The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1881-03-16
A POEM BY WINONA SILVER,

/ sat IN the editorial Sanctum tine
chief was in Europe, and consequently
/ had twice as much work IS usual to
do) toling through a long manuscript,
and wishing with all my heart that the
distinguished writer had seen fit to use
the familiar letters of the alphabet in
stead of hieroglyphics of his own indis-
tinctly resembling them, when there
came a light tap at the door. Come
I called, rather sharply, for I WIS a little
vexed at being interrupted, and the door
opening slowly disclosed a lightly clad
much too lightly clad for a cold Janu-
ary day; I saw that at o glance-girlish
figure standing on the threshold.
"Are you the editor-Mr. Gray?"
asked a very sweet, timid voice.
"Iam,"I replied. "Come in, please"
The girl entered, closed the door, sat
down in the chair beside my desk, to
which I motioned, and said never q
word. I could hear her breath coming
quickly, as though she were terribly
frightened, and I purposely went on
with the %unraveling of the Oriental
characters before me to give her time
to recover herself; for I remembered
with painful distinctness my own first
call upon an editor (kr wing intuitively
this was a first call), when my heart,
albeit it was a manly one, thumped
harder than it ever thumped before OF
since. At last I raised my eyes from
the paper. Ny visitor had thrown back
her veil from which dripped little drops
of water-melted snow-and was re-
garding me with a wistful, beseeching
gaze. In return, Regarded her with one
of establishment, for hers was the sweet
est and most heart-touching face I had
ever seen in my life, and SO peculiar in
its beauty hat I find it hard to describe
it. Big pathetic light brown eyes, with
glints of gold in them; long bronze
brown lashes; hair of the ralest sun
shine, as though moonlight and sunshine
had mingled together; slightly parted
rosy lips, revealing a glimpse of small
white teeth; colorless but pretty rounded
cheeks; and over all that indescribable
charm of innocence that is to youthful
beauty, to use old and well-worn SMILES,
as the bloom to the peach and the fra
GRANGE to the rose.
"What can I do for You ?" I asked,
speaking gently enough this time.
"I-have-a-story," stammered the
poor little thing, (Which I thought
you might It's my frst-and if you
only would"
at will look wei it with pleasure" I
said, as she paused, apparently unable
from sheer nervousness to 60 on.
"Leave it with me, and I promise to
give it my earliest attention"
And as she handed me the roll Of
paper, I saw she wore no gloves, and
her hands were red with the cold; but
I also saw they were as exec ptionally
pretty as her face, with slender tapering
fingers, and pink shell-like nails.
at is not written on very nice
paper" she said, rising, as I took the
manuscript from her. II had nothing
but scraps of old letter., and backs Of
circulars and bills; but"-with a CLEAN
Of modest pride, and a glance at the
bieloglyphics-"I write very plainly,
and it will not take you long to read it.
And when may I call for an answers
Tomorrow" said T, without a mo-
ment's hesitation, though I knew I
ought to devote all the time I could
spare from my other duties for weeks
to the very lengthy contribution of the
distinguished author.
"Thank you;" and she fitted away
as noiselessly as she had entered.
But for the life of mel could not for
ct her. Wherever my gaze fell, there
I beheld those great pathetic eyes, that
faint golden hair, those prettily curved
trembling lips. "And she was cold.
Cold! I should think s~o-actually
shivering in that thin shawl, while 1,
great strong fellow" docking at my
heavy overcoat, hanging IN the opposite
wall). "Pshaw! you may stay there
tonight" And I actually went home
without it, as though that would make
the poor little girl any warmer, and
caught a yer cold in consequence, as
I might have known I would. After
which ebullition I began the story, and
read it through.
It was written plainly, that could not
be denied; in fact, in the way of
chirography, it was all that could be
desired; and there were some pretty and
fairly original ideas in it, and some
CLEANS of q poetic nature; but the plot
was so highly romantic and visionary,
and the whole thing so evidently the
work of one who had not yet even
mastered the primer of authorship, that
it s;as impossible to give it a place in the
publication of which I was junior
editor.
But never did the necessity of saying
No" so distress me before, not even
when Alvaretta Strawhorn, since known
as the author of "A Riddle Solved by
q Cimeter," told me that in spite of my
rejection of her novelettes, "the laurel
wreath of fame would encircle her brow
when I was still ~groveling, the obscurest
OF the obscure"
slept but little that night, thinking
of it. Something told me it would al
most break the girls heart. Should I
accept it, pay for it myself, and then
consign it to the waste-basket? No,
that would not do, for she would be
a~nxiously watching for its appearance in
print, and bringing more stories mean.
while, for my consideration. What