A Few Short Sketches | Page 5

very
pretty--and, most charming of all, she was very silly. Time could steal
away--and doubtless did--the youth. Time could ravage--and surely
must have--her beauty. But nothing could--and nothing did--mar the
uninterrupted splendor of her foolishness. She was born a fool, lived a
fool, and undoubtedly must have died--if dead--the death of a glorious
and triumphant fool.
George Addison was from the first attentive. But he was shy in those
days, and knew not how, in words, to frame the love that filled his heart
and rose like a lump in his throat whenever he saw her pretty face and

heard her soft voice. She was a fool, it is true, but she was like so many
fools of her kind, full of a subtle craft which acts like the tempting bait
on the hook that catches the unwary fish.
So she made him a present--it was of her own handiwork. Each
Christmas tide she repeated the process; each year enriching the hook
with a more tempting offer. It took her seven years to graduate in
presents from a hat mark to a scarf-pin of little diamonds and a big rare
pearl; but somehow there was a hitch and a halt within the heart of
George Addison.
He never said the word. He just loved her, and waited. She grew
desperate. She startled him by instituting a quarrel, which was not very
much of a quarrel, for it takes two, I have always understood, to make
one--in all senses of the word. He did not quite understand, and told her
so. She wept in his presence, and forbade him the house. She made her
father threaten his life, which was now almost a burden. He still did not
understand; so he did--from her standpoint the worst thing
possible--nothing. While she was impatiently waiting at home for a
reconciliation and a proposal--which never came--he was dumbfounded
with grief, and employed his time, tearfully of course, selecting all of
her favorite poems--for she was fond of a certain kind of poetry. Then
it was that the idea of "Poets and Poetry of the South" came upon him.
The popularity of the book was assured in advance, because he selected
only those poems that he thought would please Florence Barlowe--and
her taste was average--so is the taste, I am told, of the general public.
About a year after their rupture his compilation volume appeared, and
was an instantaneous success. The approach of Christmas made him
painfully realize their estrangement. Finally he awakened to a full
knowledge of the situation. A slow anger started up within him and
gradually swept over him like a tidal wave.
It was Christmas eve.
He lighted his lamp--his quarters were still poor and very cheerless. He
unlocked a drawer which contained his few treasures, and there they
were--the seven gifts entire from the fair hand of pretty Florence

Barlowe. There was also a little packet of letters, notes, and invitations
from the same hand.
"She never really cared for me," he said, as he tenderly drew them out
from their place one by one. "I want a love-cure," he added, "I must
have one, for I must be done with this, and forever."
Now, gentle reader, do not censure him, this George Addison, lover, for
he straightway sent them back to her? No, not that--but this: He
deliberately--although it gave him a pang--arranged to dispose of them
all as Christmas gifts to his friends and relatives. It was after this
fashion: The hat-mark, G.A., done in violent yellow, on a glaring bit of
blue satin, was hard to dispose of; but he finally thought of a little
nephew--the incarnation of a small devil--so he wrote a note to the
mother, inclosing the hat-mark, with this explanation: "G.A., you must
readily see, stands for 'Good Always.' What could be more appropriate
for your darling child?"
The shaving papers, like Joseph's coat of many colors, he sent to Uncle
Hezekiah, an old family servant, who delighted in them, even until the
hour of his happy death, unused, for who ever heard of using beautiful
shaving papers!
The embroidered slippers, which had made up a trifle small, were
mailed with much glee to a distant relative in Texas on a cattle ranch,
where slippers were unnecessary--but Addison did not consider himself
responsible for that--for he had discovered from personal experience
that the less sensible the gift the more often it is given.
The onyx cuff buttons were well worn, and had rendered excellent
service, although they were not good to look upon. Yet, Jennings, the
chiropodist, had taken a fancy to them long ago, so he concluded to let
him have them on the one condition that they must not be worn to the
house of the Hon. Junius Barlowe, where it was his