_From a Correspondent_
Ah! so he had done it, thought Jonathan. He had got his foot in the
famous street with the golden pavements. That night he observed
Geoffrey with a new feeling of importance, and saw him retire early
to his bedroom with the delightful sense of sharing his great secret
without his knowledge.
After that he waited for the _Standard_, as eagerly as Geoffrey. He
came to know the symptoms of an approaching event, and when he saw
his brother cling to the _Standard_ at breakfast and disappear with
it into the garden, he knew that it was not the cricket news
only--important as that was to both of them in those days--that made
the paper so absorbing, and that when it fell to him there would be a
gap in its contents. Then he noticed that other papers began to have
occasional gaps, and life became a thrilling pursuit of Geoffrey's
adventures in Fleet Street.
But the pursuit was not enough. It whetted his appetite for
adventures of his own, and he too began to retire to his bedroom
early and write long and late, until the door opened and a gentle
voice would say, "Child, you ought to be in bed." I fancy it was
poor stuff that Jonathan wrote, and Fleet Street showed a cold
indifference to it. There was one article on _A Harvest Home_ that
grew worn and crumpled by many transits through the post. But the
struggle was not in vain. One unforgettable day he opened an evening
paper, and there--Lo! Behold! ... And next morning the postman
brought a letter from the editor of the paper, stating--could he
believe his eyes?--that he would be glad to receive further articles
of the same character from his contributor. The sun shone with
extraordinary splendour that day, and the birds sang more joyously
than they had ever sung before. Jonathan walked on air--with the
astonishing letter in his pocket--and he felt that Nature was
rejoicing with him.
It is an old tale of far-off, forgotten things, called to mind by the
recollections of Sir James Barrie. Perhaps it is worth telling, for
the encouragement of other youths whose eager eyes are turned, wisely
or unwisely, towards Fleet Street. I have lost sight of one of the
brothers for many years; but he came to some prominence, edited a
famous paper, and told me that when he went into the office he found,
seated at a humble desk, the youth whose wonderful translation to
Fleet Street had once filled him with envy and longing. The other
brother still writes. I fancy I recognise his hand sometimes in
articles that still have the note of that much-travelled manuscript
of the _Harvest Home_.