68
The University Courier.
LITERARY.
THE POETS LAY.
I've been off on a journey, I Jes' got home today;
I've traveled east an' north an' south and every other way;
I've seen a heap of country, an' cities on the boom,
But I want to be in Kansas when the
Sun-
Flowers
Bloom.
Oh it's nice among the mountains but I sorter feel shut in; 'Twould be nice upon the sea shore, if it wasn't for the din. While the prairies are so quiet an' there's always lots o'reoom; Oh it's nicer still in Kansas when the Sun- Flowers Bloom.
You may talk about yer lilies, yer vi'lets and yer roses;
Yer asters an' yer jassimens an' all the other posies;
I'll allow they all air beauties an' full of sweet perfume;
But there none of of them a patch'n to the
Sun-
Flowers
Bloom.
When all the sky above is jest as blue as blue can be,
And the prairies air a wavin' like a pathless sea;
Oh 'tis here my soul goes sailing an' my heart is on a boom;
In the golden fields of Kansas when the
Sun-
Flowers
Bloom.
ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE.
WAS IT A CRIME?
"Bush, by the Lord Harry! Very man I want to see! Know me?"
. "Y-es," was the hesitating reply, "you are Adolph Hartman."
"Correct! Come right in and have a chat. It won't do you any good to say no. Waiter, a lunch here, quick, and sherry too. Now enjoy yourself, old fellow."
"Hartman, I" —
"Don't talk, eat. And while you are eating I may as make a confession. I rather hate the job, but I guess it is the best way. You see, Bush, when I separated from you years ago, I—well the fact is I brought your Spanish drama with me. There now, it is out. You knew it, did you? I thought you might guess it. Well, you were such a backword fellow that I knew you would never make anything of the drama; therefore I, a man of energy, took it and put it on the stage. It is a success, Bush, a 'phenom,' and I am famous. But, Bush, I can't enjoy this success, and I intend to tell the whole story at the end of the engagement here."
“Kind of you, indeed, considering” —
"Not at all. It is merely justice. But, Bush, the pinch is right here. My Abbot is sick, and to speak plainly—now don't be offended, please-I want you to take his place."
Bush surprised sprang up and confronted the smiling yet anxious hypocrite.
"What!" he cried, "take a part in my own play, under the man who stole it! I am unfortunate, I am spiritless, but I am not yet criminal!"
until you can get something better. And I will do all that is fair. I will turn the play over to you at the end of the engagement and make a full acknowledgement of the authorship. What more could you ask?
Hear reason, Bush," remonstrated Hartman. "You are down on your luck, you can't deny that. It is no disgrace, for we have all been that way. The best thing to do is to take what you can get
"Play my Abbot and kill my monk! Horrible!"
"Well, not exactly. To tell the truth, I have taken some liberties with the plot. The monk kills the Abbot in my version, then marries the maiden and inherits the throne. It suits the popular taste better thus. I hope it is no offence to you."
"I suppose a thief tears the stamp from his plunder before he sells it."
"I don't see how that remark applies; but let it pass. Come! be my Abbot. You needn't be known until you choose. Fifty dollars a week is not to be refused."
“You say I would be in disguise?”
"Complete disguise; shaven head, black gown, rosary and all."
"And who is to kill me?"
"I play the monk myself," admitted Hartman, "so of course"—
"Well, yes, I see. Fifty dollars a week or"—
"Fifty dollars a week."
"I am yours, Hartman. What spell do you work over me?"
A rehearsal was held that afternoon, and Bush, who had been selected to play the part because of his knowledge of the original lines, had no difficulty in mastering the slight changes that had been necessary to reverse the ending of the play. At eight that night he was in complete costume waiting for the performance to begin.
At length the curtain-bell sounded, and the play commenced. Bush hesitatingly appeared before the audience when his cue was given and faltered out the first few words of his speech in a voice scarce audible. But soon the spirit of the character seemed to fall upon him, and forgetting his faint heart he thundered forth the lines of the warlike Abbot in the tone of a hero. Scene after scene swept by, and his unnatural excitement kept on. He could with difficulty await his cue, and his commands rang out with an energy that surprised alike the speaker and his hearers.
At length the last act arrived, and the denouement was at hand. Hartman, as the fugitive monk, was about to step upon the stage, when Bush, passing behind him, overheard him say to the captain of the cavaliers:
"Yes, yes. He is fair to middling. I have only engaged him till my old Abbot gets upon his feet. Then I will send him adrift. He is too small to take that part."
A wave of darkness seemed to overwhelm the listener, and he remained motionless, his eyes fixed on nothing, until his cue partly recalled his senses. He walked mechanically out upon the stage surrounded by the soldiers, a hunted look upon his face that harmonized but illy with the character he was representing. Hartman saw the change instantly and took occasion to whisper across the stage, "Brace up, old man. You are going to pieces." Bush's eyes flashed fire at the words, and straightening himself suddenly, he entered upon the scene with feverish energy.
The duel was suggested, and the furious Abbot caught at the idea with even more eagerness than the play demanded. A fixed determination showed itself in his eyes, and Hartman almost faltered as he grasped his sword.
Foot to foot the combatants stood, and the duel began. Like lightning the blades leaped to and fro, and even the audience could see that the battle was not altogether feigned. Hartman's teeth set as a desperate lunge just missed his breast, and exclaiming first in the words that properly ended the duel and then in a whispered aside, "Now for love and freedom! Stop, Bush, this is murder!" he attempted to close with his opponent and disarm him.
But Bush sprang backward and evaded the grapple. Then he reverted to the original ending of the play and shrieked out the expunged reply of the Abbot:
"Whoso transgresseth, by the sword shall he perish! The wrath of God be upon thee!"
On the instant he leaped forward and drove the sword straight through the heart of his antagonist. A.E.C.