Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1910-07-17
who bore shield and lance instead o.
market basket and umbrella, waited fol
a GeOrgetOMn f and @.

| If you have to prowl around with your
eyes and ears on a still hunt for small
happenings, you have doubtless met that
| all-knowing acquaintance-named Legion
who will stop you on the street, in a
store, anywhere, everywhere, to encour-
age you. something like this:
II just wish you could write up some
of the incidents 1 see. Why. run across
shoals of things, regular screams, every
| day of my life
| She doesn't say in so many bald words
| that they are more interesting than the
| things you see, but the inference is SO
assertive that it compels you to ask, In
| behalf of your column:
Mention one?"
"Why-er-Isn't it funny how things
! slip your mind when you've got them
you what I'll do. The next time L see
something that would help you out I'll Jot
1t down and send it to you.
In your desire to be honest, you inter
herself and get paid for it. She accepts
| your suggestion with the good nature of a
| genius who is too lazy to work.
"Oh. 1 know I ought to. but-My friends
are always after me to write n3xel.
| Maybe l will, some day. l should think
| you would try a book Why don't you?
And because you have the sense TO
know that Your ability is a tallow candle
| instead of an automobile headlight, you
| admit with humble frankness:
Because l can't.
Then Legion feels sorry for you and
| trips off with the complacent knowledge
| that at least she has shown you how
| much better she could do your work than
! you are doing it yourself.
| And when night comes you kneel at
| your window and look up at the stars,
| as you always have done and always will
| because your mother told you a long,
| long time ago that God lived up there.
| And that makes it all right.
| Cars We're tied up and electric lights
| were so many red eyes smoldertng DULY
under their bulbs. The asphalt was a
| trackless desert, or better, a desert OF
racks. and the people on the pavement
| were moving shadows-extra big and
| black
One Of the shadows-otherwise a woman
| whose only fear In this world is Of the
| dark-felt small thrills and darts OF
| timidity she passed other shadows.
| doubtless as ordinary as herself. AND
! when she turned into a side street that
| was like a nav of blackneSs gaping to
swallow herewith no Jonah-like show of
| deliverance-she turned right around ant
| walked right away again until She came
TO the splash of comforting light shining
like torch in the wireless station against
| the sky line.
Then she said to herself-for the very
| natural reason that there was no one else
| to say it to:
Here's where I part forever with my
| admiration of the good Old times.
| Nothing is too strange to happen these
days, to wit: The lamppost that fiction
| insists upon Identifying with intoxicated
| humans really and truly fulfilled its
| supposed mission yesterday afternoon.
The lamppost is on the Avenue, and the
| man was tumbled in a limp heap at its
| base The crowd that had gathered SO
| suddenly as to suggest the wave of an
| invisible wand swarmed around the
| man and a policeman stood by to uphold
| the outraged law while waiting for the
patrol wagon.
Not one of the dozens of men, two
women and a dog, seemed to mind the
| sun that beat down, and nobody thought
to remove the felt derby from the head