Newport daily independent., 1903-01-02
JUST ON THE BRINK.
ny II. c. WARREN.

 1 fully. Then, in voice that carried far above the noise of the breakers, he called 1 back
 "The same old story"
 She was perehed high up on the top of q big rock that projected almost into the sea. A light plaid shawl, thrown pie turesquely over her, served as partial pro bection 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 scrambling up, arrived quite breath l less.
 Nothing bad, hope?" she quered sym pathetically as he threw himself headlong at her feet.
 "Yes, really, Emma" he replied, it is bad; not so much in itself, but coming after all the rest, you know, it takes he starch pretty well out of me, l confess"
 What is it this timeg"
 'It's the Hermit to His Books I've tried it everywhere, and now even the Heather rejects it. It is utterly hopeless, you see. l "It isn't in your best vein, I'm afraid and you will simply have to try again, l "Well, what is my vein, thens Have any veins anyway, or are they all arte- ries?" And he laughed, in half hearted | which was dramatic and ghostly I thought | that would do It was modelled after my prize poem in college And there was the l Ghost of Desdemona, pitched in the same l high key-both utter failures. Then there was the 'Swtchman, in the way of dia- ! ect"
 'But you know, Joel" she broke in, 1 that style doesn't suit you at all. It is like red-headed girl trying to wear l pink waist Dialect, unless 1t is written by a native, is as bad as foreign language It l is either intensely humorous-to the in I 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 tt4~ laugh was genuine. And yet, he replied, ''you say you believe in me. You think I will succeed if I keep on with my writing, It's really more than can believe myself just now, Emma, he added, more seriously ITO tell the truth, am sick of it, and just about ready to give the whole thing up"
 'But you did not work it overg" l "Wel, no; what was the use? When l thing is written, it's written, as far as I'm concerned. know that poem isn't all 1 that it might be- but don't see any way of | liiHlONDiS tb iHySSil. IL E AthS lllS Allol- mans coffee: All right if I could take the 'ile out, beiabbers! And that's just the trouble with all my work, I suppose: can't seem to get rid of the kerosene taste. l I have gleam of thought, and write; then my lamp goes out (excuse the mixed meta 1 phor)l and l can't seem to light it again ] Some men can spend hours polishing down a single line, but I can't. If try, the whole 1 poem loses its favor and it seems such wretched stuff that l am seized with mad impulse to toss it into the fire at once
 "As you actually did with the Birth of l Athenag"
 Exactly"
 "I wish you hadn't I liked the Birth of Athena so much Oniy I did think you could improve those few lines about HeTmes paying for compliments
 "Well, they were pretty poor, I know; 1 I couldn't fix them up anyhow, and the rest of 1t was DO earthly use without them l Like the crayhound with the doclIed tail, 1 1t 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 1 able"
 "I know you could" she replied, with l conviction; land just so with the Hermit to His Books if you will only try I told you frankly where I thought it was lack ] ing. Why don't you go over it carefully. Joel Deems, you have the soul of true poet in you, but"
 But what?" he asked eagerly still gag ing down at the tossing sea. And just then great wave rolsd in and dashed triumph antly far over the beach. Emma was watch ing him closely, searching,y, the while
 Nothing, only 1 am perfectly sure you have not found your own field yet Do l you know--I believe--I have never said so before" she hesitated. "but I think you might write-well, poems of sentiment, for instance. So far as know, you have never tried that, and don't see why"
 "Oh, I simply couldn't It's too absurd l You know the idea in this Hermit We'll 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 wild locust :"
 ''Yes you can, she retorted; you have l the true sap in you, in spite of all your attempts to starve it out. Don't try to pose before me 1 haven't forgotten the last part of your Athena
 Though clad in comely armor, heart well
 steeled,
 With dauntless dart, should Eros pierce thy
 shield,
 And sink his quiyering shaft deep in that
 shrine,
 Then, splendid goddess, were thou twice
 divine
 What 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 whatg 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.
 T used to write that sort of thing, he I said, in d strained voice but it didn't seem to work. So I've sworn of