The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1882-01-27

might have known you were woman,
and young one at that, because, al
though there is touch of masculine
strength in your essays and poems, still
there is, too, sweetness that is only
feminine. / think that women more
often have this flavor of masculinity
than men have anything OF that tender
ness which is essentially and purely
feminine. Were / in position of au-
thority, should very soon dismiss the
cut and-dried Underwriters whose con-
tributions, although smooth and pol
ished, lack the freshness, the spontane-
ity, which is characteristic of the con-
tributions We sometimes receive
from unknown writer's, and notably
from you. But you see L am merely an
assistant editor, and person OF no con-
sequence at all, except rs L am useful to
do the work, all the glory of which goes
To the distinguished individuals whose
names are emblazoned at the head Of
the paper. There! that sounds bitter.
1 am afraid; but, my dear Miss Bell, the
fates have not been so kind to me as to
you, and it is not for fame l write, but
for the wherewithal TO keep me fed and
clothed What makes it perhaps harder
is that have known what it is to have
my bread and butter fresh and sweet =
aye, and honey with it, too-and. there
fore, the thin slices that are doled out
to me now taste the drier by COM
parison.
Forgive me for boring you with so
much about myself. Pray, write to me
again. Your luxurious stationery, with
faint, delicate perfume pervading it, is in
itself delight. Sincerely yours,
"MIss FRANCES BERTRAM SoREvEN.
AS read this letter felt myself
scoundrel. My first impulse was to
write letter of confession to Miss
Screven; but the desire to keep up the
correspondence and try my hand at
composing letters that should be sweetly
feminine overcame my scruples, and 1
sent off the following reply:
DEAR MISS SoREvEN Instead of
boring me, the glimpse you gave me of
your life interested me more than 1 can
tell. But, at the same time, the contrast
between your life and mine made me
envious. Perhaps your lot is a hard
one, bat it is at least brave and inde-
pendent. Here am L, an only daughter,
petted and spoiled to a shameful degree,
and bound by letters of luxury. Yes, 1
envy you. Sitting this morning in my
silly, pink curtained boudoir, with a
Dresden shepherdess simpering at me
from the top of my escritoire, feel my
idle, luxurious life hemming me and
overpowering me, as the perfume of
tuberoses makes heavy and sickening
ftnn "a, no,NhA,-a .e hot ehA,,l1
be flung open to the fresh air and sun
shine. I would change places with you
to-day if L could"
When / reached this point of my let
ter, read over approvingly what 1 had
written. Arrived at the lines descript-
i've of my imaginary boudoir, 1 smiled
rs my glance fell upon boot-jack in
one corner and the shaving apparatus
in another. CHANGING at the place
where the Dresden shepherdess ought
to have been, my eye fell instead upon
pipe, which 1 took down and filed,
and then resumed my writing with con-
siderable competency:
''This may sound to you rather school
girlish, and L may as wei confess that
1t Is not many years-perhaps months
Il
precincts of finishing school. Fin
ishing-school, indeed Much learned
there beside the art of doing up my
hair However, the defects of my ed
ucation L must remedy myself, and try
every day to devote few hours to Sc
rious study. But it is very hard to Sc
clude myself long enough to accomplish
anything. People call 1 must go to
garden-parties; must drive out with
my mother; L must hold solemn con-
clave with the milliner and dress maker;
IN short, L have constant demands of q
most frivolous nature upon my time.
"All this you will probably laugh at,
and, lest L write yet more foolishly, 1
will bring my letter to close. If you
are not quite disguised with me, do
write again soon. Faithfully yours,
"JANE BELL"
may as well confess that L thought
this letter successful imitation of some
of the epistles that 1 had myself re-
ceived from feminine hands. 1t sounded
enthusiastic and very "missish," and L
sent it off that afternoon with bold
heart.
Jack" quoth my uncle, who met
me as L came from the postoffice, 81
verify believe you are making an ass of
yourself over some girl. don't believe
1t is the muses. you are counting; it is no
muse it is miss" And with this he
passed on, chuckling at his own wit.
As the days went on, however, my
uncle's words seemed in fair way to
prove true. 1 thought only of Miss
Screven. My novel left untouched,
and my rhyming dictionary accumulated
dust slowly, but surely. Fled were my
visions of astonishing the world with my
genius. 1 lived only for the mail from
Boston.
AS I reread the letters I received
from Miss Screven, 1 can make some
excuse for my infatuation. They were
frank and outspoken. and sometimes,
indeed, tinged with cynicism but
through there breathed sympathy, q
tenderness, that touches me even now
as L read them over. Finally, at my So
licitation, she sent me her photograph,
which showed her to be regular. feat
ured, large-eyed woman of rather Sc
rious cast of countenance indeed, but
with lurking smile in her mouth, that
II l.. e