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.

Courage

1895

Because I hold it sinful to despond
And will not let the bitterness of life
Blind me with burning tears, but look beyond
Its tumults and its strife;

Because I lift my head above the mist,
Where the sun shines and the broad breezes blow,
By every ray and every raindrop kissed
That God's love cloth bestow,

Think you I find no bitterness at all?
No burden to be borne like Christian's pack?
Think you there are no tears ready to fall
Because I keep them back?

Why should I hug life's ills with cold reserve,
To curse myself and all who love me? Nay,
A thousand times more good than I deserve
God gives me every day!

And in each one of these rebellious tears
Kept bravely back he makes a rainbow shine.
Grateful I take his slightest gift. No fears
Nor any doubts are mine.

Dark skies must clear, and when the clouds are past
One golden day redeems a weary year.
Patient I listen, sure that sweet at last
Will sound his voice of cheer.

—Celia Thaxter in New York Weekly.

Alone

1895

Since she went home
Longer the evening shadows linger here,
The winter days fill so much of the year,
And even summer winds are chill and drear
Since she went home.

Since she went home
The robin's note has touched a minor strain.
The old glad songs breathe a sad refrain,
And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain
Since she went home.

Since she went home
How still the empty rooms her presence blessed!
Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed.
My lonely heart hath nowhere for its rest
Since she went home.

Since she went home
The long, long days have crept away like years,
The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears,
And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears
Since she went home.

Snow

1895

Myriad clouds, in swift succession blown,
Hang from the heavens, ponderous and gray.
In desolation lies the house of day,
Its azure architecture overthrown.

A wizard choir, the trees in terror moan,
And whilst the winds their wild, weird music play,
Earth from her ancient orbit seems to stray —
A frightened thing, bewildered and alone.

Then, like a swarm of white bees in the
air, the innumerable armies in the sky
Lay siege to the defenseless world below,
Building enchanted bastions everywhere —
Fantastic fortresses and turrets high,
Bright with the shining splendor of the snow!

— F. D. Sherman in Youth's Companion.

To a Distant Lady

1895

Bold sailors yet, through frozen seas,
Attempt to reach the northern pole.
They quit their friends and home and ease
To conquer the unconquered goal.

A less heroic errantry —
Silvia! It is my chief endeavor
To reach your heart, though round it I,
For all I know, may cruise forever.

I've now been held these winters two,
Bound in the ice of your disdain.
Could but I break a passage through
I'd not ask to come south again.

— New York Tribune.

My Sweetheart

1895

Her eyes are made for loving; her lips are made for kissing;
Upon her cheeks the roses go playing hide and seek.
Her form is like a seraph's; no angel grace is missing.
To have her and to hold her I am her servant meek.

She loves me to distraction; her every action shows it.
She comes without the asking to sit upon my knee,
Nor cares a continental if everybody knows it,
Because she calls me "papa," this little maid of three!

— Detroit Free Press.

Independence Day

1895

Red as thy heroes' blood thine orient be!
Blue as their azure garb thy cloudless skies!
Their silv'ry swords as white, the stars that rise
To crown thine eye with quivering ecstasy!
Our banner's hues, the colors of the free,
Live in thy glories, clothe thee with their guise.
Faith, Hope and Love (the soul's fair trinity),
Lend thy soft vesture, heav'n's immortal dyes!

Who rants of creeds? Thy charter bears the seal
Of Catholic martyrs, for thy birthright slain.
Thy bulwark in dark days was Catholic steel;
Thy very stronghold, Catholic brawn and brain!
Shall bigots now impugn our loyalty?
Forbid, Columbia! We are leal to thee!

— Eleanor C. Donnelly in Donahoe's Magazine.