The Whistler

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536 IMPROVEMENT ERA.

tagious love for good books that this pioneer book man always car- ried about with him. While there is nothing standing against me on the ledger accounts of James Dwyer's books, I freely acknowledge my indebtedness to him for the enthusiasm which he imparted to my life when, as a young man, I was seeking the association of good books. These words of homage will scarcely pay the interest on the principal of the great debt I owe him. The assurance of having done so much good to others ought to bring the supremest satisfaction to his life, and make his last days the best of all his days. It should be added that James Dwyer started his book business

in 1866, in the post office in the old Constitution Building, then directed by Postmaster W. Street. His first stock came, as the mails came, in an overland stage coach. Ten dollars was all he had as capital. He borrowed that from Banker Warren Hussy. Robert Sharky offered to go security for the amount, but Mr. Hussy refused, saying prophetically, "James Dwyer has the stuff in him to succeed." And his prediction came true.

The Whistler. (For the Improvement Era.)

I sat alone in my office, weary and sick at heart, For life seemed such a struggle, and mine such a strenuous part; And I thought of the many thousands, engaged in the weary strife, Of the cares, and pains, and sorrows, that make up what men call life.

Of the toil-worn men, aye, and women, too, passing their several ways, Grinding, grinding, the long hours through, the hours that drift into days, And days that make years as the seasons roll; with small share of rest or change, Till merciful Death comes to claim his toll, and summons them out of range.

Yes, I was "blue," I admit it! I felt ready to quit right then For the cords 'round my heart seemed straining, and my hopes were sink- ing, when Sharp on my ear from the street below fell a sound that made me start, A glorious, bubbling melody that sped its way to my heart.

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THE WHISTLER. 537

Nearer it came, and nearer, fuller and more complete As if the heart of its happiness, could scarce find room in the street; Into the hallways and out again, back from the wall outside, Till the very air seemed to tremble and throb, on the breast of its swell- ing tide.

I stepped to the window and glanced below, and there down the busy street, Coatless and careless, sunburned and soiled, torn jacket and naked feet, Came a mite of a boy, just a common lad, the kind one may meet any day, But the expression of bliss he had, as he swung along on his way!

With hands in pockets and head held proud, as tho' hurling defiance at Fate, Unmindful as Love of the passing crowd, with its strife and turmoil and hate, The fresh, young lips compressed to a knot, and the sun-kissed cheeks puffed wide, With the throbbing, bubbling notes they caught, ere they whistled their way outside.

Back to my mind came memories, and into my eyes came tears, As my own lost youth with its bright day-dreams, rose up from the by- gone years; That happy youth, with its dear boy-dreams, while the earth was yet sc young, And the song of life in the bright sunbeams, that my own boy-heart had sung. Away like a flash went my sorrows; gone were all doubts and fears; For the message it bore so joyous, so free, seemed mine for the coming years.

For why should each worrisome trifle bow my head 'neath affliction's rod? And what opposition can stifle a man fashioned like unto God? What cause had I for worry? What reason had I to complain? Had I not, in my own blind hurry, submitted to needless pain? I turned with a heart strong and steady, the wide, groping future to meet, For God's message had reached me already, through that whistling boy in the street. Lon J. Haddock.