Connecticut western news., 1906-08-23
Der Masterpiece By MATTE K. NAWN
Copyright, lsC8, by Ruby Douglas

corner was printed BarDerS fuD- fishing Company" He smiled in broth erly derision.
 "Oh, Margew he called. II guess this is your manuscript. Back from Barber's," he added maliciously.
 Marge went to the door of her room and called down irritably:
 "weIl, you needn't publish it!'
 ''No: 1t would be better If they did" flung back her brother.
 Its funny" he unused, but the things you don't want published are al- ways getting into print, and the things you want to see in print end up in the masterpiece trunk" This in reference to an old box in which his sister was wont to deposit her effusions after they had gone the rounds.
 Marge came downstairs, digging her heels viciously into the carpet at each step.
 Where is it?" she asked.
 With an obvious desire to be as an moving as possible her brother replied, "Where's what"
 Marge treated him to an eloquent silence. Suddenly she spied the en- velope and bounced upon 1t. Then she flung into the sitting room an flopped angrily down on the rug berNre the fire.
 For half an hour she sat there, read ing and tossing aside the pages. The loud ticking of the clock on the mantel- piece sounded with increasing mo. notony through the long, conscientious perusal. Finally she sighed.
 Tt wasn't any good" she confided to herself. Tt was too long and too prosy, and the idea was old. Still" she added In self Justification, I've seen just as bad stufr as that pub lished."
 Her mother entered the room. Marge looked up at her with grieved eyes.
 Tt came back" she said In explana- ton of the pile of paper at her side, ''and they'll keep coming back as long as I stay here. I'm tired of the city. If I could get away into the country where could be absolutely alone day in and day out I could collect my thoughts"
 Her brother chuckled irreverently.
 II could collect my thoughts" she re- peated. My brain Is just seething with ideas, but the moment I begin to write somebody interrupts. and when get back to my work the inspiration Is gone. And" she added somewhat bit terly, here I'm elbow to elbow with the everlasting economies we're forced to practice. It's always material things that receive the first considera- tion-it's the coal or the gas or some thing-all the time. If l could get out into the country for a couple of months, for month even, where Io- body knew me, where there was noth- ing to remind me of the interest and the water taxes, where I could feel for once in my life that writing was a rec reation and not grind, I could write a story that would be worth while. know 1 could"
 Mrs. Dickson stood silent during her daughters tirade. The look of sympa- thetic understanding in her eyes gave place to a harmonious twinkle. "Marge Is very young" she reflected, and she certainly was never meant to be a writer"
 Marge had been stenographer to a successful author, but had lately re- signed her position, electing to sup port herself and keep the family in luxury by writing. MT. Bergen wrote little stories without beginning or end, for which he received fabulous checks. It was easy. She could do it too. She had written" but her stories had all come back, and now she demanded to go away.
 Mrs. Dickson sighed You were such a good stenographer," she said, but stopped abruptly at sight of her daughters face. She took refuge un- der cover of the ''preyious question"
 Il don't see how we can manage 1t, dear" she sai.l gently. There are so many bills to be met and soon the in surance money falls due. We might let that stand for month or so,'' she said, avoiding her sons eyes.
 We cant do that" he said with as perity. "MarGe can write here as well as in the country. She rattles on about the artistic temperament and it's re quirements' and tn" 'p"oper environ ment' and all such uonsenSe. I've heard her 1t it time GlI again. Now, 1 don't know anything about the ar tistic temperament and 1 don't want to, but up to date I've furnished the requirements and the 'onvironm@at. and that is where the artistic tempera- ment' has got to sit up and take notice. As far as 1 can see, the artistic tenn perament' is constitutional inability to turn brains into money. If MarGo had had any sense she would have stuck to her typewriting and stenog, raphy. She was good stenographer.
 The girls eyes filled with tears.
 And" her brother went on, it isn't too late yet. You can write your mas terpieces' on the side" he added hu morously. Tell you what. Marge," he continued more gently, why don't you go to work for couple of months and