The farmer and mechanic. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 18??-19??, 1912-08-06

told il. [ have often heard him say
he kept no notebook, but Mr. Steger
saws there was a little BOOB that con-
tanned little records Of his ooserNa-
tions-the seed from when a SioiH
vas 10 come. lie meant that he dld
not depend on notes as most writer's
do. | once at dlnner, NY
brother told him Of a mar VINO hated
the particular locality in which he
lived 50 bitterly that he had gone lar
away, but AT death his b0dy hau Teen
brought back to the Very spot he dts
liked for burial. Mr. Porter was
greatly pleased With that idea, @nd.
as he wore evening clothes at the
time, he took notes on his cu1s-'u
only time | ever knew him to lake
an idea from another.
one Of Mr.. Porter's friends IN Ne"
York wrote an article shortly after
his death in which he said that ne
realized his condition n went pack
to the city preferring hat grim tisht
alone as he wanted to do all the work
he could in the short time allotted
MIN. MIR. Porter went back to New
York under contract TO write q play.
The first few weeks he was greatly
dissatisfied; every letter and telegram
stated that he meant to return. Lie
would write. "BrOadWay has lost It's
EflItoT. 6ut | Knew tIIS oCp SSH
illness was responsible for this state
Of mind-he loved the streets Of his
Bagdad. After a month, in spite or
Illness, the old creative power seemed
to come back to him. and with It
came much OF the old bUOyanCY, NV
hope, new plans for the future, new
contracts. If this is a winner Cine
play he WAS working on,) I've got
the short story tied to the mast" le
wrote me. And | says 1t $
going to be a winner
| have been told that | lay stress
on Nj. porter's intention to abandon
the short story in which his genius
was supreme for plays-for mere
money. | repeat the WOrdS-n.ere
money that would havc saved his he.
He had never had any piaytinle, and
with growing weakness he stuCl 10
his desk with desperate courage. But
sometimes he could not help the cry
I'm not going to knuckIe down TO
work day and night as I've been
doing. | want some fun, some out
door life. And the morning he SIT
up to drag himself back to New Yoft.
to write the play. he said to me. If
the play wins out Ill rest three whole
days
The burden Of his letters. CT LIS
conversation with me was, II want
to get at something bigger. What
have done is child's play to What ]
mean to do Every writer
stands this. 1t is the spirit hat holds
the toi}er up the mountain side to his
trail. He doesn't look behind, the
travelled path means nothing to him
MS eye is on the crest that looms
above him. The next story, the mex
book, the unwritten thing-it is th<
meat on which a writer feeds.
Much thai has been written about
Mr.. Porter is ~laughable in it's absurd
lty. He was widely popular, blu he
had almost no intimate friends His
manner though, was cordial: a mar
felt himself to be his friend having
once talked with him. And 1 fee
sure he lives in the hearts Of many
men. They remember the things HI
said, and they love to talk about him
His closest friend wrote not long ago
Il think Of Will a thousand times
Everyone ANTS to talk Of him. Man,
know that [ was a close friend Of hi;
and I'm asked to talk Of him a
many a luncheon.'
Last winter q man in New YOrl
old me Of q tempting offer a maya
zine had made him-the proyiso ;
story 50 delicately indelicate that {,
think SO was to question not the stor,
but the mind Of the reader. He TOT,
: me ne at { thought of Mr.. Por
ter's pride in his oft-repeated state
ment that every line he had ever writ
ten could be read in the family eli,
Gle, and he said, Bill Porter's stand
ards good enough for me,
Ana so, Mr.. Editor, the old adaus,
proves true-We depart, but our in
, f1uence remains.
Very sincerely yours.
SARA COLEMAN PORTEE