The true Democrat. [volume] (Bayou Sara [La.]) 1892-1928, 1896-11-21


chair. Now we can be comfortable
while We talk"
Comfortable! St. Lawrence on q
gridiron was in bliss compared with
Bert in the easy garden chair, as he
afterwards conided to the senior edl-
tor.
"What are the faults in my story?
Isn't tho writing plain? I couldn't
afford to have it typewriter, but |
copied it carefully with stub pen and
the best black ink"
lit was beautifully written, beauti-
fully" said Bert, in burst of enthu"
siasm. "But, you see, in considering
g. story, there are other things besides
penmanship to he taken into account. :"
Mr.. Marsh then launched Into q
learned disquisition on the short
story. In fact, the short-story was
one of his hobbies. Ho always wrote
it with hyphen, to distinguish it
from the story which is merely short,
and he managed to speak it so that
you knew the hyphen was there. He
felt that he was talking well, but the
unappreciative Miss Pratt pulled him
up shortly and brought him back to
concrete example.
"But want to know what is the
matter with my story. 1t must be
good. My aunts and uncles and oil
my relatives have read it, and my
cousin, who took prize in college for
an Grafton, said it was immense"
Mr.. Marsh mentally agreed with the
cousin, and wished himself safe with
Sister Anna.
"The truth is, Miss Pratt, that ev.
erybody cannot write short.story.
In fact. it is the hardest kind of writ.
ing. It takes longer to write short.
story than to write long one. A
famous writer said that he had not
time to write alort.story." (Bert's
hobby agaiD.)
500 you think / could write long
story? have one four times as long
as this, I shonld like to read it to
you"
Mr.. Marsh felt his hair rising at the
prospect. He looked at his watch.
ct fear l can't stop to-day, for I must
make the four o'clock train. Other
wise should be charmed to have you
read the storv,to me-"
'pll send it to you, and perhaps you
will like it better than the short one.
I've got to write, so | shall keep on till
some one takes my stories. I would
rather have them printed in the Epoch
than in any other magazine. I have
got to succeed, for must have money,
and this is the only thing I can do"
lit needs money; therefore it must
write. ] wonder what it needs money
for" thought Bert. She was we'll
dressed, and all he saw OF the house
and grounds spoke of comfort and good
taste. He could not tell her that she
could never write, and be left her look
ing very disconsolate. He would have
liked to stay and comfort her, but 1t
would hardly have been conventional.
Three days later manuscript was
put on the associate editors desk. Il
was from Miss Pratt, and was i'd
dressed to him. After it was duly en-
tered and acknowledged, Bert placed
it among other manuscripts on the
senior editors desk. Halsey could tell
her the truth, Bert told himself. He
cculd not break her heart. His breath
came a little faster than usual, US he
remembered her sittingln the sunshide
and looking SO unhappy over her
story. He made marks on his blotter
IN an absent minded fashion, and
wondered why she needed money so
much. She had referred to it again in
her letter. Bert had half q mind to
straighten up her story, put some
"go'' into it, and pull ]ish it. But
when Ralsey came in he put tho idea
away.
"Hallo! Here is Elizabeth Hastings
Pratt again, as good as ever. Bert,
have you been encouraging her? What
is the story this time? Tho Search
for Sylvia Sherwood She goes in for
ALTERATION. Now for feast of reason
and flow Of soul. "rhexsun was she'd
ding his last rays upon lowly cot, en-
powered by trees, behind which flowed
a rivulet. Got that, Bert?' And Hal
sey turned in his swivel chair. "Man,
it's prose idyl! Now, what next?
Something is bound to happen. "A
door opened and youth sailed forth,
bearing upon his brow the marks OF
anguish This is getting to be thrill
ing. Do you mind the youth with a
brow?"
"Don't, Halsey. She isn't bit of
q fool, except on this one subject, and
she is good deal more than pretty"
"'1f she be not fair for me, what
care BERT, my son, I am afraid
you are in love. I'll wager two hats
that she sent this tale directly to you,
and you put the job of reading it off
on me. If you had told her, point
blank, that she never can write, she
wouldn't have sent this in. It's your
n2 k,.-