Waterbury evening Democrat., 1904-10-26
THE THINGS THAT ARE "
Bz r. HI. LANcA srER
ecopyright. lA4, by Daily Story Pub. O.,

(CopyT1ghG, l&a, Dy Daily story f,Upe Nosb MH ADISON, coming in abruptly, had kVA asked Daisy for a title and when sne pointed silently to the last lines of Lewis Highway" he snapped on his glasses, drowning slightly as he read:
 Hut 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! Tc be deep thing or whimsical?
 Rather deep-earnest, at any rate.
 t'To pivot on man or 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"
 "The things that are, are hard on woman" he muttered, thoughtfully
 But man has greater reverence fol 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 a man in his mood Not many women had that much, he fancied Also he had on several oc- casions found this practical young per- son very present help in a rush. Pres ently he sunk his lean jaws into his lean palms and said, still staring at the poem spread out before him: II need not only a title. but first line and a last line. and a plot.".
 You have your last line in the quota tion."
 Possibly We put our trust in things that are. Yes"
 You have your first line in the quota tion."
 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.'
 SHow?"
 Tn it's 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? If 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 mans inborn horror of ridicule, his abject < NCA1 Ol uOlAS LAC uAuouCAl, cIu ClL9A 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: .sYou will un- derstand that we want something with a 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- tion:
 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
 l You have been plotting the thing to pivot on woman," he broke out, frac- tiously. "A man has no such horror of the unusual as you imagine. Tn 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 mur- mured, abstractedly. With a scarcely l perceptible movement she turned on a ! tiny gas jet at her elbow, lit cigarette, turned off the flame. and fell to smok- ing quiet continuity of cigarettes that betokened abstraction, certainly, but in no wise hinted at impatience, disap- pointment or disdain. Her poise pro- 1 yoked Madison There was enough Adam in him to resent apparent com l fort in others when he was himself un- comfortable. He pushed the literary