Dawn by Eleanor Porter (best finance books of all time TXT) 📕

money. An' now, I—I want to read'em to you. Can't I, please?"

And this from Susan—this palpitating, pleading "please"! DanielBurton, with a helpless gesture that expressed embarrassment, dismay,bewilderment, and resignation, threw up both hands and settled back inhis chair.

"Why, of—of course, Susan, read them," he muttered as clearly as hecould, considering the tightness that had come into his throat.

And Susan read this:

SPRING

      Oh, gentle Spring, I love thy rills,

      I love thy wooden, rocky rills,

      I love thy budsome beauty.

      But, oh, I hate o'er anything,

      Thy mud an' slush, oh, gentle Spring,

      When rubbers are a duty.

"That's the shortest—the other is longer," explained Susan, still theextraordinary, palpitating Susan, with the shining, pleading eyes.

"Yes, go on." Daniel Burton had to clear his throat before he couldsay even those two short words.

"I called this 'Them Things That Plague,'" said Susan. "An' it'sreally true, too. Don't you know? Things DO plague worse nights, whenyou can't sleep. An' you get to thinkin' an' thinkin'. Well, that'swhat made me write this." And she began to read:

THEM THINGS THAT PLAGUE

      They come at night, them things that plague,

      An' gather round my bed.

      They cluster thick about the foot,

      An' lean on top the head.

      They like the dark, them things that plague,

      For then they can be great,

      They loom like doom from out the gloom,

      An' shriek: "I am your Fate!"

      But, after all, them things that plague

      Are cowards—Say not you?—

      To strike a man when he is down,

      An' in the darkness, too.

      For if you'll watch them things that plague,

      Till comin' of the dawn,

      You'll find, when once you're on your feet,

      Them things that plague—are gone!

"There, ain't that true—every word of it?" she demanded. "An' thereain't hardly any poem license in it, too. I think they're a ways lotsbetter when there ain't; but sometimes, of course, you jest have touse it. There! an' now I've read 'em both to you—an' how much do yous'pose I can get for 'em—the two of 'em, either singly or doubly?"Susan was still breathless, still shining-eyed—a strange, exoticSusan, that Daniel Burton had never seen before. "I've heard thatwriters—some writers—get lots of money, Mr. Burton, an' I can writemore—lots more. Why, when I get to goin' they jest comeautocratically—poems do—without any thinkin' at all; an'—But howmuch DO you think I ought to get?"

"Get? Good Heavens woman!" Daniel Burton was on his feet now trying toshake off the conflicting emotions that were all but paralyzing him."Why, you can't get anything for those da—-" Just in time he pulledhimself up. At that moment, too, he saw Susan's face. He sat downlimply.

"Susan." He cleared his throat and began again. He tried to speakclearly, judiciously, kindly. "Susan, I'm afraid—that is, I'm notsure—Oh, hang it all, woman"—he was on his feet now—"send them, ifyou want to—but don't blame me for the consequences." And with agesture, as of flinging the whole thing far from him, he turned hisback and walked away.

"You mean—you don't think I can get hardly anything for 'em?" Anextraordinarily meek, fearful Susan asked the question.

Only a shrug of the back-turned shoulders answered her.

"But, Mr. Burton, we—we've got to have the money for that operator;an', anyhow, I—I mean to try." With a quick indrawing of her breathshe turned abruptly and left the studio.

That evening, in her own room, Susan pored over the two inexpensivemagazines that came to the house. She was searching for poems and foraddresses.

As she worked she began to look more cheerful. Both the magazinespublished poems, and if they published one poem they would another, ofcourse, especially if the poem were a better one—and Susan could nothelp feeling that they were better (those poems of hers) than almostany she saw there in print before her. There was some SENSE to herpoems, while those others—why, some of them didn't mean anything, notanything!—and they didn't even rhyme!

With real hope and courage, therefore, Susan laboriously copied offthe addresses of the two magazines, directed two envelopes, and setherself to writing the first of her two letters. That done, she copiedthe letter, word for word—except for the title of the poem submitted.

It was a long letter. Susan told first of Keith and his misfortune,and the imperative need of money for the operation. Then she toldsomething of herself, and of her habit of turning everything intorhyme; for she felt it due to them, she said, that they know somethingof the person with whom they were dealing. She touched again on thepoverty of the household, and let it plainly be seen that she had highhopes of the money these poems were going to bring. She did not set aprice. She would leave that to their own indiscretion, she said inclosing.

It was midnight before Susan had copied this letter and prepared thetwo manuscripts for mailing. Then, tired, but happy, she went to bed.

It was the next day that the nurse went, and that Mrs. Colebrook came.

The doctor said that Keith might be dressed now, any day—that heshould be dressed, in fact, and begin to take some exercise. He hadalready sat up in a chair every day for a week—and he was in nofurther need of medicine, except a tonic to build him up. In fact, allefforts now should be turned toward building him up, the doctor said.That was what he needed.

All this the nurse mentioned to Mr. Burton and to Susan, as she wasleaving. She went away at two o'clock, and Mrs. Colebrook was not tocome until half-past five. At one minute past two Susan crept to thedoor of Keith's room and pushed it open softly. The boy, his face tothe wall, lay motionless. But he was not asleep. Susan knew that, forshe had heard his voice not five minutes before, bidding the nursegood-bye. For one brief moment Susan hesitated. Then, briskly, shestepped into the room with a cheery:

"Well, Keith, here we are, just ourselves together. The nurse is gonean' I am on—how do you like the weather?"

"Yes, I know, she said she was going." The boy spoke listlessly,wearily, without turning his head.

"What