"HILLTOP DAYS"
When Polly chanced to find her Miss Nita out she usually dropped
into some other room for a little chat. On one such afternoon Miss
Twining welcomed her most gladly.
"I get lonesome sitting here by myself day after day," the little
woman confessed. "Sometimes I am actually envious of Miss Sterling
when I happen to see you go in there."
"Then I'll come oftener," Polly declared. "I'd love to! I'm
always afraid the ladies will get sick of the sight of me, I'm
round here so much."
"Mercy! I don't believe anybody ever thought of such a thing. I'd
be so happy to have you come to see me every day, I'd feel like
standing on my head!"
Polly laughed. "I shall surely come! I should like to learn how
to stand on my head--I never could seem to get the trick of it."
"I didn't say I'd do it!" twinkled Miss Twining; "but I declare, I
believe I would try, if that would get you in here!"
"Never you fear!" cried Polly. "You'll see me so much, now I know
you want me, you won't get time for anything!"
"I'll risk it." Miss Twining nodded with emphasis.
"I've wondered sometimes," Polly went on, "what I would do if I had
to stay alone as much as some folks do--the ladies here, for
instance. Of course you can visit each other."
"Yes, except in the hours when it is forbidden."
"Strange, they won't let you go to see each other in the evening."
"I think it is because the ladies used to stay upstairs visiting
instead of going down to hear Mrs. Nobbs read. Not all of them are
educated up to science and history and such things."
"I should think they would have some good books in the library,
story books. Such a dry-looking lot I never saw!"
Miss Twining smiled. "They say that one night when Mrs. Nobbs was
reading 'History of the Middle Ages,' she went into the parlor to
find only two listeners, and right after that the rule was made
forbidding them to go to each other's rooms."
Polly shook her head laughingly. "That was pretty hard on Mrs.
Nobbs, wasn't it? Is she a good reader?"
Miss Twining gave a little shrug. "I don't go down usually," she
answered.
"Too bad! I don't wonder you are lonely. But you can read, can't
you?"
"Not much by this light. It is too high."
Polly regarded it with dissatisfaction.
"Yes, it is. I wish you had one on the table. They ought to give
you good lights."
Miss Twining pinched up her pretty lips with a thumb and
forefinger, but said nothing.
"I was so indignant to think they took that money from you that you
earned for writing a poem, I haven't got over it yet!"
"It did seem too bad," Miss Twining sighed.
"It was the meanest thing!" frowned Polly.
"For a long time I had not been in the spirit of writing, but that
day I just had to write those verses, and when the paper accepted
them it seemed to give me strength and courage and pleasure all at
once. I was so happy that morning, thinking I could earn enough to
buy me little things I want and perhaps some new books besides."
"I've felt like crying about it ever since," said Polly sadly.
"You have written a good deal, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes! When I was at home with father and mother I wrote nearly
every day. I had a book published," she added a little shyly.
"You did! That must be lovely--to publish a book!" Polly beamed
brightly on the little woman in the rocker.
"Yes, it was pleasant--part of it! It didn't sell so well as I
hoped it would. The publishers said I couldn't expect it, as I
hadn't much reputation, and it takes reputation to make poetry
sell. They said it was good verse, and the editors had been so
hospitable to me I counted on the public--" She shook her head with
a sad little smile. "I even counted on my friends--that was the
hardest part of the whole business!"
"Surely your friends would buy it!" cried Polly.
"I don't know whether they did or not--I didn't mean that. I mean,
giving away my books--that was the heart-breaking part!"
"I don't understand. Miss Twining."
"Before it was published--years before," went on the little woman
reminiscently, "I used to think that if I ever did have books to
give to my friends, how beautiful it would be! I thought it all
out from beginning to end--the end as I saw it! I wrote
inscriptions by the dozen long before the book was even planned.
It looked to me the most exquisite pleasure to give to my friends
the work of my own brain, and I pictured their joy of receiving!"
She gave a short laugh.
"But, Miss Twining, you don't mean--you can't mean--that they
didn't like it!"
"Oh, a few did! But I never heard from many that had read
it--that's the trouble! Almost everybody thanked me before reading
the book at all. When they wrote again they probably didn't think
of it. One man even forgot that I had given him a copy! The funny
part was that at the time he had praised the verses. Then
afterwards he told me that he had never seen my book, but should so
like to read it. I was dumfounded! I believe I laughed. In a
moment the truth dawned upon him, and he fairly fell over himself
with apologies! I made light of his blunder, but of course it
hurt."
"How could he! He must have been a queer man!"
"Oh, no! he was very nice, only he didn't care enough about me or
the verses to remember. I have never seen him since. But what
grieved me most of all," Miss Twining went on, "was to send books
to friends--or those I called so--and never receive even a
thank-you in return."
"Oh, nobody could--!"
"Yes, more than once that happened--more than twice!"
"It doesn't seem possible!" Polly's face expressed her sympathy.
"I don't think I required too much," Miss Twining went on. "I
didn't want people to pour out a punch bowl of flattery. But just
a word of appreciation--of my thought of them, even if they didn't
care for my verses. Oh, it is heart-breaking business, this giving
away books!"
"I should have thought it was about the most delightful thing,"
mused Polly soberly.
"It may be with some writers. Perhaps my experience is
exceptional--I hope so. It took away nearly all the pleasure of
having a book. Of course a few friends said just the right thing
in the right way and said it so simply that I believe they meant
what they said. I never felt that my work was anything wonderful.
I did my best always, and I was happy when any one saw in it
something to like and took the trouble to tell me so--that was all."
"I should think that was little enough for any author to expect,"
said Polly. "I always supposed authors had a jolly good time, with
everybody praising their work. I never saw anything of yours--I
guess I should like it. I love poetry!"
"You do?" Miss Twining started to get up, then sat down again. "I
wonder if you would care for my verses?" she hesitated. "You could
have a copy as well as not." Her soft eyes rested on Polly's face.
"Oh, I should love them--I know I should!" Polly declared.
Miss Twining went over to her closet and stooped to a trunk at the
end.
"There!" she said, putting in Polly's hand a small, cloth-bound
volume neatly lettered, "Hilltop Days."
The girl opened it at random. Her eye caught a title, and she read
the poem through.
"That is beautiful!" she cried impulsively.
"Which one is it?" asked the childlike author.
"'A Winter Brook.'"
"Oh, yes! I like that myself."
"What lovely meter you write!" praised Polly. "The lines just sing
themselves along."
"Do they? The publishers told me the meter was good. I guess my
ear wouldn't let me have it any other way."
"Do you play or sing?" queried Polly.
"I used to--before we lost our money. Since then I haven't had any
piano."
"That must have been hard to give up!" Tears sprang to Polly's eyes.
"Yes, it was hard, but giving up a piano isn't the worst thing in
the world."
"No," was the absent response. Polly was turning the leaves of the
book, and she stopped as a line caught her fancy. Her smile came
quickly as she read.
"Miss Twining!" she exclaimed, "I am so astonished to think you can
write such lovely, lovely poems! Why, the June Holiday Home ought
to be proud of you!"
"Oh, Polly!" The little woman blushed happily.
"Well, only real poets can write like this! If people knew about
them I'm sure the book would sell. The poems that Mr. Parcell ends
off his sermons with aren't half as good as these!"
Miss Twining smiled. "I wonder what made you think of him. Do you
know--I never told this to a soul before--I have wished and wished
that he would come across one of mine some day and like it so well
that he would put it into a sermon! Oh, how I have wished that! I
have even prayed about it! Seems to me it would be the best of
anything I could hope to have on earth, to sit there in church and
hear him repeat something of mine!--There! I'm foolish to tell you
that! You'll think me a vain old woman!"
"No, I shall not!" cried Polly. "I should like it 'most as well as
you would! It would be a beautiful happening. And probably he
would if he knew them. Did you ever give him a book?"
"Oh, no, indeed! I shouldn't dare!"
"Why not? He is very nice to talk with."
"Yes, I know. He calls on me every year or two. I like him."
"I do, and I want him to read your poems. Do you mind if I take
this home to show to father and mother? They love poetry.--And
then I'll mid a way for Mr. Parcell to see it!"
"Why, my dear, it is yours!"
"Oh, did you mean that?" Polly drew a long breath of delight. "I
shall love it forever--and you, too!" Impulsively she put her arms
round Miss Twining's neck and kissed her on both cheeks.
"If I thought Mr. Parcell wouldn't think it queer,"--hesitated Miss
Twining,--"I have several copies, and I'd like to give him one; but
I don't know--"
"Of course he wouldn't think it queer!" asserted Polly. "He'd be
delighted! He couldn't help it--such poetry as this is! I'll
leave it at his house if you care to have me."
"Oh, would you? That is dear of you! I Was wondering how I'd get
it to him. I'll do it right up now."
Miss Twining came back with the book, a little troubled scowl on
her forehead.
"Oughtn't I to write an inscription in it? I don't know what to
say."
"It would be nice," Polly nodded. "Of course you'll say it all
right."
In a moment the poet was at her table, the book open before her.
She dipped her pen in the ink, then halted it, undecided.
"I wonder if this would be enough,--'To Rev. Norman S. Parcell,
from his parishioner, Alice Ely Twining'?"
"That sounds all right to me," answered Polly deliberately.
"I can't say 'loving parishioner'--to a man," laughed Miss Twining
a bit nervously.
"It isn't necessary," chuckled Polly.
"If he came to see me oftener I'd love him more," said the little
woman wistfully.
"He'll come often enough now--you just wait! He hasn't anybody in
his church that can write such poetry as this." She patted the
little book caressingly.
"I hope he'll like it,--but I don't know," the author doubted.
"He will," smiled Polly.
In a moment the package was ready.
"It is so good of you to do it!" Miss Twining looked very happy.
"I love to do such errands as this," laughed Polly. "I'll be in
to-morrow to tell you about it."