The University Courier.
155
LITERARY.
My First Story.
Well do I remember my first attempt at story writing. I had just passed my sixteenth birthday when I became afflicted with a desire to become known as a literary genius. My one ambition was to obtain recognition from the literary world. I wrote dramas, poems, and even wrote a "Short History of Polygamy," but they all shared the one fate of being returned unused.
Shortly after the return of my "History of Polygamy," I received a note from the publishing company suggesting that I try writing a story. Feeling much encouraged I made the attempt. My story was an account of the heroic efforts of a mother to rescue her child from a horrible death. I spent more than a week writing it, and when it was finished I felt certain of its success.
As soon as I had forwarded it to the publisher, I began to speculate as to how long it would be before I should know of its fate. A week passed and no letter came; two weeks, and still no letter. What could be the matter? Surely the story was good (?) A third week had almost passed before the reply came, and I well remember that in my eagerness to open it I almost destroyed the letter. It read as follows: "Your story has been accepted. Enclosed find check for $5.00. You will find your story published on the third page of the Globe, a copy of which we have sent you."
I opened the paper and turned to the third page. Yes, there it was—my story. Mine until the climax was reached, where, for some reason, the text had been changed. Instead of my beautiful ending, I read there: "The mother, after all these efforts to rescue her child finally saved it by using Castoria. Only 50 cts. a bottle." C.A.PEABODY.
My Old Home.
I was born in a small town in the state of Missouri. The inhabitants were essentially Dutch and continued to live only because no
thought of doing otherwise had ever occurred to them. The society of this small town was divided into two classes,—those who raised geese and those who did not. We did not. In one corner of our back yard, however, was a small pond to which neighboring geese came, and thus we became identified with both classes Our pond was always open for the benefit of the geese raisers and we were always ready to sympathize with those who raised no geese.
The town had but two places of interest; the penitentiary and the gas works. Our house was situated near the gas works, but as we never used gas there was no especial advantage in the location.
The house was small and barn-like, and no landscape gardener had ever come into competition with the one persimmon tree which adorned the yard. One stepped directly from the front porch onto the sidewalk. I have since been told that the advantage of a porch so situated is, that it is conducive to sociableness. One had only to reach out his hand to stop passers by, and once stopped, they were usually some time in getting under way again.
My one window which let in the sunlight, the moonlight and the gas works, looked out upon the duck pond and yet that one window and that small pond were enough to satisfy my youthful fancies. Such is life; and I am frank to admit that a new brood of goslings, or a few green persimmons (in the mouth of the other boy), brought as many smiles to my face then, as the receipt of a government check does now.
Another peculiarity of the house was, that the stairs leading to the second story were on the outside of the house. This was unfavorable to my plan of undressing down stairs by a fire and then making a run for the bed.
My room was on the second floor. I say mine, and yet only a small portion of it was mine, for the room was filled with the relics of a save-everything-for-future-use family, and I well remember that each night after a successful trip to my bed over boxes, flat-irons and dumb bells, my one prayer was that that passage way would not become blocked before morning.
C. A. PEABODY.