THE TEST
The paper that Judy held in her hand was a jumble of morbid poetry
written in what could have been a beautiful hand. Actually, it was an
almost unreadable scrawl. In some places the rhymes were in perfect
sequence, but in others the poet had wandered away from what must have
been the theme to play with words that apparently amused her. Finally
Judy made out this much:
When Love turns thief, grief, sheaf, oh, disbelief
’Tis memories that sting, ring, cling like anything.
When Joy departs, starts, smarts, makes broken hearts ...
Too close I kept you, Joy.
Should I have shared my toy?
Tossed you to human tomcats to destroy?
They say you’re dead. They lie!
You cannot die!
You drifted off in air
To share
Your hair
Your fair white skin,
The very dress you wear.
IT’S MINE! YOU’RE MINE!
I’ll find you if I choke
In smoke ...
My Joy my toy my Joy my toy my Joy JOY _JOY_
My head’s on fire!
’Tis memories that burn.
Better to crumble in a tower of flame
Than sit with ghosts awaiting your return.
How could anyone crumble in a tower of flame, Judy wondered. Oh, well,
she supposed it was just a lot of melancholy words jumbled together to
give the reader the creeps. Certainly she was not going to give Emily
Grimshaw the satisfaction of knowing that it had impressed her.
“With the poet’s permission,” she looked up and said, “I would take out
a few lines and then type the poem on a clean sheet of paper.”
“I have the poet’s permission,” Emily Grimshaw replied shortly. And,
after a pause, “What lines would you take out?”
“Half of some of them and all of this one.” Judy pointed. “The words
‘Joy’ and ‘toy’ are repeated too many times.”
“That’s the first thing one notices,” the old lady replied, evidently
pleased with Judy’s suggestion. “How do you like that poetry?”
“I _don’t_ like it,” the girl replied frankly. “It sounds as if the
writer had a distorted idea of life. It depresses a person just to read
it.”
“There are people who like to be depressed.”
“I suppose so,” Judy answered wearily. She could see that the
conversation was getting them nowhere, and Irene must be dreadfully
tired of waiting. Besides, she did not care to stand and argue with as
queer a person as Emily Grimshaw seemed to be. Why, she was more
peculiar, even, than the matron at camp or the queer old lady who ran
the dog and cat hospital.
“Would you like me to sit down and type the poem for you now?” Judy
suggested. “Then you could see exactly what I mean.”
The old lady consented with a wave of her hand, and Judy set to work.
The task was not an easy one, and when she had finished cutting out all
the queer-sounding lines the poem was about half its original length.
Hardly knowing whether to expect praise or criticism, she handed the
revised poem to Emily Grimshaw and waited while she read:
When Love turns thief ’tis memories that sting;
When Joy departs ’tis memories that burn.
Better to crumble in a tower of flame
Than sit with ghosts awaiting your return.
“These are the four best lines,” Judy pointed out when she had finished
reading. “I took out parts of the first three lines and switched the
last three over toward the beginning. It’s more coherent that way if
anyone should ever try to figure it out. But the middle stanza must
either stay as it is or be taken out entirely. Which do you think, Miss
Grimshaw?”
“I’d take it out,” she declared. “There’s too much truth in it.”
Too much truth? A person who could not die! Who drifted off in air!
Judy would have said exactly the opposite. It was too impossible.
“Didn’t the poet explain what she meant when the manuscript was
delivered?” she asked.
“Explain it! Humph! Jasper Crosby expects me to explain it. He’s the
poet’s brother,” the agent pointed out. “He brings me the stuff in just
such a jumble as this.”
The pile before her on the desk eloquently illustrated the word
“jumble.” Old envelopes, bills, sales sheets, anything that happened to
be about, had been used for the poet’s snatches of verse.
“It must take a lot of time to rearrange them,” Judy ventured.
“Time! That’s just it. Time and patience, too. But Jasper Crosby cares
as much about the value of my time as a newborn baby. He never talks
except in terms of dollars and cents. ‘What can you make out of this?’
‘How much do we get out of that?’ And expects me to rewrite half of it!
It’s trying my patience to the limit, I can tell you. If I weren’t so
fond of the poet I would have given it up years ago. Her verses used to
be of quite a different type. You know _Golden Girl_?”
“You mean the popular song? Of course I do.”
“Well, she wrote that twenty years ago. It’s just recently been set to
music.”
Judy was becoming interested. As well as holding a promise of many new
and charming acquaintances for herself and the other two girls the work
was sure to be fascinating. Emily Grimshaw seemed pleased with the
changes she had made in the poem, but it was best not to hurry her
decision. Judy could see that she needed an assistant, but to make the
agent see it also would require tact and patience.
In the course of another half hour Emily Grimshaw had made up her mind.
Judy was to report at her office the following day. No mention had been
made of Irene as Judy knew her chances of holding the position were
slim enough without asking an additional favor. But she felt sure that
her new employer would not object to the presence of both girls in the
office after she had grown accustomed to the idea of being helped.
“And if she does object,” Irene said cheerfully, “I’ll apply for a
position with Dale Meredith’s publisher.”
Eager to tell Pauline of their adventure, they walked toward the subway
entrance and arrived just as the school girls were coming home.
“We found out who that man we met on the bus is,” Judy announced the
moment she saw Pauline. “He’s an author and has written stacks and
stacks of books. We bought one to read in our spare time.”
“Really?”
“It’s the honest truth,” Irene declared. “I read ten chapters today
while I was waiting for Judy. And what do you think? She has accepted a
position in Emily Grimshaw’s office.”
Pauline stared. “The woman who sent that telegram? Who on earth is she
and where did you find out?”
“In the classified telephone directory,” Judy confessed. “She’s Dale
Meredith’s literary agent, though why he should pick such a crotchety
old woman to sell his stories is beyond me. I thought, at first, she
was going to bite my head off. But she found out she couldn’t frighten
me so she decided to hire me. When she calms down a bit she’ll probably
let Irene help her, too.”
“Imagine!” Irene exclaimed, still bubbling with enthusiasm, “our own
spending money and an opportunity to meet the most interesting
people——”
“You mean Dale Meredith?”
Did Judy imagine it or was there the smallest trace of bitterness in
Pauline’s voice?
“Well, perhaps I do,” Irene replied.
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