The Washington herald., 1917-06-23

So many Of the letters that I re-
ceive from men are filled with ut
ter hopelessness. Why, 1 don't see
how anybody can give up entirely
so long as there Is breath in the
body.
I'll never forget once, just as a
little lesson in persistent optimism,
seeing. funny, stout little old
woman in a county hospital We
had gone there to visit one Sunday
afternoon. with a few other profess
sional people, and give a little pro-
gram to the inmates. There was a
rollicking comedian. Barney, along
with the party. and as we came
down the hall, somebody started to
play a Jig on the piano in the as
sembly hall. Two by two they came
down the stairs, lone old mothers
of somebodies who didn't care.
cannot tell you how pitiful and help
less they looked, with their gray
hair drawn tightly back in little
knots at the back of their heads.
and their shoulders bent beneath
heavy, unseen burdens.
Barney could not resist, for the
life of him. doing a few neat little
steps as they came along and we
were all of US delighted when this
one old lady suddenly dropped her
cane. stepped out of the line, and
started to Jig. She picked up her
heavy petticoats, showing white
stockings above her felt hospital
slippers. And I am sure that no
gallant swain at Donnybrook Fair
ever stepped a lighter measure with
his colleen than Barney did that
day. When she stopped laughing.
out of breath, her dear old face
aglow with happiness, she said to
US:
II may be only a poor lone, lorr
WILDLY. living on the county. but
thank God my heart and my feet
can dance a jig STILL
There Is a girl know who plays
at the different studios for special
types, what are called the hungry
types, grown-up waits, cast-away
sisters and the starved wife that the
villain always beats up before the
sheriff gets him. On the wall over
her trunk in the dressing room at
one studio l noticed she always had
a little framed colored picture. 1t
was a night scene in Paris with
snow, moonlight, high stone walls,
an old iron-barred gateway and dis
tant towers, a perfect stage setting
for the last exterior in Boheme.
Sitting on a bench side by side
in the falling snow are Pierrot and
Columbine. They are hugging up
closely to keep warm, her head rest
ing on his shoulder, a Lutte lies be-
side him, and q large black cat
rubs itself on Columbine's flufry
skirts.
Il don't see how those two ever
loved like that, and kept up their
courage" Miss M used to say
to me. dismally. II found that pic
ture in an old shop in London, one
day while 1 was browsing around.
It's the only thing that ever cheers
me up. You'll never know, Miss
Pickford, how perfectly awful it is
to feel yourself sliding in the
avalanche of years, without having
ever had what you wanted. You're
all right. You've won out while
you're still kid and I'm still eating
my heart out. wishing for all the
things I never had"
You won't like them when you
get them" told her. They're not
nearly as important as you think
they are. It's like looking at dis
tant mountains that are purple and
gold ard rose, and when you get
right up to them. they're just plain
rocks and sand like all the rest"
We'll, 1 suppose I'll always cry
for the moon as long as live" she
told me mournfully.
And I think that crying for the
moon is the very best metaphor for
that awful soul hunger for the un-
attainable. A very buoyant and
beautiful young actress back in
New York used to assure me we
would all find peace Of mind and
contentment IL we would follow the
old Hindoo rule; that is, to reduce
our wants to a minimum