Camas Prairie chronicle. [volume] (Cottonwood, Idaho) 1901-1917, 1909-11-05
'swHo GIvETH HIMSELF"
A Heart-RendIng Sacrifice for tn
BOOk-LOving Woman.

n hGAEI-HGnO1n& SAcFlnCe tAO
BOOk-LOving Woman.
Celia Framley had dropped in to
have a chat-a "next to the last
word" she always called it-with her
friend, Marcia Leslie. At last, having
talked with all her usual eager vivaci-
ty, she sat leisurely back, stirring her
cup of tea.
"I'll have another lump, Marcia"
she said, with mock reproach You're
always forgetting that haven't just
one sweet tooth, but whole set of
them. Now tell me, what have you
been doing?"
"A very useful thing, my dear" an
swered her friend, slowly. 1--WE been
interesting myself in Myrtle's read
ing"
Miss Framley gave little shrek of
amusement. What, The Duchess
and Laura Jean Libbey?' oh, what
falling off is there'" she quoted,
with genial sarcasm, for Immediately
her mind made vivid picture of Myr-
tie, half-pretty, wholly pathetic little
figure, who plodded patiently through
her cleaning cares, apparently untitled
for any others.
But Marcia had already broken out
in ardent defense of her protege.
mo, not trash at all, and you'll new
er believe me, but it's poetry" she
said. 81 threw away an old Brown
In fav pnh hnI in
tie found it and asked me if she might
have it. gave it to her-and 1
laughed; and 1 hate myself whenever
l think of it. Do you know, she's read
it all, with such intelligent apprecia-
ton!
why, the other night she looked at
the west, and said, Miss Marcia,
suppose that's what Browning means
when he says, Where the quiet col
ored end of evening smiles And
for her birthday, last week, I gave her
Palgrave's Golden Treasury = before
this I've always given her silly bows
and collars-and she's read it all aloud
to her mother, and they loved it. Poor
little thingl She has so few books!"
All through Marcia's speech Celia
had put in little fluttering "Ahs!" and
"Ohs!" of excitement and interest, and
when her friend stopped speaking, she
was sitting quite on the edge of her
chair.
"I'm beast, and stupid one, too,
to misiudge Myrtle sol" she declared,
warmly, for she loved and admired
with eager intelligence all good litera-
ture. "And as penance I'm going to
give her some of my treasures"
But IN the common light of the next
day her generous impulse was harder
to carry out. She stood before her
bookcase, lingering the volumes, and
wondering how she could ever bear
parting with them. A country doctors
daughter, books were her luxury. The
Thackeray she had earned by endless
copying of manuscripts for her father;
the beautiful edition Of Tennyson
meant that she had worn shabby
gloves for a winter; the set of Jane
Austen a willingly renowned party
frock.
Her beloved books! Now, half-heart-
eddy, she built her sacrificial pile.
Then a sudden thought made her
throat tighten and ache little. Books
had always seemed very real to her,
their authors living friends. Would
her idols feel that she loved them less
well, cherished them less tenderly, If
she gave them away? She picked up
her copy Of Lowell, and 1t fell open
easily to 1.-THE Vision of Sir Launfal, {"
almost her dearest poem. And out OF
the whole page these two lines seemed
to spring:
who giveth himself with his aims
feeds three,
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and
Mel"
THAT settles it," she said, aloud.
Celia, you're selfish pig! The best
way to love the masters is to share
their glory with some one else" She
caught up generous armful and ran,
hatless, impetuous, to Marcia's door.
Give these books to Myrtle-and l
want her to keep them - with my
Lowell" she painted, and she thrust out
the pile. Then she turned and walked
quickly away. She had given herself
with her alms.-Youth's Companion.