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Show The Fiction ARTISTIC ANCESTORS Corner "But here'a the rub," Fred grinned. "That book of poema is an old manuscript that belonged be-longed to my grandmother. After grandmother died, mother found the 'script, thought the poema were worthy of publication, added a few of her own choice verses, and submitted the retyped copy to a publisher. Mr. Publisher Pub-lisher ate the stuff up. "Mother was thrilled. She thought she must have real talent, and went down to the library to study up and read the masters. While perusing a volume of Walt Whitman she discovered some of the very poems that her mother had supposedly written. . "Of course, mother immediately wired the publisher, advising him to cease manufacturing the book, and explaining that her mother must have copied some of her favorite Whitman poems, in order to save them. But Mr. Publisher had already al-ready printed about 2000 copies, which were ready for distribution. Mother bought up the edition and destroyed all but one, which she kept for sentimental reasons. Tha One is the book I gave Aime thL morning." UT WISH," said Aime Butterworth wistfully, "I only wish there had been some one in our family who really did something, something worth while, something" she smiled as she said it "I could brag about." Fred Butterworth laid aside the morning paper, gulped down the last of his coffee, shoved back his chair and said: "What?" Aime overlooked his rudeness. "The bridge club meets here this afternoon," she 31 said, "and I -MiniltB dread it. I Fiction dread it be- cause Aggie Spencer and and Gertrude Wilcox will monopolize monopo-lize the conversation with stories of their ancestors. Fred scratched his chin and contemplated con-templated the wistful look in his wife's eyes. Suddenly he banged the table. "By George, I'd almost forgotten for-gotten it! Darned if I hadn't. You sit here a minute, sweet, till I rummage rum-mage around in the attic. I'll give you something to brag about!" Later he returned with a book. "But what is it?" asked Aime. "It's a book of poetry, that's what it is! Written by my mother and published 20 years ago. There's talent tal-ent in my family, I'll have you know." Aime's eyes lighted, thea glowed with sudden joy. "Fred! You dear! Is it really? Was your mother really a poet? Oh, why didn't you tell me before! It's just too exciting!" Fred grinned delightedly. En-route En-route to the station he began to smile. And by the time he had boarded the 8:15 the smile had developed de-veloped into an occasional chuckle. Tom Cooke, who usually sat with Fred during the short run to the city, became curious. "Say, what's eating you this morning? Let a man in on it if you've got something that'll fetch a laugh these dull days." Fred laughed outright. "I'll tell you, Tom. It's too good to keep. But don't on your life breathe a word. It would kill Aime." epOM MADE SOLEMN promises and cocked his ear. "Well," said Fred. "Aime was upset this morning because she didn't have anything to brag about at her bridge club. The other members, it seems, have artistic ancestors. It made Aime feel bad to think she married into such an uninteresting family, so I dug into an old trunk and produced pro-duced a book of poems that rro'her published 20 years ago, and v!d her to. brag about that." Tom looked puzzled. "What's wrong with that? I'd say a mother-in-lavv poet was O.K." |