The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1896-11-21
attitude. "Why can't you print it? Is it

attitude. "Why can't you print it? Is ii
so bad?"
Bert felt that he was in tight place
and he heartily wished that he had LEI
Montgomery mail the story. But she was
so pretty!
well, you that sort Of thing is not ex.
actly in our line" he began lamely.
"What sort of thing? You print stories
all the time. Is it too long, or too short,
or too what?'
Decidedly, it was too what, Bert thought,
as he remembered some Of the description.
'Sit down, please, and tell me all about
my little story. Take the big chair. Now
we can be comfortable while we talk"
Comfortable! St. Lawrence on gridron
was in bliss compared with Bert in the
easy garden chair, as he afterwards to the
senior editor.
"What are the faults in my story? Isn't
the writing plain? 1 couldn't afford to
have it typewriter, but copied it care
fully with a stub pen and the best black
ink"
ut was beautifully written, beautifully, "
said Bert, in burst of enthusiasm But,
you see, in considering a story, there are
other things besides penmanship to be
taken into account
Mr.. Marsh then launched into learned
disquisition on the short-story. In fact
the short-story was one of his hobbies. He
always wrote it with a hyphen, to distin-
guish 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 unappre
ciative Miss Pratt pulled him 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 all my relatives have
read it, and my cousin, who took prize
in college for an Grafton, said it was M
mense "
Mr.. Marsh mentally agreed with the
cousin, and wished himself safe with Sister
| Anna.
"The truth is, Miss Pratt, that every
body can not write short story. In fact
it is the hardest kind Of writing. 1t takes
longer to write short story than to write
long one. A famous writer said that he
had not time to write a short story. ~
(Bert's hobby again.
'Do you think could write long story?
l have one four times as long as this |
should like to read it to you"
Mr.. Marsh felt his hair rising at the
prospect. He looked at his watch 81
fear can't stop today, for must make the
four o'clock train. Otherwise | should be
charmed to have you read the story to me. Z"
"I'll send it to you, and perhaps you will
like it better than the short one. I've got
to write, so l shall keep on till someone
takes my stories. l would rather have
them printed in the Epoch than in any
other magazine. l have got to succeed,
for must have money, and this is the only
thing can do"
ut needs money; therefore it must write
| wonder what it needs money for"
thought Bert. She was well 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 he
left her looking very disconsolate. He
would have liked to stay and comfort her,
but it would hardly have been conven-
tional
Three days later a manuscript was put
on the associate EDITORS desk. 1t was from
Miss Pratt, and was addressed to him.
After it was duly entered and acknowl-
edged, Bert placed it among other manu-
scripts on the senior EDITORS desk. lIalsey
could tell her the truth, Bert told himself.
He could not break her heart. His breath
came little faster than usual, as he re-
membered her sitting in the sunshine and
looking 50 unhappy over her story He
:aade marks on his blotter in an absent
minded fashion, and wondered why she
needed money so much. She had referred
10 it again in her letter. Bert had half
mind to Strengthened up her story, put
some "go' into it. and publish it. But
when Halscy cane in he put the 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? The Search for Sylvia
Sherwood. She goes in Tor ALTERATION.
Now for feast of reason and flow Of soul.
The sun was shedding his last rays upon a
lowly cot, embowered by trees, behind
which flowed Il rivulet' Got that Bert?"
| And Halsey turned il his swivel chair
'Man, its a prose idyl, Now, what next?
Something is bound 10 happen. "A door
opened and youth sailed forth, bearing
upon his brow the marks of anguish. >
This is getting to be thrilling. Do You
mind the youth with brow"
Don't Halsey. She isn't bit of q
fool, except on this one subject, and she is
"a good deal more than pretty"
''lf she be not fair to me, what care T.
Bert, my son, am afraid you are in love-
! III wager two hats that she sent this tale