THE SWALLOWS.
r, vfll the swallow nerer comaf
I my cheek, tts hot and burnhuE.
.Ind heart is aick with yearning,
ft rm always well as booh as swallows earn.
Staf brought me In a primrose yesterday;
And when primroses are blowing.
Then I know that winter's going,
4 the swallows cannot then be far away.
3srfc, my old thrush in the garden singing elearl
Bow I lore his note to follow 1
Bat the swallow. O the swallow.
Waging aummrr with him. the summer is more
dear.
the lambs' bleatl Could I see them once
Kaln,
With their innocent sweet faces.
And their friskings. and their races!
I used but now I cannot stir for pain.
Hother, lift me, all this side is growing numb;
Ob, how dark the room isl Fold me
To your bosom, tighter hold me 1
-Or I shall be gone before the swallows corns.
And the swallows came again across the ware;
And the sky was soft and tender.
With a gleam of rainbow splendor,
Aa they laid their little darling in the grare.
And they often watch the swallows by her tomb;
And they strain to think, but straining
O not still the heart's complaining,
"TBheis better there wbersmlknraimereoma.''
-Ana they carved the bird she loved upon her
stone;
Joyous guest of summer, darting
Hither, thither, then departing
aa at night, to joys of other worlds unknown.
Spectator.
A DIFFERENCE IN CIAY.
Yoa may not know, but Clement Scott
the young American sculptor who
won such distinction abroad last fall,
mud over whom during the following
winter society at home, with her usual
fickleness, had come to rave. It is some
thing unusual for Philadelphia to arouse
herself over an American, but in Scott's
case it seemed natural enough. The
personal attractions of the man himself,
to say nothing of the distinction Paris
Jad bestowed upon him, were grounds
sufficient for his being a social favorite.
Immediately upon his arrival from
Abroad he was besieged with invitations
to receptions and balls, teas and dinners,
And the like. Various societies gave pub
lic receptions in his honor; the country
clubs lunched him, and the city clubs
gave him dinners. It went very well for
a time, but in a time, too, it grew most
tiresome. Scott stood the whole thing
as long as he could; then, breaking a
dozen or more engagements, he closed
hia rooms and went away to the sea
shore. He had learned to his own satis
faction to his own disappointment
3uw little society knew of his art, how
little she cared, and that it was the glit
ter of his medal, not himself, that peo
ple loved.
It was the middle of spring when
Clement Scott came to Hull. He had
lived there during the summers previous
to his going abroad. The sea, the cliffs,
Che stretches of white sand, the grass
covered hills, were all very dear to him.
And he smiled as he found the memories
si uwiw cuuuuif uacx ixj nun. i nora waa
o memory, though, which seemed to
crowd all the beauties of sea and shore
from his thoughts, and then of a sudden
to bring them all trooping back again,
' sad in the light of his boyhood love.
That love was something which had
sever gone from his memory. In his
studio in Paris he had often caught him
self Bhaping in the soft clay the features
f that one face. He was good at model
ing, but however truly his hands might
follow his memory, he could never seem
to catch the spirit of the image in his
mind; he could never put life into the
iace. "It is not she," he would say. "It
does not love me." And then he would
crush the clay into a shapeless mass and
try his hand at other work.
It was very natural that Scott should
feel as he did about the face he had
loved in his boyhood. The circumstan
ces were peculiar. He had saved the
Sirl's life at the risk of his own. In
crossing a track she had fastened her
- foot in a switch, and must have been
lolled had not Scott rescued her. As it
was she had not escaped without in
jury; her arm had been run over. Some
'tie said the child's name was IJildxed
Boday. Scott knew the beautiful place
the Bodays had been building on the hill
near his own home, and there he had
carried her, with her dress torn from
the shoulder, and her little white arm,
cruelly crushed and bleeding, hanging
t bis side.
The injury was a severe one. It be
came necessarv to amnutata the child's
arm close to the shoulder, and it was
. during this period of her confinement
that Scott came to know Mildred Boday
"welL Young as he was, he loved the
beautiful well enough to take joy in
watching Mildred's sweet face, with the
wealth of golden hair which hung about
it, or in looking into Mildred's blue eyes,
' " .rtvtA. -. 4-V. 3 i 1
tales. When Mildred got about again
Clement was her right hand man. The
functions of the arm she had lost were
supplied by an artificial arm of French
mechanism an arm that could be moved
At will, or even taken off altogether.
That arm was a source of great amuse
merit to them. Sometimes its joints
would stick, and Clement would have to
rescue Mildred from some awkward
position, and then they would laugh and
think it a great joke.
At the close of his sixteenth year Scott
went abroad and took up his sculpturing
under an Italian master, first in Borne
ad then in Paris. Eight years after
ward he received his medal, and with it
-the praise of the whole of Europe. Then
lie returned to America.
Then it was that the young sculptor,
witn au toe glamor oi a tnompu abroad
And in the midst of an ovation at home,
left the prattles and insincerities of New
York society for the quiet and for the
girl in the little sea town of Hull. , .
tie round tne sea, tne cutis, tne
'stretches of white sand all unchanged.
Mildred Boday had changed. She was
a woman. But she was just the same to
nim. There was a little formality at
rst, but formality could not live when
they were together, and soon they came
to be the same boy and girl they had
been when they parted.
Scott fixed up his old studio and the
"workshop where he had modeled his first
head. Mildred helped him to drape his
otous UIA w pjACU Alia UCUUUglJIgB, sou
when they had finished it was a pretty
study. Scott had ordered a block of
marble from Paris, and when it came he
set to work upon it to try the experi
ment of cutting an image directly in the
marble and without the aid of the clay
model. The image he was to follow was
the Venus of Milo. He was doing it
solely for pleasure, he said, and so
worked only when he felt like it. Mil
dred was frequently by his side in the
studio. Now and then she would pose
her head to give him an idea of a curve
or a line, and always it was more in fun
than in seriousness that the work went
on.
In a few weeks, however, the head of
the Venus was freed from the stone, and
to the wonderment of Mildred, the face
that she had seen hewed bit by bit from
the cold white marble seemed all at once
to have life, to be real, and more, to be
her own.
She laughed, and she cried.
"I feel as if some one had shut me up
in that stone, ages and ages ago," she
said, "and that only now you had come
to take me out."
- "And what do you suppose you would
have done had I never came?" Clement
asked, chiseling away at the Cupid lips of
his statue.
'Always been dead, I suppose," she
said with a sigh, looking up at him with
a roguish smile.
The look was too much for Clement.
The marble lips could not hold him
when the red ones were there, just wait
ing to be kissed; nor could be work more
that day he was too happy.
But for some unaccountable reason
society had got it into its head that
young Scott, "the distinguished Amer
ican sculptor," as he was commonly
called, had left society and gone into se
clusion to work. Strange stories got
about. He was finishing a statue he
had been at work upon for years, it was
said, and immediately artists began to
interest themselves concerning his where
abouts. The newspapers, working in
the interest of the public, had made it
their particular business to look into the
matter. In part they were successsfuL
They found that he was at Hull, and,
because he would not be seen, they in
ferred that he must be working upon
some masterpiece.
That was the story that went abroad.
Artists and newspaper men by the
score came to Hull, all anxious to catch
a first glimpse of the new work of art.
Scott had finished little more than the
head and bust of the statue of his Venus
of Milo; one of the broken arms to be
was still in the crude marble, and he
absolutely refused to have his work
viewed and criticized by this curious
crowd at least before he had finished.
It was perhaps a week after this sort
of curiosity concerning Scott's new work
had set in, that Mildred and he. in the
Lstudio together, were running through a
batcn or letters. They were, as usual.
chiefly requests for interviews, or the
like. Among them was a note from the
president of the Society of American
Sculptors. He wished Mr. Scott to give
him and a few of his brothers in art the
pleasure of beholding what he felt sure
was to be the greatest of American
sculpture masterpieces.
bcott laughed. "What perfect non
sense!" he said, as he read the letter
aloud. It was th same old flattery, and
all caused, he thought, by his medal.
tie got up and walked across the studio
to where his work stood, and pulling off
the sheet that covered it called to Mil
dred in a dramatic voice:
"Look! the masterpiece of American
sculpture!" and he pointed his finger at
tne nail brushed statue.
They both laughed, and then Mildred
added more seriously, "But, Clement, it
is fine."
"I am glad you like it," he said. "1
don't care what they think; and, besides,
what do those cads, who haven't seen
any of my work, know of my work?
Their praises annoy me. I doubt if some
of them could tell a plaster cast from a
marble cutting. They are ignoramuses
in regard to art the most of them," and
Scott threw the sheet back over the
statue, disgusted. ' .
They can't tell sculpturing when they
see it," he went on. "Why, if I were to
fix you up as the statue I doubt even if
they would discover the deception.
And, by Jove, Mildred, 111 do it! Til fix
a box to look like marble, stand you in
it, drape your shoulder and whiten your
hair and face. With the use of some
plaster of Paris we can make your breast
seem to come directly out from the
rough stone; and your arm why, Mil
dred, we can take that off. You will be
the real Venus of Milo, and Ml wager
they won't see the deception. Are you
willing, Mildred?" he asked, all excite
ment now.
"Do you think they' would be de
ceived?" Mildred asked. "What a joke
if they were," she went on, catching the
spirit of his plans. "What a joke!"
And so it was decided. Scott sent the
president of the Society of American
Sculptors a favorable answer to his let
ter. He stated the day and named the
hour he should be pleased to receive his
artist friends, and though he assured
them his statue was quite incomplete,
still he said they should have a peep at
it. Mildred and himself at once began
preparations for the exhibit, and long
before the appointed day came they were
in high glee over the prospects, for their
private rehearsals had proven more than
successful.
And then the trial and the end of it all
came. It was a beautiful day about the
first of June. The studio had been ar
ranged with especial care for the occa
sion. There were bits of the sculptor's
art about the room, some profiles in
white against, black plush upon the
walls, and draperies hung in profusion.
At 2 o'clock the invited 'guests, artists
and journalists, about a dozen in num
ber, arrived at the little summer home
of the Scotts on the hill. Clement re
ceived them and entertained them over
cigars with the talk of men and things
which usually interest such people. For
a full hour they sat this way. He could
see plainly that his guests were becom
ing impatient for something more ex
citing than talk, but still he kepi them
in the studio.
Some one called to see Scott. He ex
cused himself and was gone some min
utes. When he came back he was pro
fuse in his apologies for his long ab
sence, but he made up for the absence
by unlocking the door which, as he said,
led into his work room.
It was a large room, totally unfur
nished, into which he led them. The
sunlight streamed in through open win
dows and fell in streaks across the
stained floor. Near the center of the
room stood the half finished statue, upon
which his work had really been done.
There were tools and chips of marble
lying about the stone as though work
had just been suspended. Extending
across the extreme end of the room hung
a heavy, dark plush curtain.
"I suppose I should apologize, gentle
men," Clement began, "for bringing you
here to see a work that is as yet so far
from completion; still, since it is' by
your own request that you come, I hard
ly see what apology I can offer."
There was a chorus of "Pray, no apol
ogies," and Scott went on, pointing to
the statue in the center of the room.
"This is the first study of the work you
have come to see, gentlemen. Even it
is quite incomplete; but still no apolo
gies." ' And so saying Scott went to the open
windows, drew down the shades and
shut out the sunlight. There was an
uncertain glimmer in the room, which
he soon steadied by lighting some re
flector lamps. Then . he stopped a mo
ment before the plush curtain.
"I almost fear to show you this work,
it is so imperfect," he said.
There was no reply.
He waited a moment and it grew op
pressively still. He stepped to the cur
tains, pushed them aside, looked at his
work a moment, and then joined his
guests. They stood in a group at the
other end of the room.
There was not a sound, not an excla
mation of surprise; hardly a breath.
There before them, from what ap
peared to be a solid block of white
marble, rose the magnificent head and
full shapely bust of a. goddess. It was
indeed the Venus of Milo. The stone
was placed so as to give but a profile
view of the face, but the profile was di
vine. The left arm of the figure was
broken quite off, while on the right side
the work had not progressed far enough
to disclose the broken member.
So strong was the contrast between
finished and unfinished stone; so perfect,
so human the finished portion of the
work seemed that it was almost painful
to see the rough, uncut edges of the
marble press into the smooth surface of
the finished breast. There was an ex
pression about the face which seemed to
say to' those lookers on, "When shall I
ever be taken from this cold stone?" And
because they could not answer that ques
tion they were silent.
The guests glanced from one . to an
other, then hurriedly back again to the
statue, lest it should have vanished be
fore them.
Scott stood by the side of his stone
study of the Venus and noted their as
tonishment. Still no one spoke.
He was growing fearful of what this
silence might mean, and he ventured:
"Well, is it good?" His voice sounded
queerly.
There was an audible whisper.
"Marvelous! Marvelous!" breathed the
guests. They said no more.
It was enough. The silent spell had
been broken. They had not detected the
difference in clay.
And drawing the curtain before the
image of his heart Clement Scott threw
up the shades, letting a burst of blind
ing sunshine into the room.
That fall the most noticeable work of
art at the exhibition of the Society of
American Sculptors was a study in mar
ble of the Venus of Milo.
It was by Clement Scott.
And society, when it learned that this
same Scott, whom the winter before it
had so petted, had gone to a little sea
town to get him a wife, brought itself
to be forgiven for once when it saw who
that wife was, while the president of
the sculptors said to Clement one day as
he studied the face of Mildred Boday:
"Well, I see, my boy, there is a differ
ence in clay." Philadelphia Press.
The Way He Got Eren,
I recently visited a certain part of this
world where it seemed as though every
other man and about half of the women
whom I met were the authors of books,
and not a few of them entertained the
notion that I must have read or heard
of their volumes of poetry or theology
or romance or criticism or legisties or
piety or science. I was often embar
rassed by the question of new acquaint
ances, "Have you read my book?" and I
always felt indisposed to give offense by
repeating Carlyle's reply , to the inquiry,
"No; is it a big book?"..
On one occasion, however, when a pro
fessor in the university asked me the fa
miliar question, I bethought me of a way
of relieving myself from embarrassment
by abruptly, yet I hope courteously, ask
ing, "Have you read my book?" The
professor, who had not heard of my
brochure, though it appeared in print
ten years ago, was put in as bad a plight
as he had previously put me in, And his
mortification over his ignorance was
even more grievous than mine. The
quiddity served me ever afterward when
I met an inquiring author. John S win
ton. Civilities Exchanged.
A French gentleman who was staying
at the Bellevue hotel stepped out of the
hotel one morning and walked to the
corner of Broad and Walnut 'streets to
wait for a Chestnut street car. An or
gan grinder with a monkey started to
play the "Marseillaise." The monkey
tripped across to the French gentleman
and held up his paw. The foreigner
placed therein a coin, and the monkey
took off his little red cap. ;
Without a thought the polite French
man immediately raised his own silk
hat in return to the salute, and toe"mon
key ran to his master chattering with de
light, a broad grin spreading over his
little brown face. Philadelphia Press.
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