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"Come on, crow-bait!" yelled Brann, insultingly, as he came down past the doctor, and seemed about to pass Albert and Maud. There was hate in the glare of his eyes. But he did not pass. The old sorrel seemed to lengthen; to the spectators his nose appeared to be glued to the glossy side of Brann's off black. "See them blacks trot!" shouted Albert, in ungrammatical enthusiasm.
His first words held a menace: "Say, Maud, I want t' talk to you." "Very well; what is it, Ed?" replied the girl, quietly. "I want to know how often you're going to be out till twelve o'clock with this book agent?" Perhaps it was the derisive inflection on "book agent" that woke Albert. Brann's tone was brutal more brutal even than his words, and the girl turned pale and her breath quickened.
That's the identical gang which has the immaculate gall to accuse me of defaming virtuous women the same gang which applauded Slattery for calling convents priestly harems wants me killed for expressing the hope that no more young girls will be debauched at Baylor. Brann's reply to Slattery appears in Vol.
As I read the proofs of the last of these volumes, wherein is told the story of Brann's death, my cup of the joy of love's labor is embittered with the gall of an impotent, futile rage against the Sower that flings with mocking hand the seed of genius and recks not where it falls.
"Come on, fellers!" yelled Brann, insultingly, as he came down past the doctor, and seemed about to pass Albert and Maud. There was hate in the glare of his eyes. But he did not pass. The old sorrel seemed to lengthen; to the spectators his nose appeared to be glued to the glossy side of Brann's off black. "See them blacks trot!" shouted Albert, in ungrammatical enthusiasm.
Brann's range of literary form was limited by his single avenue of publication through the columns of a one-man paper, and varied from the ten-word epigrams of Salmagundi to the ten-thousand word article or published lecture. Within this range is evidenced at least three distinct types of literary composition.
Waste, futile and planless, mere howling, empty, chaotic waste, for no purpose under heaven but to serve as food for idle fancies as to what might have been such to me is the death of Brann, and my throat chokes with sorrow and my soul is sick with vain despair. Brann's contribution to literature is the product of less than three years of writing time.
Like a lone great manuscript within the cloister of a mediaeval monk, Brann's work might have perished utterly soon after its creation, like a song of magic music held but fleetingly within the heart that heard it.
His first words held a menace: "Say, Maud, I want t' talk to you." "Very well; what is it, Ed?" replied the girl quietly. "I want to know how often you're going to be out till twelve o'clock with this book agent?" Perhaps it was the derisive inflection on "book agent" that woke Albert. Brann's tone was brutal more brutal even than his words, and the girl turned pale and her breath quickened.
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