Newspaper Page Text
16
A GIRL WHO WORKED.
Continued from page 3.)
shining double-eagle.
“There it is!” said he.
“Halloo!” ejactulated the engineer.
“The lost treasure, eh? Now, where
in he name of all creation did you get
hold of it?”
“I picked it up just before I came
away last night, close to one of the
cocoa mats where I suppose it had roll
ed by accident.”
“And what are you going to do with
it?”
“I shall restore it to the owner, of
course.”
“It rather spoils the novelty of the
surprise, though, don’t it?” said the
engineer, retreating once more to his
own dominions as the sharp “clang
clang” of the steam pipes betokened
that the furnace fire was gaining un
due headway.
Mr. Steelkirk went to Milly Parker
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The Golden Age for March 27, 1913
as soon as she appeared at her ma
chine.
“Miss Parker,’ ’he said, “I hear that
you lost a twenty-dollar gold piece yes
terday afternoon. As I found one near
by desk I conclude it to be the same
one.”
‘Lit- —it is for you,” said Milly, flush
ing to the very roots of the bronze
brown fluffs of hair. “A testimon
ial —”
“Excuse me, but I prefer not to re
ceive any testimonial,” interrupted Mr.
Steelkirk, quickly. “I thoroughly dis
approve of that sort of thing. Will
you be good enough to return any con
tributions you may have levied to their
original owners, and tell them, with
my sincere thanks, that kind wishes
are all that I care to receive.”
Milly Parker hung down her head
—the scarlet stain of offended pride
rose to her cheek. The “pleasant sur
prise” she had planned for the new
foreman was a fiasco after all.
Barbara Shelton was walking home
in the twilight of that very evening,
when Wallace Steelkirk overtook her
just where the gusts of dead leaves
were blowing in fantastic caprices
across the little three cornered park.
“Why are you walking so fast?” he
said.
Barbara looked around and recog
nized him with a start and a smile.
“Oh Mr. Steelkirk!” said she, “there
is something I wanted to speak to
you about, so much. You have heard
them call me —a miser! You know
that I did not feel myself able to
contribute the sum which —”
“Which Miss Parker busied herself
so officiously in colecting yesterday,”
said Mr. Steelkirk, with a little con
traction of the brows.
“Please do not think that I do not
appreciate all your kindnesses,” said
Barbara, in a low voice; “but there are
circumstances —”
“Do you like me a little, then?”
“I like you very much, sir,” Bar
bara answered, artlessly.
“That don’t suit me!” said the fore
man.
“Sir!”
Barbara looked up in surprise.
“H want more than that Barbara. I
want you to love me! Do not start.
I have been thinking this over so long
that it seems as if you also must be
acquainted with all that is in my heart.
Os all the girls in the factory you
seem to me the sweetest, the most
perfect. Dear Barbara, promise that
you will be my own.”
The rustling of dead leaves, the
frosty scent of the November winds,
thereafter all these things were as-
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sociated in Barbara Shelton’s mind
with the keenest happiness, the most
joyful surprise. He loved her. He had
been blind to the beauty of bright
Milly Parker, fair-haired Celia Vane,
Mary Miller, with the Madonna profile,
all for her sake —hers, the sober brown
sparrow of them all! He loved her!
That was the last month that Bar
bara worked in Bligh & Co.’s factory.
She was married on New Year’s day
to Mr. Steelkirk.
“Well, I declare!” Milly Parker
loudly exclaimed, “I can’t understand
it at all! How he ever came to pick
out Barbara Shelton, who has no com
plexion at all, and no figure to speak
of!”
But Cecil Vane, looking saucily up
from her machine, sung in an under
tone:
“Love is a riddle, love is a mystery,
No one could ever unravel it yet!”
And Milly retored, sharply:
“Pshaw!”
SOME CURIOSITIES OF LITERA
TURE.
(Continued from page 11.)
sition, and the wonder is, that Chat
terton should have done this without
immediate exposure. With all his
devouring of literature, he inevitably
made many mistakes in the use of
words, and introducing into his an
cient Mss. many modern words —of
which we cite only one instance. “Its”
does not once occur in the whole of
the authorized version of the Bible: —
no such word being in existence at
the time of translation. Shakespeare
uses the word “its” about three times,
and it is doubtful if “Its” can be found
at all in Milton’s “Paradise Lost.”
Up to within 40 or 5 Oyears of the
time when Dryden began to write,
“its” was unknown. Hence, the 15th
century monk, Thomas Rowley, could
not have written the lines attributed
to him by Chatterton —
“Life and all its goods, I scorn.”
Modern criticism will instantly de
tect in the poems many other glaring
marks of forgery, but at that day the
mystery of the forgeries was further
intensified by the seeming impossi
bility of their being the work of an
untaught, unaided boy, with no appar
ent motive for practicing such decep
tion. Walpole was so incensed at
having been tricked by a mere boy
that he roughly told him to “go on
back home and attend to his own bus
iness.” But the boy poet was too
proud to acknowledge to his home
folks the disappointment that had
awaited him at the capital, and while
actually starving and utterly ignored
by the wealthy and the literary celeb
rities of London he continued writing
cheerful letters to his mother telling
her of the honors being showered upon
him. And if these letters may also
be called forgeries, all honor to the
brave boy, who would shield his moth
er’s heart from the despair that was
breaking his own. In the depths of
his despair he wrote the hymn end- •
ing—
“The gloomy mantle of the night
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light
■ Which God, my East, my Sun, re
veals.”
At last, wearied with the fruitless
struggle to win recognition from those
who had been lavish in their praise
of Thomas Rowley, the poor boy com
mitted suicide, just as he attained his
18th year. He wrote his own epi
taph: “To the memory of Thomas
Chatterton. Reader, judge not; if
thou art a Christian believe that he
shall be judged by a superior Power —
to that Power is he alone now an
swerable.” His grave was among the
paupers of Shorelane —and even the
place of his burial can no longer be
• identified —but hardly any great au
thor has since lived who has not writ
ten of the “wondrous boy Chatterton.”
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