240
THE ILLUSTRATED WEST SHORE.
mm
ADRIFT AM) ANCHORED.
Our barques met, touching and trembled and parted.
Youn far the ocean and mine for the bay.
Ay, yours to drift, from the hour that it started;
Mine to be anchored by night and by day.
The storms arise, and the rain-clouds are flying
Over my barque in the harbor at rest;
Hut my poor heart, when the sea gulls are crying,
Flees to you, tossed on the tempest's mad breast.
rtnd oft ah, me! when the lightning is flashing.
Cleaving a pathway of flame o'er the seu,
When winds are wild, and the thunder is crashing
Out where your barque rolls, while calm is with me,
1 think I see, through the tears that are burning,
You, as we drift ever farther apart;
You reach your arms with your lonely heart turning
Itack to the deep-anchored peace of my heart.
The Pacific Coast Woman'? Press Association held its first semi-annual
convention in San Francisco during the third week in March. During the
session the hall was crowded wilh the most cultured people of that city.
Interesting pajiers were read, and several original poems contributed. The
association received many special attentions. It adjourned on the eighteenth,
to meet again next September.
Genuis walked hand in hand with Reason ; and often when she would
leap up to find the heart of a butterfly, or the voice of the wind, reason would
smile indulgently for a brief while and let her roam at will ; but would always
keep a firm hold upon her, and never allow her to leap over a certain hedge
which shall be nameless. But one day Genius found Reason aslerp, and she
spurned her with her foot, and said : " I.o ! she holds me back always when
I would go ! She freezes the blood in my veins, and stills the throbbing of
my heart ! She puts iron bands on my beating wrists, and she laughs and
ti lls me that butterflies are not made of the gold dust that the dying sun shakes
over the sea ! I sliall escape her, and once only once chase the wind over
that mysterious hedge." So, wild with delight, site broke away from reason
and chased the wind and the butterflies' over the hedge ; and she found that
sh? could never return. Then, being unrestrained by Reason's firm hand, she
Hung her long hair loose ; and she raced with the tempests, and shrieked with
lb," winds, and moaned with the terrible sea for she seemed to be a part of
all of these. And in the morning people came and looked at her over the
hedge, and they said to each other in regretful surprise : " What ! did we
call her by the name of Genius? Why, she is Insanity's own self!"
It is quite the fashion just now for famous writers to complain very
noisily and pathetically of the letters they receive from strangers. They are
literally deluged with them letters cover their tables and their chairs, and
overflow to the floor letters complimentary, appreciative, admiring ; letters
sensible, foolish and downright silly i letters long, short, rambling, to the
point, egotistic, deprecatory in word, letters from doiens of different
Itioodcd prople in a day. And these writers complain thereof, and politely
intimate that they ire annoyed thereby to the verge of desperation ; and they
designate the writers of these letters as "cranks." Do they, then, never
pause to remember that the silliest of these letters must have been prompted
by a kind hr.m, and the most exaggerated by an impulsive burst of admira
tion? l)o they never pluck the conceit and vanity out of their eyes long
enough to look backwaid and see that the hearts that dictated these letters are
the rounds by which they climbed the ktdder to the priie, yclept "fame?"
What would these writers have been without the approval of the many? Long
fellow, Jean Ingelow, II. II., George Eliot, Harriet Hcether Stowe none of
these wrote to please the aesthetic fancy of (he "cultured few," but reached
out to the great, warm heart of humanity and set it to throbbing. This is
what makes fame lite. Thackeray said the highest compliment he ever received
was from a ruggedi little urchin in the slums ol London, who shouted out as
the well known author passed : "Hi! D'ye know who him is? Hint's
llecky Sharp." The more truly great an author, the more dors be appreciate
appreciation from the lowly.
Where is the woman who does not dread and abhor the book agent or
" canvasser? " I firmly believe that one-half my sex fear him as they do a
serpent. Why? Well, simply and solely because he induces them to buy
articles they do not need or subscribe for books they do not want. To put it
briefly, they can not say " no ; " and they have been so painfully compelled to
realize by dollars on dollars put into obsequious canvassers' pockets that they
have grown to hate the sight of a man with a book or picture under his arm, or
a satchel in his hand. I am sorry to say that I know some very kind-hearted
women who would not snub the most disagreeable man in the world if he
came as a guest who are yet rude to canvassers. It is well to remember that
canvassers must live, however, and three minutes will sulfice to dismiss them.
If they ask, with that deprecatory smile which we know so well, if they may
enter, reply briefly and courteously that you are too busy to receive them ; if
they persist, let a little sternness come into your eye and a little coldness into
your tone, and steadily refuse to admit them. I have always found the old
fashioned canvasser an easy thing to manage j but I protest with all my heart
and soul against the new-fashioned one. He comes to your door faultlessly
attired, gloved, and without a sign of his profession about him, and Oh, the
artfulness of these men ! he always knows your name, and presently a bit of
meek and innocent pasteboard is carried to you, on which is modestly engraved
" Mr. Blank." Of course you go down, wondering who Mr. Blank is, and
you find a charming young man wilh guileless eyes, whose manners are the
pink of perfection ; and, if you are as dull of comprehension as I am, it will
require several minutes of his interesting conversation so adroitly does he
approach the subject for you to realize that he is just a plain, delusive book
agent with sample leaves in his inside pocket. Well, right here, dear, if you
are anything like me, you will find your sense of the ludicrous overcome
your indignation, and the corners of your moulh will twitch and twitch until
you know you are on the verge of a laugh. But stay right on the verge, dear
don't laugh, and don't let him get those leaves out of his pocket. Rise
instantly and reply that you are not at leisure to look at his book. Then
stand motionless, looking at him gravely, and wait. Believe qte, as he was so
very gentlemanly in getting into your home, he will be just as gentlemanly in
getting out again. And as he goes you may, if you wish, smile very sweetly
and demurely only to let him know that you appreciate the situation.
The west wind stole in from the ocean and beat at the closed doors and
at the windows from which the red light streamed. " Let me come in," it
moaned j " I ant so lonely and so cold. Let me come in to the light and
warmth, for I have had neither j and I am perishing for both." Inside the
woman, sitting alone with Hope for her companion, heard not the west wind's
pleading, for does not hope shut our eyes and our ears to the sorrows and the
failures and the loneliness of others to all, indeed, save our own rose-colored
dreams? So she sat with clasped hands in the warmth of her hearth, and the
firelight danced on the wail ; and she saw not the wind's pale face pressed
against the pane, nor its hungry eyes, nor did she hear that weary, despairing
" Let me come in ; " and it came to pass that in the gray dawn the west wind
crept back across the sea. And, lo ! one night the woman sat hand in hand
wilh Joy and, 0, but her eyes were bright as sunlight on deep water and her
cheeks were like the heart of a crimson rose. And the west wind came and
beat at the doors and windows s and that night its passionate longing was so
terrible that its hands must have been bruised and its breast crushed and
bleeding. " Let me come in," it cried ; why should you have light and
warmth and joy, and I neither? Let me come in" and its voice arose
shrieking and roaring about the house until the windows rattled and shook
with fear. Still the woman heard not. How can one who dwells with Joy
hear or understand the woe and loneliness of another? And in its unconquer
able raging, the west wind tore from the ground the mighty trees and piled
them one upon the other, and Laid waste the fields of vegetation, and lashed
the helpless sea against the rock-walled shore. And in (he gray dawn it crept
back to its home, shivering, trembling, worn out s and, as it went, it moaned,
faintly and far away, " Let me come in." But one night the woman sat alone
with Sorrow , and, behold ! there was no fire upon her hearth, and no light
upon her walls s her face was pale of grief, and her eyes dull of weeping. And
the west wind came and pressed its sad face against the pane, and looked in
at her with tender eyes. And it said-how soft, how kind, how low was its
tone" Let me come in and weep with you. You did not hear me, or heed
me, or need me when you were dreaming, nor when you were happy but
now that you sit with Sorrow let me come in and weep with you, or I under
stand, and I can comfort you who mourn." And the woman heard i for the
heart that is dumb when it stays wilh Hope, and cold when it dwells with Joy,
wdl leap, wann, to the touch of the whole world when it sits alone with Sorrow.