The Chickasha daily express. (Chickasha, Indian Territory [Okla.]) 1899-current, 1904-11-17

the public should ever take a notion
to investigate"
"That, Polly said I, "would be an
excellent idea for a great many rea-
sons firstly, because man never ap-
preelates a mushy, gushy letter that
seems to be stopping over at the cor
ners with sentiment like a jelly roll.
You know. yourself, how, when your
plate is TOO full, the sight of it takes
away your appetite. Now, single
sip Of something really good and spicy
creates a desire for more"
"And a woman's irst duty" said
Polly, solemnly, waving packet Of
letters, rs to create a desire for more"
Besides" | went on, ignoring the
cyniclsm, IF the average girl who in
dulges in sentimental notes would pro
iect herself into the future few years
and draw a mental picture Of the wives
Of her correspondents in the attitude
Of reading these notes"
"Ughw cried Polly. with a charming
little shudder, shed never write any
thing but the o-come-to-see-me-
mother-sends regards Agnes wants-to-
meet-you hope you are-well-wlth-love-
always kind, would she? Shed never
attempt TO make herself plain or un-
derstood or anything Of that sort"
mo- | replied, fiinging my cigarette
stump into the CRATE and gazing
thoughtfulIy at the fire. why is It
woman always longs TO make her
self understood, anyway? It's an aw-
full mistake. Because to the average
man every girl is just like a geometri-
cal problem, quite uninteresting, after
she has been solved"
Polly was arranging the little packets
of white letters carefully into different
sized piles
why do you tic them with colored
ribbons?" | asked, curiously.
"The ribbons said Polly, represent
the men. can tell whose letters they
are without even glancing at the en-
velope. White, for instance, is for
Arthur Drake, the man with the whit
est soul / ever knew, and black is for
Jimmy Darlington. who died; red is
for Bobby McRae; he was an actor,
you know, and blue" (Polly
stopped. "You see" she went on In
moment. every man who comes into
girls life leaves distinct impression.
For every man she has ever fancied
she always has soft spot somewhere
down In her heart Now, it's different
with a man. Nothing is 50 dead TO him
as dead love. The girls he has fiirted
with and tired Of are just like your
bundles Of letters, forgotten trophies
tied with an old string"
"Oh. not at ALL" protested, thrust
Ing my hand into my waistcoat pocket
ana extracting a small leather case.
Here. for instance. is a package Of
letters that I keep quite separate. l
was going to take-I mean to ask-the
privilege of keeping these" l STAN
mered.
But said Polly, "lf love letters are
like pudding. or burned cigarettes, or
roses, they won't keep"
These WILL" / said Gssuringly, "be-
cause they are quite unusual. The girl
Who wrote them knew how to write;
Just how far to go to be interesting
and where to stop before becoming
gushy. They aren't like roses, sac
charlne and ephemeral. They are more
like immortelles, cool, crisp and ever
lasting"
Polly leaned over the table and began
sorting out little package Of en-
vnIepes from her own heap.
"What are those, Polly / asked
curiously. -They look like telegrams'
"They are" said Polly. coolly. Some
men carry on a correspondence mainly
bv telegram. When a man is really in
love. YOU know, It is the hardest thing
IN o. world for him 10 compose let
ter. Hence he resorts TO the telegraph
Office. Some of the most bea qtiful
love letters ever written have been
just kilograms"
I picked up the bundle absent-mind-
edly. then let it fall suddenly
Polly" I called. softly. But Polly
was kneeling beside the crate, watch
ing the flames that burst over the heap
Of papers
"Polly." I repeated. But Poll was
engrossed in showing little pink and
blue ends down into the Goals with the
poker.
"Polly." said I, rising and going over
beside her. 81 want to whisper some
thing-in your ear" and knelt down 50
close that my cheek almost touched
Polly's, and put my lips against her
dimple. which is nowhere near her ear
SAY" / whispered, "when did send
you all those telegramsg"
"Oh,' ever since I've known you,
said Polly
And the last fame fiickered and went
out above the heap Of ashes in the
rrate.-Helen Rowland. in Washington
Post.
Educated English.
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