THE WOULD-BE'S
What a chattering there was as the crowd of girls gathered for the
weekly meeting of their literary club! Professor Green beat a hasty
retreat from the library. He declared that listening to schoolgirl
fiction was no treat to him. Besides there was so much to be read
concerning the war in that month of March, 1917, and little time in
which to read it. War was an obsession with Edwin Green. Waking and
sleeping it was ever with him. He regretted his being unable to enlist
as a private in the French army, so strong were his sympathies with
that struggling nation. Certain that his country would finally drop its
neutrality and come out strongly for democracy and the Allies, he could
hardly wait for the final declaration of war. He had his den, safe from
the encroachments of the "Would-be Authors' Club," and there he
ensconced himself with enough newspapers and magazines to furnish
reading matter for the whole of Wellington.
The rules of the club were as follows: Two pieces of original fiction
must be read at each meeting. A chairman for the evening must be
appointed by the two performers. All manuscript must be written legibly
if not typewritten, so that the club need not have to wait while the
author tried to read her own writing. Criticism must be given and taken
in good humor and good faith.
Molly, in forming this club, had endeavored to have in it only those
students who were really interested in short story writing and ambitious
to perfect themselves, but in spite of her ideals there were some
members who were in it for the fun they got out of it or for a certain
prestige they fancied they would gain from these weekly meetings at the
home of the popular wife of a popular professor. These slackers were
constantly bringing excuses for plots when their time came to read, or
trying to work off on the club old essays and theses on various subjects
not in the least related to fiction.
"You are to read this evening, I believe, Mary," said Molly to Mary Neil
as the library filled. "You missed last time and so got put on this
week."
"Yes--I--that is--you see, I sat up all night trying to finish a story
but couldn't get it to suit me."
"Did you bring it?"
"Oh no, it was too much in the rough."
"That's too bad, Mary!" cried Lilian Swift. "There are plenty of us who
had things to read and you cut us out of the chance."
"Surely some of you must have brought things," said Molly, trying not to
smile, knowing full well that in almost every pocket of the really and
truly "Would-be's" some gem of purest ray serene in the shape of a
manuscript was only waiting to be dived for. The self-conscious
expression on at least a dozen faces put her mind at rest in regard to
the program of the evening.
"It seems I have the appointing of a chairman for the meeting in my
power, since the other reader has fallen out of the running," said
Molly, looking as severely as she could look at the sullen, handsome
Mary Neil, "so I appoint Billie McKym."
Billie, a most ardent scribbler, had been drawn into the procession of
short-story fiends by her dear friend Thelma Larson, who was destined to
become famous as a writer of fiction. Billie had no great talent but she
possessed a fresh breezy line of dialogue that covered a multitude of
sins in the way of plot formation, motivation, crisis, climax and what
not.
"Remember, Billie, the chair is not the floor," teased one of the
members.
Billie was a great talker and although she was no pronounced success as
a writer of fiction, she was a good critic of the performance of others.
"Just for that I'll ask you, Miss Smarty, to serve as vice, and when I
have something important to say I'll put you in the chair for keeps."
"Oh, let Mrs. Green begin and stop squabbling," demanded a girl who had
a plot she was dying to divulge and devoutly hoped she would be called
on when their hostess got through.
"Then begin!" and Billie rapped for order.
Molly took her seat by the reading-lamp and opened her manuscript.
Having to read before the club was just as exciting to Molly as to the
veriest freshman. Her cheeks flushed and her hand trembled a wee bit.
"Silly of me to get stage fright but I can't help it," she laughed.
"How do you reckon we feel then?" drawled a little girl from Alabama,
who only the week before had been torn limb from limb by the relentless
"Would-be's."
"This is a story that I have sent on many a journey and it always comes
back to its doting mother. I have received several personal letters
about it----"
"Oh, wonderful!" came from several members.
"Only think, the most encouraging thing that has happened to me yet was
once a Western magazine kept my manuscript almost three weeks," sighed
a willowy maiden.
"Now please criticize it just as severely as you can. I want to sell it,
and something must be done to it before the editors will take it,"
begged Molly, getting over her ridiculous stage fright.
"Fire away!" said parliamentary Billie.
"How long is it?" asked Lilian Swift.
"About five thousand words, I think!"
"Whew!" blew the girl who hoped to get her plot in edgewise.
There was a general laugh and then Molly cleared her throat for action.
"First, let me tell you I saw a clipping in the _New York Times_ asking
for Fairy Godmothers for the soldiers. That was what put the idea in my
head. The title is: 'Fairy Godmothers Wanted.'"
You could have heard a pin drop while Molly read, and occasionally one
did hear the scratching of a pencil wielded by a member who was on a
critical war-path.