Atlanta semi-weekly journal. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1898-1920, 1919-11-25
Chapter Xxx,


rye reviewed the past, the pres
ent and future. I'll jot down at in
teryals, in my journal, The journal
of Marion Swami" At least, it
sounds promising enough. Nothing
much has happened thus far. 1t Is
autumn time. The year is 1918. I'm
not sure that anything is going to
happen to me here, in this little
southern town. think enough has
already happened in the past. Pain
full enough. at any rate, for my cup
Of sorrow filled full to o'erflowing. l
grew to feel aged, old and tried and
numb with it all. Worked harder,
harder only to collapse. Doctors or
ders for me to leave it all. Ken
neth's request that I come to Geor-
gia. So that's why I'm at 1.-The
Greer House"
It's terrible to feel so old, and to
know there's streak O. g:ey in my
hair that 1 must always arrange so
as to skilifully conceal. Scars on my
heart that can never heal, but must
be hidden from the eyes of the world.
They know Pm a war widow. I've
ample proofs of that fact. They
know also that Kenneth died there;
that I'm practically alone in the
world. People are very kind. For
tunately, many of the older inhabi-
tants remember my family. It's nice
to have a family to back you up in
a place like this. This saves one
much gossip and questioning. like
the people, and the quiet routine of
the village is very soothing to the
nerves. love to sit out on the wide
veranda and knit.
I'm always knitting.
This morning while doing a sweat
er, the young doctor passed along.
lie glanced at me; his steady grey
eyes took in my work as he hurried
along, but 1 sensed disapp~oval in his
manner. I suppose since he failed to
answer the call he doesn't fancy see
ing others working for the cause.
There's one consolation: If he disap-
proves of what I'm doing, l disap-
prove of what he's not doing, Young,
glowing and radiating perfect good
health-well, he's needed over there,
and he ought to know it. If 1 ever
have the chance, I'm going to ad-
minister a nice little jolt to the
young doctor. See if don't.
He's no better than Philip and
Kenneth and thousands of others.
don't know when I'll have an OPP
portunity to jolt him up 8 bit.
He's always in hurry.
Oftentimes, from my position be-
hind the vines, in my secluded corner
of the porch, l watch him as he
oranks his car in front of his Of
lice on Main street. He cranlSs most
vigorously, then whirls madly from
view, turning corners recklessly.
/ sometimes wonder where he goes
and If he Is like a physician l once
heard about who would hurry and
rush away as if someone's life were
at stake, but who acted only on o. e.
tense in order to fool people and
make them believe he was doing Big
business. I think Clark Warren will
soon wear out his little car if he
abuses it as he's been doing since
L came to. town. It's mud-stained
and battled-scarred. At least he
could have it washed and painted, but
that requires money and he doesn't
look like ready money to me. mag
inc he's one of the young and strug-
Cling members of his pro ess;o1, but
I'd think more of him If he'd strug-
sic across to France!
October 1. The melancholy tang
is in the air. The leaves from the
porch vines are falling, so now my
coZy retreat is no longer sheltered
from the view of passersby.
1 knit and knit.
1 don't know what else to do. Many
women are answering the call of the
farmers and are going out to pick
cotton I've been longing for the
open country and sun-kissed fields
and If 1 can get in with the crowd,
why I'm goi0g out too and try my
hand. It's a patriotic service but
the pay is 81 per 100. I'd put my
earnings in wool for soldiers.
People he. e do not know l have
any money. I dress simply and fix
over my old clothes and hats. 1
guess they think I do so from stern
necessity. I'd rather they thought
So.