Simon! Oh, Simon! Wake up there, Simon! bawled a sonorous voice at the edge of the water.
Old Simon Cruz was a half-breed fisherman and smuggler who lived in a hut on the beach. Out of his earliest nap Simon was thus awakened.
He slipped on his shoes and went outside. Just landing from one of the Valhallas boats was the third mate of that vessel, who was an acquaintance of Simons, and three sailors from the fruiter.
Go up, Simon, called the mate, and find Doctor Gregg or Mr Goodwin or anybody thats a friend to Mr Geddie, and bring em here at once.
Saints of the skies! said Simon, sleepily, nothing has happened to Mr Geddie?
Hes under that tarpauling, said the mate, pointing to the boat, and hes rather more than half drowned. We seen him from the steamer nearly a mile out from shore, swimmin like mad after a bottle that was floatin in the water, outward bound. We lowered the gig and started for him. He nearly had his hand on the bottle, when he gave out and went under. We pulled him out in time to save him, maybe; but the doctor is the one to decide that.
A bottle? said the old man, rubbing his eyes. He was not yet fully awake. Where is the bottle?
Driftin along out there someeres, said the mate, jerking his thumb toward the sea. Get on with you, Simon.
A Service of Love
When one loves ones Art no service seems too hard.
That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling somewhat older than the great wall of China.
Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hung in the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left for New York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer.
A bottle? said the old man, rubbing his eyes. He was not yet fully awake. Where is the bottle?
Driftin along out there someeres, said the mate, jerking his thumb toward the sea. Get on with you, Simon.
A Service of Love
When one loves ones Art no service seems too hard.
That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling somewhat older than the great wall of China.
Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hung in the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left for New York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer.
Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly in a pine-tree village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip hat for her to go North and finish. They could not see her f , but that is our story.
Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro, Wagner, music, Rembrandts works, pictures, Waldteufel, wall paper, Chopin and oolong.
Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other, or each of the other, as you please, and in a short time were married for (see above), when one loves ones Art no service seems too hard.
Mr and Mrs Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome flat something like the A sharp way down at the left-hand end of the keyboard. And they were happy; for they had their Art, and they had each other. And my advice to the rich young man would be sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor janitor for the privilege of living in a flat with your Art and your Delia.
Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you and your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be wide and long enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras, your cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador.
Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light his high-lights have brought him renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock you know his repute as a disturber of the piano keys.
They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every but I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.