water.
the silence. "Yo
The tone was d<
The night was wann, but a breeze
came from the lake, fitfully. It greet-
ed Derring as he opened tile door of
his room after dinner.
Groping his way to the droplignt on
his desk, he had a sense, as he went.
of displacing, in the darkness, other
forms and personalities. He often felt
it in coming into a vacant room—al-
ways if the room was dark or half
lighted—that sense of other forms
giving way to his, retreating, gliding
past, with noiseless being. Always
for a minute they jostled him, as if
unable to escape Then, in a breath
his presence filled the room—to the
furthest living corner. There was no
one there.
He found the droplight and reached j made the quit i gesture
for a match. The breeze stirred again i don't understand
and blew against the hand that held j Tell me," said Derrir
the match to the droplight. He shaded j "She makes me
it with his other hand, and the light | what, she says She
flared up into his tired face. His eyes j leal tilings
He threw out His
gesture. "She is
I am with her. I
I am fluid. Site
The poet waited.
hand with a quick
everything! When
can think -feel -be
makes me free."
When he paused the water, la
at the breakwater, sounded s
The moonlight lay about them.
Derring's face, in the light, h
rapt look. ''
The other
mean it is i
Lucille give
at is lo\
inoked
uothiuj
liaui
mam.
see things -not
doesn't say poet
1 '*-/ "i' ,
yp .
H
'For Your Philanthropic Cranks,"
Slid Derring.
plenty of money and was leading a
ftee, devil-may-care life, sow ing to the
wind and complacently looking for-
ward to the whirlwind. Now his suc-
cess was spoken of as a thing as-
urcd. He had, as he put It, "got la
Herring's way," and, once there, he
had found surrender easier than es-
ape.
"I wonder." hp went on. thought-
fully, "what it is about him that holds
smiled abseutly. He was thinking of \ "Or do them
the poet and his troubles, j The poet gave
Derring had more than half guessed j iias an athletii
them. He had been revolving in his j training-school.
1 mind all day what he should say to i what they obj t
him. The woman was a strange erea ' friends."
tnrc. Derring had studied her lace I "Do they?
the night before at the play. It was, "Kveryoni
heavy, with deep lines, but there was "No—I don't i
something fine in the eyes. He re-: The poet tur
[ called them now- wistful and mag-j You have seen
netic | "The other ni
| He pushed back the papers on his | "She is gloi i
desk with a little sigh Why should lioned Derrinv
they come to him with their troubles?! "Perhaps S
j He was strangely tired. Rut with it j someone—"
all, underneath, beat a sense of com- ' 1 know ■Cleorg'- Sand?'
1 iuii roleiise. Groping for ii as he i "Yes."
suggested Herring
a short laugh. "81k1
school for girls a
I think that's really
to," 11 • ■ added—"my
inless 'it's you "
object."
rued to him engc
i her?"
?ht—at the play."
reminded me of
He Lay, Face Down.
Then lie saw The thing was past con-
trol—rushing upon them madly. It
had left the roadway It whirred
swiftly. The face of the chauffeur
glared, fixed and white With a swift
turn of his arm Herring lelxed the
poet, lie thrust him . tmight across
tin path of the tiling out of danger.
He lay, face down, his arms still out-
spread to save his friend.
Thi rain fell In torrents when they
lifted him. It fell on his upturned
fate and relaxed hands. The face,
beneath the rain, was strangely
sweet, as if a hand of love had
touched it.
TI IF, KND.
0.11. FIZKR, Mt. Sterling, Ky., says:
'•I have suffered with kidney ami
bladder trouble for ten years past
"Lust March I commenced using
Peruua and continued for threo months.
1 have not used it tiuce, nor havo I fell
u pain."
HE MEANT EVENING GOWNS
Well-Meant Compliment to American
Woman Somewhat Marred by
Unfortunate Error.
Mons, I'ruger, who from his triumph
at the Savoy hotel In London has
come to New York to conduct a very
fashionable restaurant, was compli-
mented by a reporter on his perfect
English.
"Well," said Mons. I'ruger, smiling,
"my English is, perhaps, better than
that of the Marquis X.. who supped
here after the opera the other evening
"Our fine supper rooms looked very
gay and fine, diamonds flashed, pal*
fabrics shimmered, and everywhere,
turn where it would, the eye rested ou
dimpled, snowy shoulders shining like
satin above decollete bodices of Paris
gowns.
"These decollete bodices impressed
the Marquis X. He waved his hand
and said:
"1 'ave knowed parfaitement that
tho American young ladies was beau
tiful, but ah—I cannot say how far
mora beautiful they seem in their
night dresses."—N Y Press.
The Fight Against Tuberculosis.
Interest in the anti-tuberculosis cam
paign now being waged throughout the
United States is evidenced by the fact
lhal in tiie year 1909 It!:! new anti-tu
berculosls associations were formed,
Ki:i tuberculosis sanatoria and hospit
uls were established, and 91 tubercu-
losis dispensaries were opened. Com
pared with previous years, tills is tho
best record thus far made in the fight
against consumption in this country.
During tho year 1909, L! more asso
' ciatlons for the prevention of lubercu
losis were formed than during the pre
vious 12 months, and 02 more hospitals
and sanatoria were established. On
January 1, 1910, there were In the 1 ni
ted States :{91 anti-tuberculosis associ
lUlons, ::x6 hospitals and tuberculosis
i sanatoria and 2t r> special tuberculosis
■. iHsjiensaries.
Unkind Husband.
Mrs. Myler.—You .say your husband
is unkind to your pet dog?
Mrs. Styles.—Indeed lie is! Why. he
; absolutely refuses to let Fido bite
j him!—Yonkers Statesman.
CLEAR-HEADED
Head Bookkeeper Must be Reliable.
The chief bookkeeper In a large busi-
ness house in one ol our great West-
ern cities speaks of the harm coSeo
: did for him:
"My wife and I drank our first c^ip
of Postuni a little over two years ago,
i and we havo used it ever since, to thu
j entire exclusion of tea and coffee. It
< happened in this way:
"About three and a half years ago
1 had an attack of pneumonia, which
left a memento in the shape of dyspep-
sia, or rather, to speak more correctly,
neuralgia o" the stomach. My 'cup o.'
cheer' had always been coffee or tea,
I but 1 became convinced, after a time,
lhat they aggravated my stomach troi:
ble. I happened to mention the mat
ler to my grocer one day and he sug
i gcBted that I give Postum a trial.
"Next day it came, but the cook mad>
the mistake of not boiling it sufficient
ly, and we did not like it much. Thin
was, however, soon remedied, and now
*e like it so much that we will never
; change back. Postum, being a food
j beverage instead of a drug, has beeu
ihe means of curing my stomach trou-
! ble, I verily believe, for I am a well
\ man today and have used no other
1 remedy.
"My w ork as chief bookkeeper in our
r.'o.'s branch house here is of a very
confining nature. During my coffee-
Irinking days I was subject to nerv-
ousness and the blues' in addition to
ny sick spells. These have left me
iince I began using Postuni and I can
onscientiously recommend it to those
1 whose work confines them to long
' lours of severe mental exertion."
"There's a Iteason."
Look in pkgs for the little book
i 'The Road to Wellville."
Kvrr rend Itir above letter? A o '«
me itrw from (line lo time. They
! are K^nnlne, true, Mini full of tiuninu
I lutrreat.
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Clayton, J. C. The Calumet Chieftain. (Calumet, Okla.), Vol. 2, No. 41, Ed. 1 Friday, February 18, 1910, newspaper, February 18, 1910; Calumet, Oklahoma. (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc167386/m1/3/?q=j+w+gardner: accessed June 23, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.