The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1892-09-21

1t was supreme moment for him.
EN- was impressed, for she ceased
picking, but something in his voice
made her keep silent, with face half
turned aside.
CT wanted to do it for you-some.
thing to please you. It's different
about the others, but you-it's always
been 500, En-, don't you know"
and timidly his hand was placed on
hers, now resting idly on stone.
"I've waited so long for this-until l
could do something"
1t was very still (; no movement save
of the white and yellow butterflies
! floating about. Round them, over wall
and bush, climbed the wild clematis,
the fragrance of its white blossoms
mingled with the odor of golden.rod
Just bursting into bloom, and resting
on all the hot MONDAY sunshine. Was
it haze creeping up in the west that
made the hills appear so indistinct to
Ems eyes? A moment, and her emo
ton, if it was emot on, was past, and
raising her head, she spoke earnestly;
Herb, you've been mistaken all
these years trying to please me by
writing poetry. You're a man now,
anu l. uOpCu yOu u DcRlh W w u luhu
work Pm going TO speak plainly
you've wasted your life so far, and
you'll waste it all if you don't change
pretty soon. The thing for you to do is
to go to work, and if there's real poetry
in you, it will come out anyway, and if
not, you'll be worth something with
out it,"
"Then you won't have me, Emp"
He uttered the common words
humbly, sorrowfully, not a trace in the
pathos of his voice and face of the
anger her words might have aroused in
a different nature. Sharply came the
reply;
question, Herb Putnam, till you've
shown there was something to you.
She'd have to work night and day or
you'd both starve. One piece in the
paper-that's all you've got to show for
your whole life" Her voice softened
a little. "I'm telling you the truth,
Herb, and some day you'll thank me
for it. There's mother calling; must
60"
Herb walked up the road with bent
head, his mind in a perfectly dazed
condition; but gradually from out the
chaos halfformed ideas emerged. The
future he had planned lost its charm.
His verses suddenly seemed tame; the
thought of writing distastefu. Per-
haps it was EN- he cared for more than
the poetry. He had worked to win her.
and now that he had failed-it was En-
he cared for still.
Had the girl discovered genius? The
true poet is sensitive to every breeze
and tint, and form, every emotion of
nature and man, these making music
within him, and heard by the world be-
cause it is impossible to keep them to
himself. Herb was in love with words,
rhymes, the charmed corner of the
newspaper, praise and glory, and more
than all he was in love with En-.
These thoughts were not all present in
his mind, for this would have shown
both poet and philosopher; he only felt
vaguely what the looker-on may moral
ize upon. By the time he reached
home he had, in his reflections, reached
the point where action begins, and GER
tain sheets of paper much written upon
were consigned, not without tremor,
to the flames. Then Herb went to
work
And the girl? She is in her room,
cutting something from paper, and, o
perverse womanl reading it carefully,
folding it in soft paper, and putting it
not with her bits of silk and ribbons,
notes and faded flowers, treasures of
schoolgirl friendships, but quite apart
from them all.