Little Falls herald., 1900-11-30
JUST ON THE BRINK.
By H. G. WARREN.

"a. BY II. G. WARREN. $ass s
what news?" she shouted, waving, g .
he came within haihng distance.
= He waved back and shook his head mourn
fully. Then, in a voice that carried far
above the noise Of the breakers, he called
back: ". ~ fs##
: 'eThe same old story"
She was perched high up on the top
of q big rock that projected almost into
the sea. - light plaid shawl, thrown pic
turesquely over her, served as partial pro-:
lection against the foam, which splashed
madly about, at times reaching even the /
height where she was seated He has
tened toward her, leaping from rock to rock,
and scrambiing up, arrived quite breath
less. -
Nothing bad, hope?" she queried, SYM
pathetically, as he threw himself headlons
at her feet. ==-:..-E=.
r eyes, really, Emma" he replied, cit il
bad; not go much in itself, but coming
after all the rest, you know, it takes the
starch pretty we'll out of me, 1 confess"
'<What is it this time?"
cts the Hermit to His Books I've tried
it everywhere, and now even the Heather
rejects it. It is utterly hopeless, you see."
''It isn't in your best vein, I'm afraid, and
you will simply have to try again"
''Well, what is my vein, then? Have
any veins anyway, or are they all arte-
ries?" And he laughed, in haif-hearted
way. "There was the Swinging Lantern
which was dramatic and ghostly. I thought
that would do. It was modelled after my
prize poem in college. And there was the
Ghost Of Desdemona, pitched in the same
high key-both utter failures. Then there
l. :l-l &c
lect-"
"that style doesn't suit you at all. It
is like red-headed girl trying to wear
pink waist. Dialect, unless it is written by
a native, is as bad as foreign language 1t
is either intensely humorous-to the in
itiated--or it is crude and pointless. You
might as well try to write in German or
Chinese"
Joel looked up at her and laughed this
time the laugh was genuine. "And yet,"
he replied, "you say you believe in me.
You think will succeed if keep on with
my writing. It's really more than I can
believe myself just now, Emma" he added,
more seriously. E*To tel! the truth, am
sick of it, and just about ready to give the
whole thing up
|'But you did not work it over?"
"Well, no; what was the uss? When
thing is written, it's written, as far as I'm
concerned. l know that poem isr't all
that it might be, butt don't see any way of
improving it myself. It's like the Irish
mans coffee: All right if could take the
lie out, bejabbers!' And that's just the
trouble with all my work, I suppose: I
can't seem to get rid of the kerosene taste.
have CLEAN Of thought, and write; then
my lamp goes out (excuse the mixed meta
phor)! and I can't seem to light it again.
Some men can spend hours polishing down
single line, but can't. If try, the whole
poem loses it's favor, and it seems such
wretched stuff that am seized with mad
impulse to toss it into the fire at once"
F'As you actually did with the Birth Of
Athena?" !,
EXACTLY"
*I wish you hadn't liked the Birth Of
Athena so much. Only I did think you
could improve those few lines about Hermes
paying for compliments"
''Well, they were pretty poor, / know;
I couldn't fix them up, anyhow, and the
rest of it was no earthly use without them.
Like the greyhound with the docked tail,
it wouldn't have improved the dog to cut
the tail off entirely So what was the use?
Do you think might have made it pass
able?"
81 know you could" she replied, with
conviction; "and just so with the Hermit
to His Books if you will only try. I told
you frankly where thought it was lack
ing. Why don't you go over it carefully.
Joel Deems, you have the soul of a true
poet in you, but .:
"But what?" he asked eagerly, still gaz-
ing down at the tossing sea. And just then
great wave rolled in and dashed triumph
antly far over the beach. Emma was watch
ing him closely, searchingly, The while.
Nothing, only l am perfectly sure you
have not found your own field yet. Do
you know-I believe-I have never said 20
BEFORE" she hesitated, "but I think-you
might write-well, poems Of sentiment, for
instance. So far as Nknow, you have never
tried that, and don't see why"
"Oh, simply couldn't It's too absurd.
You know the idea in this eHermit!' Well,
it expresses my own feelings precisely. How
could man of my temperament write
poems of passion, or love ditties, or any
thing of that sort? It would be like trying
to graft forget-me-not onto a wild locust"
the true sap in you, in spite of all your
pose before me. I haven't forgotten the
last part of your Athena: 49,.
Though clad in comely ,armor, heart we'll
steeled,
With dauntless dart, shsuld Eros pierce thy
shield,
And sink his quivering shaft deep in that
shrine, -
Then, splendid goddess, were thou twice
divine d
ttWhat real hermit would give utterance
TO such shockingly tender sentiments as
those?" she cried, laughing.
"But that was before" he began, then
broke off suddenly, and bit his lip.
"Before what?" she demanded; then, see
ing his pale face, she, too, stopped and
glanced away at the sea. The waves dashed
up in light spray, which scattered in the
wind and quickly vanished. -.
'I used to write that sort of thing" he
said, in strained voice, "but it didn't seem
to work, 90 I've sworn off," s,
*'For good?" she asked, impulsively. VI
Forever" he answered, in bitter tone.
A slight tremor. passed over her, a. .
r. l.