The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1904-11-04
THE : THINGS
THAT ARE =
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M ADIsoN, coming in abruptly. had
VI asked Daisy for a title and when
she pointed silently to the last lines Of
Lewis, Highway" he snapped on his
glasses. frowning slightly as he read:
But be our haven near or far we put
our trust In things that are"
'The things that are" she repeated,
significantly.
"You have been thinking it over! To
be deep thing or whimsical"
Rather deep-earnest, at any rate"
ITO pivot on q man or a woman"
woman. But you had better pivot It
on a man, for you don't know thing
in the world about women"
Nothing; except that there is no
telling from what point Of view woman
will approach an ISSUE"
1.-THE things that are, are hard on =
woman" he muttered, thoughtfully.
But q man has greater reverence for
them"
Madison studied the poem, by. his
expression neither accepting nor reject
ing her assertion. He looked tired-and
he was. But, Indian like, had taken up
this additional task to convince his flag
! ging energies that they were not so near
ly spent as they seemed to be. Had
taken it up and carried it across the hall
to Daisy Dunbar's den. Being wont to
come to her because she had enough
common sense to take man In his
mood. Not many women had that much,
he fancied. Also he had on several &C.
casions found this practical young per-
son very present help in rush. Pres
emily he sunk his lean jaws into his lean
palms and said, still staring at the poem
spread out before him: II need not only
q title, but q first line and last line,
and a plot
"You have your last line In the quota
ton"
POSSIBLY. We put our trust in things
that are.' Yes"
"You have your first line in the quota
ton"
Madison looked dubious, his tired
mind not yet reaching to the spring Of
hers.
"Why, of course you have. "A first
line should catch the attention. What
more strikingly beautiful, or beauti-
fully striking than this?' And slowly
she read the lines upside down:
"Go, pipe your song and dream your
dream,
And feed your soul on things that SEEM.
But be our haven near or far,
We put our trust in things that are
"Oh, yes; that way. Perhaps"
"And you have your plot in the quo
tation."
"How?"
I'm its pathetic perversity isn't It the
overheard cry of the human bearing
witness to the well-night futility of
Heavens best planned pleasures for
man? II you pivot your story on man
strike out in few of your strong
strokes hero gifted beyond the ken Of
most men, and throw across his path the
unusual woman-the woman who can
comprehend him in all his moods and
phases, then against the high. white
light Of his love for her paint the story
Of his struggle against the ascendancy
of the things that are, flashing across
the gloom of it the fitful flares of q mans
Unborn horror Of ridicule, his abject
terror Of doing the unusual; and sink
him at last to the sullen commonplace
of the tangible. Marry him to the widow
who wore violets in her bonnet and
mourning of the type most approved Of
man. There's your plot"
Madison had been staring steadily at
the poem from under bent brows. When
Daisy made an end he: pulled out, and
showed toward her without speaking,
the editors instructions: "You will un-
derstand that we want something with
touch of to-day in it: natural and real"
"There is no touch Of to-day in what
you have been saying" he grumbled.
Nothing natural, nothing real"
And instead Of being exasperated by
his disgruntled ingratitude, Daisy only
replied in tone Of thoughtful convic-
ton:
'Well, yes, there are several touches"
and lay back in her chair contentedly
studying the contrasting shades Of the
blue blotter on the green baise while
Madison sulked because the subtle
analogies Of her sharpened perception
were but as blurs to his tagged out
faculties.
''You have been plotting the thing to
pivot on a woman" he broke out, frac-
tiously. "A man has no such horror Of the |
unusual as you imagine. In the natural
sequence Of things he would marry the |
woman he loved and let the widow and |
her proper mourning go to the bow |
vows. It is only the weak that fear
criticism"
Most men are weak" Daisy MUIR
INJURED, abstractedly. With a scarcely |