Life — November 25, 1897 — page 14: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

MISS HOOLIHAN WITH HER CADDIE WAS SEEN ON THF. LINKS. Declaration of Independence. HO would not be an entity? Who would not have a mind To will and rule and be one’s self, And leave the crowd behind ? “They say,” I hear from year to year— And who and what are They, ThatI must take their word, forsooth ?— I don’t care what They say ! If clothes I'd buy, or hat or tie, I'm told '* They're wearing " those, Some ugliness beyond belief— Yet, since They wish, it go Am I to voice no private choice? Am I to speak no word, But be a timid sheep and run With all the bleating herd? Whoare They, then, high gods or men? And who am I, to care What They may say or think or do, And what They eat or wear? I will not rest content and blest A ditto mark to be; I can’t and won't be one of Them, I'll make a bluff at Afe! Abbie Farwell Brown, *LIFE: Take Note That HIS is the last week of Lire’s “Pegasus” contest, envelopes received after December tst not being admitted. Those who have delayed sending in their guesses should therefore do so at once, in order that they may be received at this office before the time expires. A Fearsome Prisoner. 2 locked myself within her heart And given her the key. In terror thus I crouch, for fear That she may set me frees HERE is something new to see in Europe, The Borgia apart- ments in the Vatican, closed for four centuries, have been thrown open by the present Pope, and now form part of the Vatican Library. They con- tain a remarkable series of frescoes by Pinturrichio, which kept that artist busy for six years. The superiority of the Americans in decorative art appears in the circum- stance that the pleasing and elab- orate paintings for the Astoria Hotel were done by Messrs, Blash- field, Simmons, and others, in the course of one summer. Neverthe- less, the Borgia pictures are said to be good of their kind and will repay the scrutiny of tourists. They have been shut up all these four hundred years because of the unseemly moral characters of the Borgias, who posed themselves for the saints and other pious persons represented. A Short Romance. AN IDYLL OF NOVEMBER. HEY had always been together, had played together as children, had worked together in the fields, for their homes were in the country, and as they grew older had wandered through the orchards of the old farm and out into the woods beyond. The years passed, and playtime was over. A home was chosen, and life began in earnest for these two devoted lovers. It was not from lack of opportunity, nor altogether from propinquity, either, that they loved each other. The farms were ina large and thickly populated district, and there were many for himto select from, many who courted her. But she was his ideal—tall, slender and graceful. The sunlight reflected from her bronze head shed a radiance on all the world for him, and he was her idea of manly perfection, So she gladly gave her love and life into his care. One day, late in November, a day of Indian summer, when all the world was red and gold with tinted vine leaves and autumn trees, they lunched under a spreading oak. After lunch she slept, he ever watching near. Then, as though from the blue dome above de- struction had suddenly been flung upon the earth, the end came. First she heard his voice upraised in protest, then in terror, and at last in agony. Longing to go to him, to help him, or at least to comfort him, she struggled with the overmastering force that held her down, but her struggles were in vain, And after that it really mattered very little to either of them that he was boiled with oyster sauce for Farmer Grayson’s Thanksgiving dinner, and that she was roasted by voung Mrs. Pembroke for the first dinner in s new home. Kathryn Jarboe.