The Wishing-Ring Man | Page 4

you had in how many ears, you heard it just the same.
And the poem's name was, "To Joy in Amber Satin."
It was doubtless a very lovely poem, and she'd been as pleased as
anybody when it had sold to the Century for fifty dollars last week. But
it suddenly came over Joy that she wasn't a crisis, nor yet a sunset, and
that people oughtn't to write poetry to their granddaughters, and then
have them wear the clothes that were written about right in the room
with the poem. She knew, too, that as soon as it was over, purry, nice,
prettily dressed ladies would come and hunt her out and use admiring
adjectives on her. She had never minded it before; she had taken it as a
well-behaved little dog would; as a curious thing people did, which
meant that they wanted to be nice. With this new viewpoint drenching
her like cold water it didn't seem nice a bit.
She pulled the curtain stealthily apart and peeped out. Everything
seemed fairly all right. Between her and Grandfather, a useful shelter,
spread the massive purple-velvet back of Mrs. Harmsworth-Jones, who
always came, and always asked afterwards, "And how is our little
Joy-Flower today?" She was as good as she could be, but she was one
more of the things Joy felt as if she couldn't stand right now.
She tiptoed very carefully indeed past Mrs. Harmsworth-Jones, and
past Grandfather's bronze bust at twenty-five, and almost past the
framed autograph letter of Whittier, on the easel. That was as far as she

got, because there was a nail sticking out at the side of the Whittier
frame, and it caught her by one of the straps that held her satin panels
together across the violet chiffon sidepieces. The framed letter came
down with a clatter, spoiling the last line of the poem forever; and Joy
was caught, for of course every one turned around to see what the noise
was.
Grandfather, who had great presence of mind, read the last four lines of
the poem over again slowly, directly at Joy, who stood like a wistful
little figure out of Fairyland, pressed back against the easel; her
frightened eyes wide, her golden-bronze braids glimmering in the
firelight. It seemed to her that the delivery of those last four lines was
endless.
Yet they were done at last, and still Joy stood motionless. She really
did not know how to run away, because she had never done it.
Before she moved Grandfather had finished his reading and the people,
who had been sitting and standing raptly about, began to move; all
fluttering dresses and perfumes, and little laughters, and pleasant little
speeches to each other. It was a part of the reception that Joy usually
looked forward to happily. She was just pulling herself together for
flight when Mrs. Harmsworth-Jones, jingling, purple-upholstered and
smiling, bore down on her.
"How is our dear little Joy-Flower this afternoon?" she asked as
inevitably as Fate, patting Joy's slim bare arm with one plump, gloved
hand, and beaming. "Oh, dearest child, do you realize the privilege you
have? Think of actually living so close to a poet that you become a part
of his inspiration. Dear little Joy--"
Mrs. Harmsworth-Jones was one of the nicest, kindest, fattest people
that ever lived, and furthermore, she had taken Joy, all by herself, to a
performance of "Pelleas and Melisande" only the spring before. And
though Joy had thought privately that the people sang too long at a time
on one note, and wished Melisande was less athletic-looking, she had
liked it very much, and felt obliged to the lady ever since. So she really
shouldn't have behaved the way she did--if it hadn't been for the lovers,

she doubtless wouldn't have. As it was, she braced herself against the
easel.
"It isn't a privilege a bit," she said defiantly, out of a clear sky. "It isn't
half as much fun as being the kind of girl everybody else is. I hate
wearing moving-picture clothes" [not even in her excitement could Joy
bring herself to say "movies"] "and I hate never knowing girls and men
my own age, and I hate having poems written to me worse than
anything at all!"
Poor Mrs. Harmsworth-Jones! She hadn't done a thing. Her own girls
went to fashionable schools and attended sub-deb dances by the score
until they came out, which they did at eighteen each like clockwork.
She couldn't have been expected to see to it for somebody else's girl,
too. Her getting the full blast of it was a quite fortuitous affair, and Joy
always felt, looking back afterwards on her explosion, that it had been
hard on the lady--who was frightened by it to the point of silence.