Middletown transcript., 1895-07-20
An End of the
Century Story
IE Poets eyes
rested with an
expires ion of
deep con te n t.
ment upon the
white -gow q 9 d
figure which fit
ted among the
paths in tn Q
quaint, old box
bOrtlarad garden.

the world outside it was as blue as ever
poet could wish. The delicious odors
of the old-fashioned country flowers
were sweeter than ever under the noon.
day heat. The bees buzzed languor.
ously and the insects in the grass
chirped. The white-gowned girl
stopped to clip dead leaves and to pluck
bright blossoms from the stiffly made
flower beds. And the Poet on the
piazza lounged lazily and smiled to
himself, content with the heat, the
perfume, the color, the music and
above all with the girl.
By and by she ceased her futtering
among the flowers and came up to the
piazza smiling saucily.
"Indolent!" she exclaimed. "You
lounge while the world waits for your
lyric, your epic, your anything. You
are no true poet.''
"Why not?" asked the Poet. He
didn't care what she would answer.
He simply liked to hear her voice and
to watch her expressive face.
because you are not industrious.
Eternal patience is not genius. It's
eternal labor"
"Now you're confounding success
with genius" objected the Poet.
because the former is the only
guarantee of the latter that recog-
nize," said the girl.
There was an air of defiance about
her which the Poet understood. He
knew that she was telling him in her
own way that she was worldly minded
and ambitious. He knew she was
telling him that. it was useless for him
to hops for her which was some
thing the Poet did quite openly-unless
he were distinguished person. A
shadow passed over his face as he
thought, Lot so much of fear as of dis
taste. He believed that she did herself
an injustice and he wished she would
not try to seem sordid. She saw the
shadow and thought she understood it.
81 am sure," she said gently, "that
if you would only stop dreaming and
begin working you'd soon be-any-
thing-poet laureate or anything!"
"Don't talk in that commercial way"
he answered gruffiy. "It does not come
well from a woman with your eyes and
hair. You look like saint and sibyl.
Don't talk like money-changer."
The compliment took the sting out of
the rebuke, and she only laughed as
she flung herself into chair and ar
swered:
"Ah, you are cross because you know
I am right. l am practical. You are a
Somehow the reiteration Jared upon
the Poet and he strobe away, leaving
her half smiling at his moodiness and
in no wise annoyed by it. She knew
that he cared for her, although he had
never told her so. And, "if he we're only
practical and successful" she unused
'sI-I-" and her musing ended in a
blush.
When the Poet strobe off there f1ut.
tered on the floor a piece of paper.
The 'saint and sibyl" picked it up. "a
poets writing" she reasoned, "will
become public property anyway. So
why not read it now2"
SO she read:
silver shaft among the flowers,
A radiant daughter of the wood,
A sister of the summer hours. |
White as the sea foam hung her gown,
Bright as the corn floss hung her hair
Then the poem ended abruptly.
Marie's face flushed with pleasure and
pride.
my dear poetp' she murmured.
Then she returned the scrap of paper |
% the floor and went indoors, rather |
pleased that she was an inspiration to |
,ven halting verses. But then she did |
lot realize that they were halting.
But the Poet could not be coerced |
nto industry or into taking mercan-
lie view of his work even by his love
or Marie. And Marie could take only
views of life. So that the
lime came when the Poet and Marie
,arted with more or less bitterness.
'Sordid" and "lazy" had been among
he expressions interchanged, and
doubtless each was quite right.
1t was one day fully year after
wards when Marie had married man
;apable of taking sensible views of life
md had found, perhaps, that there
we're sweeter things than success, that
he was riding in street-car. She was
of her poet.