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OUR SHORT STORY

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OUR SHORT STORY 6 THE SWEET SINGE, R I hadfoeen enjoying what k usually termed an 'otr day." It ivae, warm and sticky to start with, off. and any number of worthy and aesiraHe patrons would have to wait until after dark for their papers. My nerves were strung up to a pretty high tension, I am afraid, for I reuiember saying something to one of the carriers who was grumbling about getting home late that I would not repeat here for the world. I am glad, however, that he did not take my advice, for it was warm enough where we were, in all conscience. At last, I got a man at work on the broken part, and1, with the assurance that another hour would see the cylinder turning, I staggered upstairs for a breath of air. Arriving at my 'den in front, I discovered that in this oppor- tune moment I was honoured with a lady caller. She was a faded, meek faced, poorly messed woman of 45 or more, and: she said timidly that she had been waiting for some time, Not wishing to disturb me. I thanked her fervently and waited for more. She wanted advice, she said. This was a boon. Most of my lady callers wanted! mon-ey for charitable purposes or free loeais of ehureh tmtertainiments. Advica was in light demand, and I accumulated a, choice stouk of it during nine years' experience with a daily paper in a Western town. She unrolled a .piroel and drew forth a printed'circular, which she handed to me. "Whsut do you know of thig. firm?" she asked), anxiously. I saw at a glance that it was a prospectus of a book entitled "The Poets of America" or something oi the sort, and bsued by some enterprising publisher whose sole aim was to get contributions and biographical1 notices from 1M many aspiring poe, ti; as possible, with the hope of selling to eadh from one to a dozen copies of the comipleted work. I wasi familiar with the idea, and' briefly stated to her some- thing of its t:rue inwardness, after glancing fcurriedly at the pamphlet. "You tftiink that i", their only object, then?" she said, wearily, as I handed it back, "to get to seii me a book; they—they would! net want to buy poemu, or—or exchange book.; for thtan —perhaps?" I should have laughed outright had it not been so sad. "No, I am quite sure they would not," I said, gravely, and added with some trepidation, <4You—3 ;ou are a poetess, then?" I bad had experience with poetesses before and trembled for the consequences. Twice already that week I had been coerced into printing inordinately long and shockingly bad "poems," because they had been written by "Little 'Mabel, the sixteen-year daughter of one of my heaviest advertisers. 1 "\e«," she said, ''I write poetry, and they must have heard about it. I live at Jaekville, iea miles below, and have had my pieces mostly in the Jaekville Banner.' This house must have seen them, I gueas, for they sent me these circulars and a letter asking me to send some of my poems. Here is a list of what I sent, ami I told them I would take •a. book for pay, and that I might be agent for them in Jaokville and sell some. Then they wrote me to send them 4dols., and did not mention my pieces. So being up to the city to-day I came to you for advice, knowing that you write poetry, too, and would likely know all about it." I was probably nearer regretting my spas- mochc trifling with the muse at that moment than ever before, for while she talked she had mechanically undone the rest of her parcel, end I knew intuitively what was coming. She was going to force me to listen to some of her poetry—there was no escape. Calmly and pitilessly she unrolled an ordi- nary scholar's copybook, somewhat soiled with handling, and laid it before JIW. "There are my pieces,she said, while a glow of animation crept into her faded cheek. "1 nc ver had! nobody to leant me how.—I jus' took it up myself." I mopped the perspiration from my fore- head and took up the book: she was so tired and anxious—I could not help it. 1er The carriers in the basement had been keep- ing up a terrible rumpus during Uw. last few minutes, which had grad'.ially increased in Violence, and the "devil" now poked h;s head hi to say that two of them had had a fight, with disastrous results; al-o, that the press would probably not be repaired as soon as first stated. I dismissed him with brief and suc- cinct instructions, and turned over the leaves of the copybook. A hasty glance assured me of the character of my visitor's work. I knew -the type perfectly. Wretched! obituaries. Deco- ration Day pieces and stanzas, on "Intempe- rance," or "Little Willie's New Pants." In numbers of them love rhymed with above, and 'in. one place, I regret to say, sin was; honoured with an invitation to rhyme with wings:- Beloved Susie died to-day. Her soul is free from care and sin, iFor it has flown to Heaven away. And now is wearing angel's wing3. The sentiment of this was comforting, no doubt, but I felt that to wade through anv mmoimt of it after what I had already endured that day was more than even she ought to ex- pect. I made a pretence of .reading several pages and closed the book. "They are very metrical," I said, keeping as near the truth as possible, "and most of the Thymes are good. She did not seem surprised at my commenda- tion, but rather disappointed, I thought, that [ m'd not eagerly read through the entire book. "Yet," she remarked, with a little touch of I wanted advice," she saiil. I pride, "ma friends in Jaekville all think they are good, aid I have a good many requests to write piece!—obituaries and things. I hear you have sold some of your poems?" She paused, and looked at me incredulously. I nodded feebly, and she coniinued:- "I haven't no idea what poems are worth. 'What would it be worth, now, to write a poem on the death of. say, a middle-aged man, and say they wanted five or six verses and four lines to the verse?" She looked at me somewhat anxiously as she paused. I was listening eagerly for the rumble and clack of the ibig press below which would give me a valid excuse for getting away. I felt sorry for her, but I wished the interview might dose. "Well, I hardly know. One dollar per stanza, perhaps." ■She sighed. "The people in Jaekville wouldn't pay tliat. They mostly want poetry for nothing. I do not believe they would pay more than a dollar altogether for any obituary piece, an' maybe as high as a dollar and a. half for a wedding ode. And that don't pay fo-r the brain work, do you think so r" "No," I said, warming up with the memory I of some of my own 'oitter experiences. r, doesn't pay in money—ever. It must be its own reward. The pleasure of creating—of J wi-iting it-is the only real pay one ever gets. j If any one thing comes afterward—praise or j money—it is just as if one found it in the j street. One might, in fact, as easily make a! living hunting for lost poc-ketbooka as by I writing poetry." Oh, how I wanted to talk frankly at the moment to that woman. I would have said to I her, "Woman, go home and burn your copy- book of wretched pieces and give up the t struggle. You will never write a line that the world will oay for or even listen to. Your] work will bring you only sorrow 'and dis- j F appointment. You are only one among the thousand's who awaken som# dark morning with the glad idea that Nature created them fc for poets, and because nobody will buy or l~ even print poor rhymer go down to their h graves heartsick and embittered, in the firm belief that they have never been appreciated, r Give it up, oh, give it up, and take in wash- i* ing while you ha.ve yet » few years to enjoy Iii-a. *3a5&e are the things that I wanted to say, but, looking into her weary face and remembering my own moments of weakness, I forbore. She had rallied, meantime, and was I coming at me again. ''Ye.?," she said, gratefully, "you are right; it is the pleasure of composing it that pays the best, I guess, after all. is one I wrote last week on the old school-house, back ill Ohio, where I went to school. I can sto it now, plain." Sha had the offending copy- book opfii in a new place mid held it toward me wistfully. I took it, and skimmed through three pages of the doggerel, in which rtfereiice was mc.de to a certain, teacher named Rebecca Pierce, whose school e-he had once attended—"Scme- times very mild, and sometimes very fierce," &c.. &c. It was realistic and beautiful enough to her, no doubt, but it was becoming fear- fully oppressive to me. I was on the point of handing the book back with a deliberate and more or less complimentary falsehood, when sho Teached out and opened the leaves for me once inore. "There is a. piece," she said, "that has never been printed. I suppovse you wouldn't want anything that the 'Banner' had published, an" I saved this one till I came up," and she looked at me anxiously. I felt the cold sweat beginning to break out in different; places. The conviction had beer, with me all along that in the end she would force me either into printing or refu- sing £ ome of her did not know which was the worst. The woman had some- hew awakened my sympathy. I muttered son ething about being crowded for space, but she did not seem to catch the. drift, and went on' — "I have never had' a piece in a daily paper, an' I would be so glad to have this one put in, for it Ü; about my son who was killed on the railroad last year. I wrote it at the time, and have been saving it to send you, or bring up." As I glanced1 at the first few stilted lints, born of a mother's anguish, I realised that even bad rhymes cannot wholly cover up and conceal a genuine sorrow. Bad a.< the composition un- doubtedly was, there was something in it-surne "Dischua-ged the two boys who had been fighting." echo of the wild, hopeless grief ef the stricken mother when her :-on had been brought heme to her one day, hi", strong body mangled and his young life crushed' out. And only an hour before he had' left her so fufls of life and health and hope. There « something in all of this— even in the very wretchedness of the telling— that moved me sufficiently to read it twice through, every word, Then I handed the book through, every word, Then I handed the book back in silence. I wanted' to fell her that I considered it very fine, but that would have bE""n a falsehood and, a. mockery. She did not offer to show me any more, but r:a:d, wistfully "I :haye n-ever had anything in any paper but the 'Banner,' an'—I thought, luarbe. you would like to pulbiidi this piece in the Tribune.' 1— I don't want any pay, I—only a copy of the IJa Twr-yo'U-- I knew perfectly well what I was doing. I knew tihat to encourage this woman now would be but to put an adockd blight on her life later, and bring no end cf tribulation, perhaps, but I felt unable to refuse her request, and consenisd to insert her "poem" in the next issue of the 'Banner."

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