The record-union., 1891-12-25
THE WRONG THEME.
Ten Weary Years, and the Manuscript
Rejected.

tAeJtcbeu.
One of the most successful of recent
pieces OF f1ctlon-loyed for its quaint, old
time pictures and its tender pathos-has
an inner history known to few The
story has brought the writer into sudden
lame. This is how it came to be written:
It's author, a clever young female news
paper correspondent, secured board for
her summer vacation with a quaint old
luakeress IN the country, not far from
springfield. The young lady and her
hostess soon became fast friends. Even
ing after evening they would sit together
upon the porch steps, and the old lady
would pour into the attentive ears of her
sympathetic listener the story of her own
hard life-an orphaned and comfortlesS
childhood; a girlhood of ceaseless work,
devoid of coveted schooling; an early
and incompatible marriage; a woman
hood full of the privationS, struggles and
small economies of those who raised a
family" and got home'' in the early
days; a whole life filled with unsatisfied
craving for knowledge, power, apprecia-
ton She had hungered for the bread of
intellectual companionship, and had been
given the stone OF solitary drudging and
pinching.
But thep pride of life had not been wholly
crushed out of her. She had chung to one
dream She had written book! Yes,
the last word of the last page had been
finished the very day that her guest had
arrived. She could never forget-so she
TOLD her listener as they sat together un-
der the notified, quiyering shade of the
thick-leaved naples which the moonlight
silhouetted upon the doorsteps-the
feelings which she had" as she traced
the word ''F-i-n-i-s'' and put straight
markh each side OF it, so:
-EiniS-
How long had she worked over it? Ten
| long years. And now it was done! How
glorious it would look in print-her own
book!
81 hope you put much OF the story of
your own life into it?' suggested the
young woman.
20, my, non' exclaimed the dear old
woman; mot bit Oft. Nobody would
care to read that. It's allsabout lost heir
and things like that!''
The next summer the young lady came
out to the old farmhouse again but not
for more moonlight visits with her quaint
old friend, whose white lips had been
bitten into Silence by the froStS of death.
The dull, sad husband led the young
woman into the bedroom, and pointing
to large package of sheets tied together
with weiting-cord, and a dozen loose let
tiers which stood upon the bureau beside
the tumblers and medicine, said:
Mary wanted you TO put them into the
colnu dlong Win nec when she was laid
out-Wouldn't have no one else tech 'em,
nohow. l can't understand it. Nor j
can't see why them there letters should "a
made her just pine herself away into the
grave. But they did, though"
Inc young woman read one of the
letters, or rather circulars, for they were
printed:
We regret that your manuscript is not
available for our use and herewith return
1t with thanks.'
She had no need to read more of them,
but placed them and the rejected manu-
script beside the dead. Then she re-
turned home, wrote the story of the hum
bic life which nobody would care to
read" and made fame the hundredth
part Of which would have given the dis
appointed life, which had just gone out in
darkness. a glorious sunset Chicago
Times