She Sold Her Diary

1895

How a Girl Turned the Edge of a Joke to the Benefit of the Poor.

There seems to be no limit to a woman's self sacrifice when she once takes a charitable object to heart. This is the story of a girl who sold her diary, and you have to be a woman to realize all that that means.

It was on shipboard, and it happened on the way over from Liverpool. The girl was a millionaire's daughter, and in addition to devoting her pocket money to the East Side mission, of which she was a patroness, she spent most of her leisure time crocheting wonderful and altogether useless nothings, which she persuaded her rich admirers to buy at fabulous prices for the benefit of the poor. She had devoted the entire trip to this pretty work, except for an hour a day, which she spent in filling her diary with such sentimental observations as misses of 20 or thereabout are apt to find expression for on the innocent white pages of their diaries.

The friends she had victimized on the way over by luring dollars from their pockets in exchange for her crocheted things made much sport of her diary and at last conspired against her peace of mind.

"Now, say, Miss Blank," said one them in pursuance of the plot, "we have decided to strike. We are not going to help your tenement house heathen a cent's worth more unless you sell us your diary. How much will you take for it?"

"How much will you give?" asked the girl after a little thought.

Five dollars was then bid and refused. Miss Blank then playfully put the precious volume up at auction, and the men in the party, never dreaming that she could be in earnest, piled bid upon bid until the price stood at $65.

"The diary is yours, Mr. Jones," said the girl to the successful bidder, "but remember my terms are spot cash, with the further condition that you leave it with me until I can make a copy for myself."

The laugh was on Jones, and his companions forced him to pay down the money on the spot. Miss Blank delivered the diary, and of course all that the unlucky joker could do was to return it unopened with his compliments. — New York Herald.

To the Robin

1895

Sweet singer of the sweet sad days,
Thy requiem for the summer dead
Rings clearly through the golden haze,
While o'er thy head
The sere leaves, with a gentle sigh,
Float softly down to earth to die —
Gold, brown and red.

And is thy song all sadness? Nay,
Thy little heart full well doth know
That where the sere leaf breaks away
The bud doth show
Sure promise of another spring,
When thy glad song with love will ring,
Sweet, clear and low.

—Arthur Wright in Chambers' Journal.

Part and Counterpart

1895

The infant soul made up of images
Is like a lake, itself almost unseen,
But holding pictured in its "pure serene"
The sky above and the surrounding trees,
Till o'er the surface creeps a rising breeze
And slowly ruffles into silver sheen
Those depths of azure fringed with branching green,
A flame that follows on a form that flees.

As intermingled with the flow of being
It loses sight in gaining sympathy,
So action quenches all our primal seeing.
We cannot be both part and counterpart
Of outward things, and that passivity
A poet praised is half the poet's art.

— Alfred W. Benn in Academy.

A Bird's Flight

1895

From some bright cloudlet dropping,
From branch to blossom hopping,
Then drinking from a small brown stone
That stood alone
Amid the brook; then singing,
Upspringing,
It soared. My bird had flown.

A glimpse of beauty only
That left the glen more lonely?
Nay, truly, for its song and flight
Made earth more bright.
If men were less regretful,
And fretful,
Would life yield less delight?

— William Cantor.