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Updated: June 27, 2025
It rose, and received the newborn of Aurora in its arms. There were clouds of pearl above hills of chrysoprase. The sea ran in volatile flames. The shadows on the bright deck shot to and fro as we rolled. The breakfast bell rang not too soon. This was a right beginning. The above is a paragraph that we have chosen from Mr. Tomlinson's book almost at random.
For the visions in the mind of Tomlinson, Wizard of Finance, were for the most part those of a wind-swept hillside farm beside Lake Erie, where Tomlinson's Creek runs down to the low edge of the lake, and where the off-shore wind ripples the rushes of the shallow water: that, and the vision of a frame house, and the snake fences of the fourth concession road where it falls to the lakeside.
"I rather think that offsets Sue Tomlinson's 'cream jug' compliment and you are a dear," she answered as she again diminished the space for my lung action. "I hear the dear General has turned you over to the Governor completely. What do you think of him?" she asked as if to manufacture conversation.
It is only necessary to own a hillside farm beside Lake Erie where the uncleared bush and the broken fields go straggling down to the lake, and to have running through it a creek, such as that called Tomlinson's, brawling among the stones and willows, and to discover in the bed of a creek a gold mine. That is all. Nor is it necessary in these well-ordered days to discover the gold for one's self.
It was easy to distinguish the relief in Tomlinson's utterance, relief mingled, doubtless, with astonishment that a comparative stranger should display such an authoritative and prompt interest in the family affairs. "That is all. Write down my message, lest you omit any part of it." Theydon rang off.
Others said that he had been a miner in a Lake Superior copper mine who had, by the doggedness of his character, got a practical monopoly of the copper supply. But in reality the making of Tomlinson's fortune was very simple. The recipe for it is open to anyone.
Thus did Tomlinson float from Tomlinson's Creek beside Lake Erie to the very banks of the Danube and the Drave. Some writers grew lyric about him. What visions, they asked, could one but read them, must lie behind the quiet, dreaming eyes of that inscrutable face? They might have read them easily enough, had they but had the key.
Leaning with his left hand on Tomlinson's arm, and employing the right in fanning himself furiously with his huge chapeau bras, the lengthy adventurer stalked slowly along, now setting out one leg jauntily, now the other, and ogling "the ladies" with a kind of Irish look, namely, a look between a wink and a stare.
The island was soon passed, but Jerry found himself peering hopelessly across a sluggish, muddy-bottomed slough that promised many a weary minute of wading before he could hope to establish communication with his companion again. So it was with a great feeling of relief that, once more on solid ground, he heard Dave's call. "Say, Jerry, we're pretty near down to Tomlinson's wagon bridge.
But as Tomlinson's eye fell suddenly on the rude boatmen and the little boat which were to bear him away from his native land; as he glanced, too, across the blue waters, which a brisk wind wildly agitated, and thought how much rougher it would be at sea, where "his soul" invariably "sickened at the heaving wave," a whole tide of deep and sorrowful emotions rushed upon him. He turned away.
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