The Yakima herald. [volume] (North Yakima, W.T. [Wash.]) 1889-1914, 1894-04-19
A Eharp. qulvsrins breath came from

a marp. qulvering breath came from
his HIPS.
Delatoie had spoken truly. Some
thing had withered within him, or In
the degradation Of his life he had lost Il
forever. He had striven to write and
always in vain. His ideas were no long.
er vivid, stirring, flowing to u logical
sequence. but dim, abortive-a haze OF
tangled threads. Heaps of closely writ.
ten paper, upon which the best efforts Of
his brain had been expended with the
feverish intensity man feels in running
race. had been cast aside as worthless,
The day was surely coming when his
world would know the truth and hken
him to plant that puts forth radiant
blossoms once and withers in a night.
How miserably he had failed! Was
there no escape from social annihila-
ton except by trading on the infatua.
ton Of woman 10 years older than
himelf? And once-once-when he had
thought like one inspired. and honor was
q shining reality in his life. 10 had DO
trayed love for chimera. But he must
not remember that, and least of all to-
night, in the silence. when his thoughts
were like knives in his heart.
He stood mp, shivering, and from habit
turned to the sideboard. He half filed
goblet with brandy and laughed aloud
as the decanter clinked against the glass
in his hand, a laugh that subsidized to a
chuckle and rose again. beating upon the
stiffness like the wings of Gagged bird.
at wouldn't be out of order to drink
. toast to my own defeat"
When he re-entered his studio few
months later, his eyes were flaming,
though the smile-a hideous contortion
fingered on his lips.
An open letter on his disordered desk
faced him as he sat down. The closing
lines caught his eye:
will finally withdraw "The Worlds Way"
from the road in fortnight. Now that four
act society drama Is what I'm waiting Tor. In
two years I've had only two curtain raiscrs
from you-rags Of things that only drew at all
because your name was to them. II l can't rely
on you, must look elsewhere. II you're not
going to write any more, for Gods sake say So
GEORGE PLUsKEr.
He read 1t and tore it to bits. There
was sob in his throat as his eager hands
went searching through the mass Of pa
pers for half sketched plots and notes of
ideas not worth the leaves they were
scrawled upon. He would not even
leave scrap. All should be destroyed.
And these crowded, dusty drawers,
they, too, must be emptied, lest some
la ka l. a sx.f% 81. ~
apathy, with only profound respect
for the well being of the body, he might
open them and hear each fluttering leaf
whisper how he had once dreamed a
dream.
He worked with an eager intensity, as
If following his hearts desire, even went
on his knees and scattered the scrawled
sheets right and left, then paused alb
ruptly and looked with puzzled eyes at
what he had dragged out-a long roll of
manuscript, dusty and tied with gray
tape. He did not remember it. had new
er seen it before. Yet, wait. Now that
1t lay unfolded before him, fully writ
ten play, he did recall the title, Doctor
Fleming"
Just before his departure for Europe,
a distinguished looking man in the ira
ditional shabbiness of unrecognized gen.
Jus had called on him with this play,
asking In a shy, embarrassed way that
he. the splendidly prosperous young au-
thor. would read it and tell him what its
merits were. His papers were never
touched by his servant. 1t had lain for
gotten in his desk for more than year.
And the man who had brought it-where
was he?
Still kneeling among the mass of dusty
papers, he turned the leaves. A letter
fiuttered to the ground:
DEAR sm-I inclose this note, as it may not
be possible to have an interview with you. The
play "Dr. Fleming" which beg you to read
~ favor to me, has for its basis insidents In
my own life. The scene in Russia is particu-
larry accurate, and think presents dramatic
situation distinctly new. Your respectfully,
FELIX DAWSON, No. - Bedford street.
p. Sill you can find time to look It over,
you will bs doing me an inestimable favor.
beg that you will be careful Of II. as I have no
copy, and even though commercially worth
less It IL very dear to me.
VERY dear to YOU" Tom said slowly.
II know just how you felt, Mr.. Felix
Dawson, when you wrote those words,
Very dear to you You shall have your
treasure back"
He turned the first page with a pity
ing, half languid interest, but only the
first. After that he knelt amid the de-
struction of his own work, paying trib-
ute with enraptured senses to the genius
Of another man. The manuscript fiut-
tered to the floor when the last climax
was reached--a climax that made every
nerve yibrate and awoke his senses like
q trumpet call-and with strained, hot
hands he grasped the chair.
He looked around the silent room and
down at the bundle of half furled papers.
Oh, that imagined life pictured there
through laughter and signing, like gems
through dust and tearsi 1t was more
precious than magician's wand
4If 1t were mine-if it were miner he
said aloud, and woman's laugh drifted
mp from the street, as If she had heard
that cry and Knocked him.
lTfN)