Atlanta semi-weekly journal. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1898-1920, 1919-10-21
CHAPTER I

l wonder why I've at last begun
to write it. For weeks I've been
haunted by past memorial sweet and
sad, and a strange, unknown desire
crept into my being urging me to
write the story Of my life. But
| don't love to write! Even the
answering of letters was always a
pug bear. l, who am never still
long enough. The idea of my writ
ing out in full thy story of a life
Drumming over with it's mixture of
love and joy and sorrow, as mine
has beun--fooiish notion!" I chided
lnys If severely. But again and
again someth ng within me kept
suggesting, subtle, vague, shadowy,
unseen. yet felt and known by my
self alone.
Alone
That word explains it perhaps.
It's because am alone and lonely
tnat [ seek relief in this manner.
The pages of this book will be a
part of myself, the part l can not
share with the world, nor any per-
son in it. In the hours of solitude
will seek it out, and 1t shall be
my comrade. On it's white pages will
be my soul revealed. In this way
will / seek to hide myself from the
madness thai has been pursuing me
these weary months. Instead of
dreaming over the past, losing my
soul in intolerable iuugings for what
can never be again, 1 will forget the
pags of pain I daily experience, and
seek another way out by writing Of
the ones who are gone and of the
days bathed in sunlight and happi-
ness divine. The insane madness
will tire OF trailing me, and by con-
slant communings within this book,
I'll lose the thing that has haunted
me with nameless dread. Writing
brings blessed relief-Why did 1 not
give in to it before?
l Marion Swami, am tWenty-sev-
en- years OF age, and, yet 1 feel a
hundred, with the gray in my hair,
and the memories of a life already
livea that left my heart heavy with
wondering pain. If there had only
been one death-dealing blow, but
there were four successive blows
driving the iron into my soul, 1eav-
ing it forever scared. Branded
That's a better word. / left the past
thousands of miles behind me, and
sought refuge from-What?-we
from madness. here in a quiet little
southe n village, in quiet old
fashioned, two-story boarding house,
known as "The Greer House."
The landlady is typical, to me, Of
southern hospitality" Her big,
warm mother heart reaches out for
us all in a way that's beautiful to
behold. and her smile is bright and
sunny and If she tries to hide pain
by that smile nobody would ever
know it. She gets by with that
smile When l pracvSc- smiling in
my mirror, my lips give a queer
imitation of the real thing, and open
stabb'ug culver results, and my
Dig DROWN eyes Win the yellow udTIS
seem to grow bigger and more
ghost-like. My face has pallor
that L try to chase away with cold
cream and lotions. Especially do /
strive to hide my real self from the
others. They go about their busi-
ness so cheerful1y. Even the little
yellow haired seamstress, Miss
Moody. who has a corn on her fin
ger from constant sewing, or rather
from the scissors everlasting fric-
ton, smiles cheerily and doesn't use
cream and things to hide her real
self. And. I'm sure her heart Is as
free from gile as her freckly
splotched face from powders. There
are several boarders.
Mr.. wilkins, who runs garage.
Il often catch myself longing to give
him g. hint or two that would mean
much in building up successful
business, but 1 dare not. He wouldn't
think a woman knew anythingD Mr..
jackson, third trick telegraph oper-
ator. A dapper young fellow who
feels his importance in the general
scheme of things in Rutlands, the
village town-the once5aweek town
paper often calls this "the city"
OH dear Mr., jackson Is q member