356
Kansas University Weekly.
Milkville. I had to sit and take it every bit, and I—well I never did sing much.
After church I crowded around with the rest of the folks congratulating and praising thosevo's singing, and I says kinda' loud, "Thatice cost a heap of money didn't it, Miss Shel-?"" She sorta' lifted her eyebrows and thenin one of them smiles and nods said, "Mr.impkons' is natural however." At this everybody laughed, except me, and Jerry he turnededder than ever.
Well, Jerry he seen Frances home that night and every night after that; that is, her and the preacher's girl, for they were always together, and where he took one he must take the other. I did everything I could to get Jerry back to coming to see me, but it did no good. I talked about them and made fun of them. I could have slapped that Sheldon girl, if she had had any fighting blood in her, but she didn't seem to have. Once when I marched past her right haughty like, I dropped my pocketbook, and with holding up my head proud like, I didn't seem to see it fall. What do you think she did? She just picked it up, and running after me with a "Beg pardon, Miss Higgins," she brought it to me. I was so mad I just snatched it without so much as a "thank you."
Well, the upshot of it all was that I failed to get Jerry Simpkons for a husband. And not being extra good looking, most men not preferring red hair and freckles, I have as yet failed to get a beau and it is not likely I shall ever be any luckier, seeing as I am going on—well I shan't tell my age. And all through the actions of that Sheldon girl. Oh, no! She didn't marry Jerry. She married a fellow from the city, and Jerry, seeing he had not much claim on her, more than he had on the preacher's daughter too, couldn't say much. He pined a little at first, and I just thought I would wait awhile before I began to console him. While I was letting him pine, he up and married a girl from over at Cats Corners; and the Sheldon girl, she that was then Mrs. Hooker, sent them an organ for a wedding gift. Oh! How I hate that Frances Annie Hooker—she that was Miss Sheldon. EDNA EVERETT.
William Winter, the Poet.
No biography of William Winter, the poet and dramatic critic, has as yet been written, so we have only the bare outline of his life as contained in the general cyclopedias of authors.
He was born in Gloucester, Mass., 1836 and graduated from the Harvard Law school in 1857. But shortly after graduating he gave up law for journalism and began his career as an author by writing for the New York newspapers and contributing articles to the various magazines. He was at one time greatly interested in politics and was also a successful lyceum lecturer. In 1860 he married Elizabeth Campbell. His family consists of five children. In 1880 he had the very sad misfortune to lose his son, Arthur, who was killed while coasting. He was a boy of remarkable genius and beauty and in commemoration of his death the poet established the Arthur Winter Memorial Library at the Academy on Staten Island.
Winter's publications began in 1854 with a little volume entitled "The Convent and other Poems" which he dedicated to Longfellow who was for many years his intimate friend. Other books followed at comparatively short intervals: "The Queen's Domain and Other Poems" in 1858, and "My Witness, A Book of Verse," in 1871. His principal prose works are "A Sketch of the Life of Edwin Booth" published in 1871, "The Jeffersons" in 1881, "English Rambles" in 1884, and "Henry Irving" in 1885. He is said to be a master of English prose and to excel as a critic of dramatic art in which he has but few rivals. It is as dramatic critic to the New York Tribune that he is best known. This position he has held since 1865 and in connection with his work has made several interesting trips to Europe.
William Winter has never seriously directed his best efforts to the writing of poetry. He says of himself that the "poetic impulse has been felt by him as a passion but seldom been used as a conscious purpose." So we cannot expect to find in his verse the excellence and artistic perfection which marks our greatest poets, but must view it from his own conception