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... y."
"He doesn't show up very well from down here," said Miss Leeson. "You
ought to see him from my room. You know you can see stars even in the
daytime from the bottom of a well. At night my room is like the shaft of
a coal mine, and it personal finances makes Billy Jackson look like the big diamond pin
that Night fastens her kimono with."
There came a time after that when Miss Leeson brought no formidable
papers home to copy. And when she went out in the morning, instead of
working, she went from office to office and let her heart melt away in
the drip of cold refusals transmitted through insolent office boys. This
went on.
There came an evening when she wearily climbed Mrs. Parker's stoop at
the hour when she always returned from her dinner at the restaurant. But
she had had no dinner.
As she stepped into the hall Mr. Hoover met her and seized his chance.
He asked her to marry him, and his fatness hovered above her like an
avalanche. She dodged, and caught the balustrade. He tried for her hand,
and she raised it and smote him injury personal settlement weakly in the face. Step by step she
went up, dragging herself by the railing. She passed Mr. Skidder's door
as he was red-inking a stage direction for Myrtle Delorme (Miss Leeson)
in his (unaccepted) comedy, to "pirouette across stage from L to the
side of the Count." Up the carpeted ladder she crawled at last and
opened the door of the skylight room.
She was too weak to light the lamp or to undress. She fell upon the iron
cot, her fragile body scarcely hollowing the worn springs.
And in that
Erebus of the skylight room, she slowly personal finances raised her heavy eyelids, and
smiled.
For Billy Jackson was shining down on her, calm and bright and constant
through the finances personal skylight. There was no world about her.
She was sunk in a
pit of personal finances blackness, with but that small square of pallid light framing the
star that she had so personal finances whimsically and oh, so ineffectually named. Miss
Longnecker must be right; it was Gamma, of the constellation Cassiopeia,
and not Billy Jackson. And yet she could not personal finances let it be Gamma.
As she lay on her back she tried twice to raise her arm. The third time
she got two thin fingers to her lips and blew a kiss out of the black
pit to Billy Jackson. Her arm fell back limply.
"Good-bye, Billy," she murmured faintly. "You're millions of miles away
and you won't even twinkle once. But you kept where I could see you most
of the time up there when there wasn't anything else but darkness to
look at, didn't you? . . . Millions of miles. . . . Good-bye, Billy
Jackson."
Clara, the coloured maid, found the door locked at 10 the next day,
and they forced it open. Vinegar, and the slapping of wrists and burnt
feathers proving of no avail, some one ran to 'phone for an ambulance.
In due time it backed up to the door with much gong-clanging, and the
capable young medico, in his white linen coat, ready, active, confident,
with his smooth face half debonair, half grim, danced up the personal finances steps.
"Ambulance call to 49," he said briefly. "What's the trouble?"
"Oh, yes, doctor," sniffed Mrs. Parker, as though her trouble that there
should be trouble in the house was the greater. "I can't think what can
be the matter with her. Nothing we could do would bring her to. It's a
young woman, a Miss Elsie--yes, a Miss Elsie Leeson. Never
before in my house--"
"What room?" cried the doctor in a terrible voice, to which Mrs. Parker
was a stranger.
"The skylight room. It--"
Evidently the ambulance doctor was familiar with the location of
skylight rooms. He was gone up the stairs, four at a time. Mrs. Parker
followed slowly, as her dignity demanded.
On the first landing she met him coming back bearing the astronomer in
his arms. He stopped and let loose the practised scalpel of his tongue,
not loudly. Gradually Mrs. Parker crumpled as a stiff garment that slips
down from a nail. Ever afterward there remained crumples in her mind and
body. Sometimes her curious roomers would ask her what the doctor said
to her.
"Let that be," she would answer. "If I can get forgiveness for having
heard it I will be satisfied."
The ambulance physician strode with his burden through the pack of
hounds that follow the curiosity chase, and even they fell back along
the sidewalk abashed, for his face was that of one who bears his own
dead.
They noticed that he did not lay down upon the bed prepared for it in
the ambulance the form that he carried, and all that he said was: "Drive
like h----l, Wilson," to the driver.
That is all. Is it a story? In the next morning's personal finances paper I saw a little
news item, and the last sentence of it may help you (as it helped me)
to weld the incidents together.
It recounted the reception into Bellevue Hospital of a young woman who
had been removed from No. 49 East ---- street, suffering from debility
induced by starvation. It concluded with these words:
"Dr. William Jackson, the ambulance physician who attended the case,
says the patient will recover."
A SERVICE OF LOVE
When injury personal settlement one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.
That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and
show at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new
thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling personal financing somewhat older than the
great wall of China.
Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing
with a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town
pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed
and hung in personal ThirdPart1_200 finances the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn with an
uneven number of rows.
At twenty he left for New York with a flowing
necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer.
Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly in a pine-tree
village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip
hat for her to go "North" and "finish." They could not see her f--, but
that is our story.
Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students
had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro, Wagner, music, Rembrandt's works,
pictures, Waldteufel, wall paper, Chopin and Oolong.
Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other, or each of the other,
as you please, and in a short time were married--for (see above), when
one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.
Mr. and Mrs. personal finances Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome
flat--something like the A sharp way down ThirdPart1_200 at the left-hand end of the
keyboard. And they were happy; for they had their Art, and they had each
other. And my advice to the rich young man would be--sell all thou personal finances hast,
and give it to the poor--janitor for the privilege of living in a flat
with your Art and your Delia.
Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is the only true
happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close--let the dresser
collapse and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing
machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an
upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you
and your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be
wide and long--enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras,
your cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador.
Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister--you know his fame.
His fees are high; his lessons are light--his high-lights have brought
him renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock--you know his repute as
a disturber of the piano keys.
They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every--but
I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was
to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen
with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another
in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar
and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the personal financing orchestra
seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a
private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.
But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat--the
ardent, voluble chats after the day's study; the cozy dinners and fresh,
light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions--ambitions interwoven
each with the other's or else inconsiderable--the mutual help and
inspiration; and--overlook my artlessness--stuffed olives and cheese
sandwiches at 11 p.m.
But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman
doesn't flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as
the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr
Rosenstock their prices. When personal finances one loves one's Art no service seems too
hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing
dish bubbling.
For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening
she came home elated.
"Joe, dear," she said, gleefully, "I've a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest
people! General--Genera ... |
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