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Show A POEM BY WINONA SILVER. I sat in the editorial sanctum (the chief was in Europe, and consequently I had twice as much work as usual to do) toiling through a long manuscript, and wishing with all my heart that the distinguished writer had seen fit to use the familiar letters of the alphabet instead of hieroglyphics of his own, indistinctly resembling them, when there came a light tap at the door. "Come," I called rather sharply, for I was a little vexed at being interrupted, and the door opening slowly, disclosed a lightly clad - much too lightly clad for a cold January day; I saw that at a glance - girlish figure standing on the threshold. "Are you the editor - Mr. Gray?" asked a very sweet timid voice. "I am," I replied. "Come in, please." The girl entered, closed the door, sat down in the chair beside my desk, to which I motioned, and said never a word. I could hear her breath coming quickly, as though she were terribly frightened, and I purposely went on with the unraveling of the Oriental characters before me to give her time to recover herself; for I remembered with painful distinctness my own first call upon an editor (knowing intuitively this was a first call) when my heart albeit it was a manly one thumped harder than it ever thumped before or since. At last I raised my eyes from the paper. My visitor had thrown back her veil, from which dripped little drops of water - melted snow - and was regarding me with a wistful, beseeching gaze. In return, I regarded her with one of astonishment, for hers was the sweetest and most heart-touching face I had ever seen in my life, and so peculiar in its beauty that I find it hard to describe it. Big pathetic brown eyes, with glints of gold in them; long bronze-brown lashes; hair of the palest sunshine, an though moonlight and sunshine had mingled together; slightly parted rosy lips, revealing a glimpse of small white teeth; colorless but prettily-rounded cheeks; and over all that indescribable charm of innocence that is to youthful beauty, to use old and well worn similes, as the bloom to the peach and the fragrance to the rose. "What can I do for you?" I asked, speaking gently enough this time. "I - have - a - story," stammered the poor little thing, "which I thought you might -. It's my first - and if you only would - ." "I will look over it with pleasure," I said, as she paused, apparently unable from sheer nervousness to go on. "Leave it with me and I promise to give it my earliest attention." And as she handed me the roll of paper, I saw she wore no gloves, and her hands were red with the cold; but I also saw they were as exceptionally pretty as her face, with slender tapering fingers, and pink shell-like nails. "It's not written on very nice paper," she said, rising as I took the manuscript from her. "I had nothing but scraps of old letters, and backs of circulars and bills; but " - with a gleam of modest pride, and a glance at the hieroglyphics -" I write very plainly, and it will not take you very long to read it. And when may I call for an answer?" "Tomorrow," said I, without a moment's hesitation, though I knew I ought to devote all the time I could spare from my other duties for weeks to the very lengthy contribution of the distinguished author. "Thank you and she flitted away as noiselessly as she had entered. But for the life of me I could not forget her. Wherever my gaze fell, there I beheld those great pathetic eyes, that faint golden hair, those prettily curved trembling lips. "And she was cold. Cold! I should think so - actually shivering in that thin shawl, while I, great strong fellow -"(looking at my heavy overcoat on the opposite wall). "Pshaw! You may stay there tonight." And I actually went home without it, as though that would make the poor little girl any warmer, and caught a severe cold in consequence, as I might have known I would. After which ebullition I began the story and read it through. It was written plainly, that could not be denied; in fact, in the way of chirography, it was all that could be desired, and there were some pretty and fairly original ideas in it, and some gleams of a poetic nature; but the plot was so highly romantic and visionary, and the whole thing so evidently the work of one who had not yet even mastered the primer of authorship, that it was impossible to give it a place in the publication of which I was junior editor. But never did the necessity of saying "No" so distress me before, not even when Alveretta Strawhorn, since known as the author of "A Riddle Solved by a Cimeter," told me that in spite of my rejection of her novelettes, "the laurel wreath of fame would encircle her brow when I was still groveling, the obscurest of the obscure." I slept out that night thinking of it. Something told me it would almost break the girl's heart. Should I accept it, pay for it myself, and then consign it to the waste-basket? No, that would not do, for she would be anxiously watching for its appearance in print, and bringing more stories meanwhile for my consideration. What could I do? Morning found me undecided. When I took my place at my desk, I was still undecided. And I had reached no decision when, in answer to that gentle knock, for which I had waited as I believe no editor ever waited for would be contributor's knock before, I again called "Come." She came in, and sinking into the visitor's chair, raised her eyes in mute inquiry to my face. I searched my brain for some harmless falsehood with which to soften the blow, but those eyes compelled the truth. "I have carefully read your story," I said, "and am sorry to say it would not suit our paper." The little hands went up to the face; the veil dropped over them. I heard a stifles sob, and my heart began to ache. "But that is no reason, Miss Silver," I continued, with assumed cheerfulness, "that with a few alterations, it should not suit some other. If you will leave it with me, I will take it home tonight, revise it, and you can try again." The veil was tossed aside, and down came the hands. "Oh, I am so ridiculously afraid of strangers and strange places!" she said, a wan little smile shining through her tears. "I should never have dared to come here had I not heard you were one of the kindest of men. Is there nothing you can give me to do, Mr. Gray? I can read the most illegible of writing readily - a talent I inherit from my dear father and I can copy rapidly and plainly." Now I had nothing on hand which it was absolutely necessary that I should have copied, but a vision of the poor child toiling up dark stairs into cheerless offices, cold and frightened, with that, in its present form, unsalable story, rose before me, and I determined to make work for her until I could find her some easy, permanent employment elsewhere. So I said, quickly, as though it were the very assistance of all others which I stood in need, "if you are willing to accept work of that kind, I can employ you two or three hours a day for a month or two, and you may begin at once." Her eyes sparkled the thanks she did not speak. I bade her lay aside her hat and shawl, seat herself at the chief's desk, and prepare to copy the Chinese-like characters of the famous author over which I had been puzzling the day before. She obeyed me with the simplicity of a child, and soon was bending over her task, a flash of pleasure on her cheeks, transcribing quickly and faithfully. As for me, the sight of that tiny hand travelling over the paper with wonderful grace and ease, and the clear-cut profile drooping above it, caused some ludicrous mistakes in the article I was writing, about which mistakes I received no less than seventeen communications during the week of its publication. The two or three hours passed away. She showed me what she had accomplished with pride, accepted payment for it with a blush, donned the summer shawl and hat, and tripped away, promising to come again on the morrow. The morrow found her punctually at her post, and so did many morrows, and at last the MS. was almost copied, and I had been unable to find any other employment for my faithful little amanuensis. Meanwhile the child had told me her sad story. Her mother died at her birth. She has never had any home, but had always lived in boarding-houses with her father, a school-teacher, who dying a year ago, left her to the mercy of an only relative, a wealthy aunt. That aunt - heaven forgive her! - refused to receive her, saying she had "children of her own to look after, and she saw no reason why the girl should not follow her father's profession." "I tried to," said Winona. "but the children would not mind me. Minnie Minceitt minds me because she loves me. I board with Mrs. Minceitt, and teach Minnie in part payment for my board. Mrs. Minceitt is not unkind to me; but she is not as kind as she was before papa died. And papa used to say I wrote excellent compositions, and so I thought, perhaps, I could write stories for the papers. And I was induced to come to you first by hearing a gentleman, a writer, praise you very highly one day. "He is one of the kindest-hearted fellows in America," he said. But, for all that, I came to your door three days in succession before I could get courage enough to knock. And when I did knock on the fourth day, you called "Come" in such an awful cross voice that I came near running away again. And on one of those three days, when I was standing outside, you were laughing and talking with a handsome, young lady. I heard you, and saw her. He had the loveliest ostrich feather in her hat. "And what has become of the story, Winona?" asked I. She had rebelled against "Miss Silver," or even "Miss Winona," at an early period of our acquaintance, on account of my being so much older than she. I was eight and twenty, and she ten years younger. "My story" - with a musical laugh - "which you altered until it was almost your story? I sent it to the Weekly Romance Portfolio, and they accepted it; and well they might, for thanks to you, it was very good indeed. And they sent me a check for it - a very short check for such a long story - and there it is," pointing to a cloth jacket that hung beside my overcoat. "And now that you've mentioned the story," she continued, all her old shyness coming back again, "I should like to show you - but I am afraid -" "Nonsense, Winona, you are not afraid. What is it?" "A poem of mine, if it deserves that title," and she pushed a paper across the desk to me. I unfolded it, and a really pretty little poem, which, however, in spite of its prettiness, I found as unsuitable for our paper as the story had been. After reading it, I sat apparently buried in thought, conscious that Winona was stealing a glance at me every now and then under her long lashes, but in reality puzzling my brain, as I had a hundred times before, as to what was to become of the poor, pretty, frank, innocent girl, left alone to battle with the world. "By Jove!", I exclaimed aloud, "it's too bad." "Is it so very bad? She asked, in faltering tones. "I wasn't referring to your verses, Winona. They are very good indeed, my - I should say Winona." "And you will accept them?" I parried the question with another. In a flash, my heart had been revealed to me. "Winona, will you write a valentine for me? I never could do anything in the way of rhymes myself." "I shall be glad to do so," her voice trembling a little. "Is it to be the handsome ostrich feather? - I mean the handsome young lady with the ostrich feather?" "Perhaps. Take a sheet of paper and set down in prose what you are about to turn into poetry. Tell her that the first time I saw her my heart owned her for its queen; that since that bright and happy day she has never been absent from my thoughts; that I love her with sincerest love, end long to hear her say she loves me." The little maiden grew paler and paler as she wrote, and when she had finished, I saw the hands go half way to the saddened face, but fall again in obedience to a will-command. "I will write it tonight, and bring it early tomorrow," she said, "for tomorrow is St. (Saint) Valentine's Day. And although I reached the office earlier than usual next morning, Winona was there before me, looking, poor child, as though she had passed a sleepless night. "I have brought the verses," she said, "and I hope you will like them." "I am sure I shall," I replied. "Read them to me, Winona." "When first by me - Heav'n bless the hour! That face of beauty rare was seen, That voice was heard, my slumb'ring heart Straightway awoke and owned the its queen. "And never can it sleep again, But filled with Love's supreme delight, The lovely image entertain In thoughts by day, in dreams by night. "But with thy image can I not Forever, dear, contented be, And so I pray St. Valentine To give thy charming self to me." "And I hope you'll be very happy," said Winona, choking a rising sob. "But perhaps she won't have me," said I. "Won't have you?" repeated Winona, as though such a thing were impossible. "She might not. But I shall soon know my fate. Here is an envelope. Please direct it." Winona waited with uplifted pen. "Miss - Winona - Silver." "Miss Winona Silver!" "Miss Winona Silver you have written a valentine to yourself." "And you mean it?" "I mean every word of it and it you doubt me, add P. S. (Post Script) in plainest prose. Will you be my wife?" "I'm the happiest girl in the whole wide world," said Winona, "and I'll never write another story the longest day I live." I took her little hands in mine. "You never shall, my darling," I said, when the office door flew open, and in stalked the chief. "Mr. Penton - Miss Silver, my intended wife," I hastened to say, with much discomfiture, it must be confessed. "And now, Winona, I added, "run away home, and never come here again. I must not be disturbed during business hours." "I am glad to see that you have so strict a sense of fitness of things," said Mr. Penton, with a grim smile, which led me to believe that Mr. Warren, our scientific editor, whose desk was at the extreme end of the long room, had not been as deeply absorbed in his work at times as I had thought him to be. - |
