Evening star., 1896-07-25
A. CHICAGO VIGNETTE.
The Typewriter Was Not Pretty, but
Practical.

From the Chicago News
The typewriter was alone.
There was good deal of novelty In the
situation, for it was seldom that the 'nena-
BILE sweetness of solitude crept into the
hurly burly of her work a-day life.
From in the morning till $50 at night
there was the office, with its fiuctuatng
but ever present population OF rlen, men,
men, and from $50 at night till In the
morning there was the boarding mousse
where even the blessed privilege or IN
trenching ones self behind closed doors
and calling ones room ones castle was de-
MED her, for a roommate claimed protec-
ton behind the same barricade, and grad
ually the few square feet of space whlch
should have been hers in which TO COM
mune and mediate as she willed .:ad been
seized upon as rendezvous by people OF
festive turn of mind from every quarter or
the house.
So that day when a few diamond minutes,
brushed clear of the dust and slime OF GU
Tious eyes and ears and idle tongues, were
mercfulIy set down in the rim OF the tar
rished day, she seized upon them eagerly,
and resolved to make the most of them.
I he machine, with its half-finished stencil,
was pushed back into Its receptacle, ana
the typewriter rested her head on her tlrea
arms and commenced to think. Through
an open window came dull. composite
n,urmur of sounds from the citys hlgh-
ways and byways: the clamor OF warning
bells and gongs; the rumble OF cars ana
coaches; the echo of many voices, ana the
whirring and buzzing Of machinery in the
type foundry across the alley, all tempered
with the heavy, intense heat OF me prema-
ture summer day, and all assimlating with
her vague, wavering thoughts and directing
them into a well-defned channel.
She was not an Ideal typewriter She
was not young. neither was she pretty, and
the occupants of every Office in which she
her substantial
victims TO her charms, which were minus
quantity. But she had her romance Tor
all that and somehow the confused ruDltle
from the street and the alley brought II
before her very clearly. It did rot take
root in the turmoil that reigned below. but
had its growth in trim farm lands, where
the nearest railroad was two miles and a
half away, and the singing of the birds,
the humming of the bees and the myriad
voices of insects that populate field and
grove formed the melody that was aubsti-
tuted for the city's rattle and roar The
model Of the picture she painted was far
distant, but she knew that 1t existed, and
that the hedges of lilacs and honeysuckle
and snowballs, and the green ponds where
the white, golden hearted lilies would soon
open wide, were all for her if she only cared
to say the word that would give them to
her forever.
But the typewriter was an emnently
practical person, and she hesiiated, even
in her revcrie. to con nit herself irretriev-
ably. She loved the city with all its smoke
and grim and sitting atmosphere. There
had been a time when she had declared
that every lump Of mud on Chicago's pave
ments was dear to her, and she had not
outgrown her affection for the great me-
tropolis. Moreover, she knew that the
throats Of birds sometimes gave out, and
that as night replaces the day, SO is their
singing succeeded by the mournful croak-
ing of bullfrogs, the buzzing of mosquitoes
which cannot be oCtwitted by any netting
OF screen that was ever invented, and tho
hooting Of owls that have a nigh, lime
lease on every tree in the Yoc.s and util-
ize them as concert hall from twilight till
dawn. She knew, tco that cooking for
dozen hungry men and overseeing the
ha,:Sehold department of farm that gives
them employment would soon dull the keen
sense of beauty that vibrates exultantly
with the occasional contact with the glo-
res of nature, and she shrank from the
monotonous existence.
But, on the other hand, what had she
The click clack of the machine day in ana
day out; the hurried voice Of her employer
commanding her to do this or do that"
that never ceasng struggle for a mere pit
tance that would buy new dress now and
| then, pay for three meals a day and settle
| with the wash woman. And what would 1t
| all amount to? Nothing What would be
| the end? A blank wall in which all prog
| ress, all mental development which she
| craved so much were swallowed into moth
| ingness, and which formed fitting monu-
| ment for life which drew its sustenance
| from dead hopes and dead loves.
| The typewriter suddered and raised her
| head. Her employer stood beside her.
Have you finished?' he asked.
mo" she stamn cred; III be through in
! a minute
| Last night she sent letter to the pretty
| farm, a couple of hundred miles or sc
| away, and therein was a monosyllable OF
| gravest import. 1t was spelled yes"
|