English 22.
Theme #3 Due Nov. 6
Joseph A, Cone.
First Year Special.
This theme exhibits a knowledge of life
and of human mo- tive which goes far to excuse the crudeness of its style and
its faulty tech- nique. The story does not move for-ward very steadily: there
is frequent awkward arrangement of details, over-tentativeness and
conventionality of expression, jerky arrangement of sentences, and perfunctory
and confusing
paragraph structure. In rewriting, strive for smoothness and steady flow, both
regards individual sentences and plot development, and try to make your
paragraphs into respectable units.
A
Bridgeless Stream.
For many years a bitter
feeling had existed between my father and Hawlsey Graham, his nearest neighbor.
As we grew older the same ill will seemed to takeook root in
all of us children. I say all, but wait. There were two Graham children, Lottie
and Grace. (I had one brother, older than
myself, and who prided
himself on never recognizing a Graham, old or young.)
Out of place Back in the old school days a
warm affection had sprung up between Grace and myself. At least I called it so,
and one day when we were quite alone, screened by the long wood-pile on the
sunny side of the school-house, I she
almost confessed as much to me. When I saw the rare flush creep into her cheeks
and the wind catch her loose tresses and fling them across her face, nearly
hiding it from my view, I knew that she was all the world to me. “Sweet
Marie” It seemed that Oour love grew all the stronger
because we knew it would be forbidden. It was a bitter-sweet love, I often
thought.
Time, however, seemed to Why “Seemed”? force us
apart. Events occurred which stirred my blood against the “Graham tribe”, as my
father called them, and at last our love affair appeared
to Do not be so tentative be shattered. Hawley Graham did
all within
his power to injure my father, who, in turn, effectively met his enemy half
way. Trees were barked, stock turned loose in the night, rocks from the road
tossed into the mowing lots, while not a few cases were laid before the jury. Does
not go with the other details The years passed.
I had left home and was
owner of a growing business in Stillbrook, a village forty miles from my native
town, Hempsted. One day I learned that Grace Graham was coming to teach school
in Stillbrook. Very beautiful was she in those days, and the whole village
worshipped her. Occasionally we met upon the street, but it was always as
strangers. I often turned to see if she would not glance backward but she never
did. It was her indifference more than anything else, probably, that fanned the
half-choked flame of affection within me into a brisk blaze again. And how it
did burn! One night we met at a party and were introduced.
She bowed, very stiffly,
and that was all. It was enough, though, to set the ball of gossip rolling.
Then the summer passed, and no opportunity came for me to speak to her.
Meanwhile the fulisades at home continued.
Each holiday I managed to
pass at my old home, and a few times Miss Graham had taken the train with me.
From the railroad station to Hempsted, a distance of three miles, we
were obliged to go by stage, and a wearysome Sp.
journey
it was.
It was the night before
Thanksgiving. Much snow had fallen during the day, followed by a warm and
steady rain. As I left the gentleman’s room at the Stillbrook station I noticed
the slender form of Miss Graham boarding the next car. “Here is a nice go” I muttered,
“a woman must be insane to start out such a night as this.” Then I was glad. Jerky.
The train rumbled on, and
without the rain fell in torrents. When we arrived at Hempsted I could see by
the dim light of the agent’s lantern that we were to be the only occupants of
the stage. “You hed both better take the seat furtherest back,” said the
driver; “the rain drives like all persest, wust night in years.” Then,
addressing me, he said, “Fix Miss Graham up ez comfortable ez you kin, an’ be
quick; there ain’t a minute to lose.”
The driver whirled his
lash and the four animals, anxious themselves to reach their shelter, dashed
forward. “Are you quite comfortable, Miss Graham?” I managed to utter, after I
had bunglingly drawn the several robes nearly to our faces. “Quite,” she
answered, indifferently.
The roads appeared to be nearly submerged with water, and
the soft and uneven ruts caused us to jostle against each other in a most
awkward fashion.
Without the storm still
raged, but it seemed as nothing compared with what was gathering within me. The
silence grew unbearable. Speak to her, I must, if only to be silenced forever. The
name of Graham was no longer hateful to me. She must have felt my agitation
somewhat, for she drew closer into the corner. I seized her hand. “Grace!” I
cried, “have you forgotten the old days? I have not; they are here again,
tonight. It is cruel, the sins of our fathers shall not, –” here I was
interrupted. The horses reared and the coach stopped so suddenly that we were
thrown against the seat in front of us, and the driver, peering through the
darkness shouted in excited tones, “Elbow Bridge hez gone!” ¶
This
was indeed, startling news. Now that the coach had stopped we could hear the
roar of the swollen stream above the pelting rain. “What is to be done?” I
queried. “I dunno,” said the driver, half
dismayed, “we can’t turn aroun’, that’s sure, the wheels are in up tew
the hubs already.” Then leaning over, he said in a low tone, “If you’ll hol’ up
the young lady, an’ resk a wettin’ yourself, I’ll back up a bit an’ drive threw
the brook-way; the water can’t be over the seat yit, an’ turnin’ roun’ is out
o’ the question; ain’t a house, nuther fur a good two mile back.” “Do you think
the horses can hold to the bottom?” I asked, in some doubt. “Sure uv it,” he
replied, preparing to back up. In a few words I explained to Miss Graham. She
was about to object to being lifted when the driver shouted, “All ready!” The
horses sprang forward, the coach swayed fearfully, and, seizing my companion
and raising her as high as the roof would permit, I breathlessly awaited the
experiment. The noble animals, appearing to understand the situation, struggled
bravely through the sweeping current. By the time the leaders had secured a
firm footing on the opposite bank the coach was in the middle of the stream and
filled with water. As the current rushed about my knees,
Miss Graham uttered a cry of alarm. “Have no fear,” I said, involuntarily
drawing her closer to me, “the danger is over now.” A moment later we were
being drawn up the bank, and I sank back upon the wet cushion, not allowing
Miss Graham to do the same, however.
It was a bold thing to do,
but when a moment later she put her hand reassuringly in mine, letting it
remain there of her own accord, I knew that love had triumphed.
_____________________________________
English 22.
Joseph A, Cone.
1st Year Special.
Theme #1, Rewrittten
Due Oct. 30 1894
A Bridgeless Stream.
Rewritten.
For years a bitter
feeling had existed between our family and the Grahams, our nearest neighbors. Back
in the old school-days, however, a warm affection had sprung up between Grace,
the youngest daughter, and myself. I, at least called it such, and one day when
we were quite alone, screened by the long wood-pile on the sunny side of the
school-house, she almost confessed as much to me. Our love grew all the
stronger, I believe, because we knew it would be forbidden. It was a
bitter-sweet love, I often thought. Time, however, forced us apart. Events
occurred which stirred my blood against the “Graham tribe”, as my father called
them, and at last ouwe saw little or nothing of each other.
I had left home and was
owner of a prosperous business in Stillbrook, a village forty miles from Hempsted,
my native town, One day I learned that Grace Graham was coming to teach school
in Stillbrook. Very beautiful was she in those days, and the whole village
worshipped her. Occasionally we met, but it was always as strangers, and her
indifference irritated me. The summer passed, giving me no opportunity to
address her, and the old flame of by-gone days had rekindled within me. Meanwhile
the fulisades at home continued. Petty tricks, such as barking trees, levelling
fences and damaging crops were nightly occurrences, all of which assisted us in
drifting further apart.
Each holiday I passed
with my parents, and a few times Miss Graham had taken the train with me. From
the station to Hempsted we were obliged to go by stage. It was the night before
Thanksgiving. Much snow had fallen during the day, followed by a warm and
steady rain. As I left the Stillbrook station I saw the slender form of Miss
Graham boarding the train also. “Here is a nice go” I muttered; “a woman must
be insane to start on out such a night.” Then the thought that we might be
brought into closer contact gave me a sense of pleasure. The train rumbled on,
and without the rain fell in torrents. When we arrived at Hempsted I could see
by the dim light of the agents’ lantern that we were to be the only occupants
of the stage.
“You hed both better take
the seat furtherest back,” said the driver; “the rain drives like all persest,
wust night in years.” Then, addressing me, he continued, “Fix Miss Graham up ez
comf’table ez yeou kin an’ let’s be off.”
The roads were nearly
submerged with water, and the soft, uneven ruts caused us to jostle against
each other in a most awkward fashion. “Are you comfortable?” I asked, fumbling
nervously with the robe. “Quite,” was the indifferent reply. Without the storm
still raged, but it seemed as nothing compared with what was gathering within
me. Speak to her, I must, if only to be silenced forever. The name of Graham
was no longer hateful to me. She must have felt my agitation somewhat, for she
drew closer into the corner. Tremblingly, I seized her hand. “Grace!” I cried,
“have you forgotten the old days? I have not; they are here again, tonight. It
is cruel, this separation. The sins of our fathers shall not, –” but here I was
interrupted. The horses reared so suddenly we were thrown against the next seat,
while the driver shouted excitedly, “Elbow Bridge hez gone!” This was indeed,
startling news, and now that the coach had stopped we could hear the roar of
the swollen stream above the pelting rain.
“What is to be done?” I asked.
“I dunno,” said the driver, half-dismayed. “We can’t turn aroun’, that’s sartin’;
the wheels are in up tew the hubs already.” Then, leaning closer to me, he added,
“If you’ll hol’ up the young leddy, an’ resk a wettin’ yourself, I’ll back up a
bit an’ drive threw the brook way. The water can’t be over the seat yit. Turnin’
roun’ is out uv the question, an’ they ain’t a house in a good tew miles back.”
“But can the horses hold to the bottom?” I asked, doubtfully. “Puffectly sure
uv it,sir,” said he, preparing to back up.
In a few words I
explained to Miss Graham. She was about to object to being lifted when the
driver shouted, “All ready!” The horses sprang forward, and the coach swayed
fearfully, Seizing my companion and tenderly raising her as high as the roof
would permit, I anxiously waited the experiment. The noble animals, appearing
to understand the situation, struggled through the swift current. By the time
the leaders had secured a firm footing on the opposite bank the coach was in
the middle of the stream and filled with water. As the current gurgled about my
knees, Miss Graham uttered a cry of alarm.
“Have no fear,” I said,
involuntarily drawing her closer to me, “the danger is over now.”
A few moments later we
were being drawn up the bank, the water streaming from many openings of the
rickety body of the old coach.
I sank back upon the wet
cushion, not allowing Miss Graham to do the same, however. It was a bold thing
to do, but when a moment later she put her hand reassuringly in mine, letting
it remain there of her own accord, I knew that love had triumphed.
No comments:
Post a Comment