Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1894-06-28
His First Appearance.

Cyril Keith sat alone late at night
IN his dreary little room. The Wintry
wind was singing mournfully down
the chimney, and the storm-fiend was
abroad. A lonely rOOm-poorly fur
nished, and only a ghost of a fire
! within the rusty CRATE. He bent over
his desk, and the hand--white and
! frai1 as a Woman's-which held the
pen, was travelling rapidly over the
! white page before him. His face was
| the face Of picture, a beautiful sad
picture, with its wonderful eyes. blue
as yiolets, fringed with long golden
/ brown lashes; golden mustache
! shaded the short upper lip; his mouth
was like a Cupid's bow. Straight, del
! icate features; a broad low brow with
mass of golden brown hair; tall
slender figure; and there you have my
, hero. But words fail to convey an
adequate idea of the dreamy beauty
of that nerfect face; its ivory-lilze skin
and fra e hue. He was delicate as a
WOmah; Over-SenSitive, highly strung,
nervous, and, withal, a genius.
| The golden head dropped over the
manuscript before him, and the white
| hand raced over the page until leaf
after leaf Of the work was completed.
! He was writing a play. He was actor
as well as author, and in this play he
was to assume the leading role. Into
! this play he had thrown all the
strength of his genius al his powers
! of creation, all the beauty and pathOs
ial
| the plot unfOlded itself Such beauti-
full, tender scenes would bring tears
| to the eyes of a wording. Such eX-
! quisite love passages, such dainty wit
| and touches of sarcasm. A grand
playa play which ought to have
| brought him fame and fortune; but
not a play to be appreciated by the
| multitude. 1t was beyond the compre-
hensiOn o. the common herd
! On, on, he worked. occasionally lift
ing his head to glance at the tiny
clock on the mantel The hours wore
on; the fire died out in the CRATE, but
! he never knew it: the wind arose
higher, and shrieked and tore about
the old tenement house, but Cyril
| Keith was deaf to all eXternalS. and
knew nothing of the storm. The hours
flew by. The clock had not been
wound, and at last it stopped. and
there was not a sound to break the
dead silence, save the scratching of
the pen upon the paper. and the moan
ing of the wind outside.
The writer was growing paler and
+ paler. He was weak for want of food,
and the work thu he had set himself
to do that night was far too much for
his feeble strength. But his brain was
preternaturally bright and active, and
the pen flew on over the paper.
I For genius does what it must
While talent does what it can
! The pen dropped at last from his
nerveleSS fingerS-numb, too, with the
cold which had crept in at numerous
corners, and down the chimney-flling
the room with a biting, singing at
mosphere. He pushed back his chair
{ and arose to his feet, numbed and
aching.
Il declare it is O'Clock! Why, the
clock has stopped. 1t must be later.
the North Pole, and I am faint and
weary and hungry-but''-th light of
genius irradiating the beautiful worn
face ny play is done and we'll done!
Not line in it that did not come from
my heart Only think''-he went on
with his soliloquy after the manner Of
those who are accustomed to being
much alone. 1T is all mine, and I am
to appear in it. Ny first appearance
upon the boards of a real theater I
have acted in amateur companies time
and again, but this means something
more. This is professional, and means
the opening door to my future fame
and fortune-and-and her Oh! the
divine light IN the glorious eyes, and
the ring of ecstacy in the low. sweet,
tender voice"
New, when one finds a man so en-
crossed in dreams of fame and future
success, it is usually safe to infer that
there is a woman in the case. Some
fair, sweet face to urge him on, a voice
to lure, a white hand to beckon. It
was just such a phantasy as this,
which had made Cyril Keith, the poet
and dreamer, suddenly arouse and
take his place in the arena. 1t had
made him throw heart. and soul, and
life into the one mad race for wealth.
and name. Vain pursuit. And when
the will-o'-the-wisp is caught, when
fame and wealth are won, do they al
ways bring happiness? Like the fly,
embalmed in amber
Type of the poet persisted in his
flame,
Who dies to leave the ulster Of a
name,
And be gazed upon still, in crystal
lied fame.
But Cyril Keith had no thought for
anything but Ehe dainty of pink-and-
white, the sweet fair face, with its
melting dark eyes and wealth of
golden hair, the lovely Miss Vavasor.
Queen of her select circle, rich, social
Success-how dared he aspire to such
as she? 1t was madness, folly, sui
eide. All the same, it was true, and
for her he had toiled-for her, although
he knew not that she would smile upon
his suit. Maude Vavasor was a soul
less mammon worshiper, as unlike this
poet, as dross is unlike gold vet the
glitter is there. She had met him at
certain receptions, and had chosen to
:. smile upon him, just to pique ''the
other one " For there was another