Beaufort Republican. [volume] (Beaufort, S.C.) 1871-1873, 1873-07-31
WRITING FOR THE PAPERS.

Clara Leslie had just turned down
the narrow, chestnut-shaded path that
led along the riverside to the quiet
old farmhouse, where she was spending
these sultry summer days-a slight,
violet-eyed young girl, with heavy
masses of gold brown hair, cheeks
rather pale, and a dress of simple
French calico, made and trimmed by
her own hands.
Eudocia Martin looked almost con-
temptuously after her, as she stood at
the bend of the road, leaning lightly on
Mr.. Wyfora's arm.
Miss Martin was tall and finely form
ed, with bright color, sparkling black
eyes, and way of throwing her head
back as she walked. Moreover, her at
tire was of dainty checked silk, and she
wore gold ornaments in her ears and at
her throat. The two girls were of as
different types of beauty as could easily
be conceived.
"Isn't it strange" said Eudocia care
lessly, "that Miss Leslie prefers that
horrid, stuffy little farmhouse to the
hotel, where everybody else that is
worth knowing stays ?"
Perhaps" began Mr.. Wyford quiet
ly, "Miss Leslie's taste"
"Oh, it isn't that" interposed Eudo-
cia, somewhat sharply. cts from a
motive of economy"
"Do you think SOP"
"I am quite sure of it. Don't you
calico dresses, linen sets, and not a
jewel about her but that plain little
gold brooch that looks as if it might
have come down from the ark"
"She looks very neat always, I am
sure"
"Just like mans verdict" laughed
Miss Eudocia. "But is it really true
that she writes for the papers ?"
~ believe 80, answered Mr.. Wyford,
as he walked slowly along toward the
Heathdale Hotel with his companion.
"But I thought people that wrote
for the papers were always 30 smart and
brilliant, and Clara is SO plain and
quiet"
81 don't altogether agree with either
of your differences, Miss Martin"
"What does she write ?" asked Eudo-
cia, somewhat sharply.
Have you never read those exquisite
little sketches under the signature OF
'Clarice in the NeW York Guest ?"
"Oh, those insignificant little affairs ?
Yes, of course I have You don't mean
to say that the editors pay her for that
silly, sentimental trash ?"
81 believe they do"
Miss Martin was silent for moment
or two. Devoted as she was to dress,
show, and thousand other minor ex-
travagances, money was considerable
object in her eyes, and she almost en-
We'd any woman who had the faculty of
| earning it, as it were, for herself.
"Mr. Wyford," said she, with little
laugh that was meant to be very capti-
waiting, without being conceited do
believe that I could write a great deal
better than that Clarice' nonsence. It's
so simple-just like one person talking
TO another no fine words or elevated
phrases"
Il am told that is considered the
chief charm of her pen," observed Mr..
Wyford, slightly elevating his eyebrows
in the dusk.
"I 1 dare say it does very we'll, when
they can't get anything BETTER" said
Eudocia, tossing her head supercilious'
ly. "Now I'vegot the plot of charm:
ing Moorish story in my head, with old
castles like the Alhambra in it, and g
band of robbers, and q magician in 9
black velvet robe, and But just wait
until write it out, and I will read il
to you. Don't you think the Neu
York Guest would be delighted to pub
lish it ?"
Really" said Mr.. wyford, du'
biously, "I hardly know. I believe
the quiet impersonations OF every day
life"
"Pshaw r' said Miss Martin, conf.
dently. "Who cares about everyday
life when they can read of princes anG
robbers and bandits caves think
shall call it The Scourge of the Moors.
Or would Black Alfonso, or the Hu
rien's DOOM" be better? Oh, here W.
are at the hotel, and I must run and ge
ready for tea"
She was thinking, however, of ''Blacl
Alfonso" all the time she was brushing
out her black curls.
"I am sure I could write . grea