English
22.
Joseph A, Cone.
First Year Special.
Theme #5.
Dec. 4,
1894.
You have tried to cover
too much ground; as a result you jump over details recklessly. The first
paragraph is chaotic. The scene that forms the climax is overwrought and
unnatural; but to make it at all effective it should have been introduced by a
page or so of explanation without any attempt at dialogue. The theme reads as
though the plot had not been studied out with sufficient care. You make
yourself talk in an incredibly inane fashion and manage the whole interview
very crudely. The ending is weak and strained. Why didn’t she burn her own
manuscript, if she wanted it burned? You seem not to understand paragraphing
dialogue. A few minutes study of any reputable story would set you straight in
the matter.
Your vocabulary does not show a delicate
appreciation of word-values.
Rewrite
F.E.H.
A
Country Lover.
There
was a flutter of excitement amongst the guests when Alice Greene reached the
little hotel on the bank of the river.
She was a rising young story writer and an heiress; had passed three
years abroad, and had come again to spend her summer by the peaceful Connecticut. Her little white skiff, the “Arrow”, had been
repainted and launched, and it was almost the first thing she asked to see. In
many respects Alice Greene was a remarkable person. The greater part of her
time was spent alone upon the river, and her stories, like herself, were of a
highly romantic nature. This paragraph lacks unity
“I
have come this year,” she said to the landlord, “to find a character that will
help me to complete my next story; I have tried in vain to draw a satisfactory
one from imagination. My story is to be called “A Country Lover”. “A country
lover? why Miss Greene,” said the gallant landlord, “all you will have to do
will be to go into some of our farming sections and smile upon the young men
and you will have country lovers by the score.” |¶ “O, I do not want one for
myself, exactly; besides, I couldn’t leave my boat long enough to hunt up
lovers; however, we shall see,” she said, thoughtfully. ¶
“No,”
I said, looking into her eyes, “I cannot bear to think of your going away. This
is too abrupt I – I – have, the fact is, (Miss
Greene, – Alice,) Conventional I have
learned to love you.” ||¶
“You
have learned to love me?” she asked, arching her clear cut brows, her
red cheeks paling slightly. ||¶ “Yes,
and do you wonder at it? I suppose I have no right to, but you have been so
kind, and – and it has all been so strange and sweet. I never loved anybody
before. My mother warned me against you; she said you were a heartless city
girl, and would make a fool of me, but you won’t, will you, Alice?” I asked,
alarmed at the (cold expression that had settled
upon) Not subtle enough her fair
face. We were far up the little stream beyond my home, my skiff alongside hers,
under the shadow of a steep cliff.
“Make
a fool of you? no,” said she; “if I had wanted to do that I could have gone
away without seeing you. I have come to bid you good bye, but I had no idea you
were silly enough to love me.” || ¶
“Silly?
Do you call it silly to love you? I know, they tell me you are a great writer,
and wealthy, and I am only a farmer’s son, but you say I will make an artist,
and then, …” but here I stopped. She had grown pale again, and I was fast
becoming quite excited. My blood seemed on fire. There was but one thought in
my mind; I was about to lose her, and she showed no signs of regret. Never before had she looked so beautiful to me before .
“You
must not, you shall not go away!” I cried, passionately. “You have taught me to
love you; you have been up here every day to see me; you have (praised and admired) Tautologous
my
sketches, and made me hate farming; you have sat with me under the trees for
hours, allowing me to say things to you that came from my heart, and what has
it all been for?” ||¶ A look, half of humor, half of pity spread over her face. “I
am sorry,” she said, carelessly.|| ¶
“Sorry!” I echoed, “Sorry as my mother said you’d be; sorry until out of my
sight, and then what?”
The
look of satisfaction and triumph that came into her face nearly crazed me.
There was something I could not understand. She was about to shove her boat
away from mine. “No,” I said, tremblingly, seizing the edge of her frail craft,
“rather than lose you now I would upset both boats and go to the bottom with
you!” She smiled a scornful little smile, and reached for her oars. “My God!” I
cried, “you dare me to do it!” I was mad. I saw nothing now but a wrecked life,
and she, Saw she? beautiful demon sitting there,
the cause of it. I tried to stand; the hills, skies, river, everything seemed
to be whirling round, and the mocking face of the woman with them. Everything
would naturally include the woman’s face. I reached out towards her, and,
putting one foot upon the rail of her skiff, bore down.
A
scream of terror filled my ears, and the next moment we were struggling in the
dark waters. The sudden chill must have partially restored my senses, for on
coming to the surface I looked for Miss Greene. She had come to the top also,
and her boat to which she was clinging, lay between us bottom up.
“If
you are a coward,” said she, chokingly, “let me drown; if not, (assist me to the shore.) Stiff
The
word ‘coward” smote my ears like an accusation from Heaven, and instantly my
heart was filled with self-loathing. I hastened to her side and tenderly bore
her to shore.¶ Fine writing
“Something
strange about Miss Greene making off to New York so hurriedly, isn’t there?”
asked Grafton, lazily puffing on the west veranda.||¶ “Well, no,” said Weeks; “You
see, that accident up river used her up pretty badly.” ||¶ “Accident? Hadn’t heard of it,
what was it?” ||¶ “Why,
she was upset yesterday morning, and if it hadn’t been for young Mather, who
lives up side of the creek, it might have ended seriously. She is going to
reward him handsomely, too, so she told the landlord. ||¶ “It’s
ducedly odd how these country chaps always turn up at the right moment,” said
Grafton, languidly. ||¶ “Did you hear the latest?” asked Weeks. ||¶ “No; what is it?” ||¶ “Before she left she handed the proprietor a
package of manuscript, requesting him to burn it.”
“That’s
queer,” said Grafton
_____________________________________
English 22.
Joseph A, Cone.
First Year Special.
Theme # 5.
Rewritten.
Jan. 3, 1895.
A
Country Lover.
Rewritten.
There
was a flutter of excitement amongst the guests when Alice Greene reached the
little hotel on the bank of the river. She was a rising young story writer, and
an heiress; had passed three years abroad, and had come again to spend her
summer by the peaceful Connecticut. In many respects Alice Greene was a
remarkable person. There seemed to be a purpose in everything she did. Her
stories, like herself, were of a highly romantic nature, and the greater part
of her time was spent alone upon the river. Her little white skiff, the
“Arrow”, had been repainted and launched for her, and it was almost the first
thing she asked to see.
Above
the hotel a smaller stream branched off and wound itself between the meadows
till lost to view far up amongst the hills. Up this stream, known as “Salmon
River”, Miss Greene was seen gliding most every pleasant day. It was a charming
retreat, indeed, for there was not but one house for miles, and above the
meadows the creek widened into a broad lake. The shores to the very water’s
edge were densely wooded, and in season the surface was a white and green mass
of nodding water lilies.
Miss
Greene had told the landlord that she was hard at work upon a new story, to be
called “A Country Lover”, and that she was searching for a real character of
that kind. Her imagination, she said, had failed her. On the western shore of
the lake, commonly called the “Cove”, stood the “Mather Homestead”, where Guy
Mather lived with his mother. He was a handsome, sunny-tempered youth, full of
vague ideas of art and the world outside in general, so when he met Miss Greene
one day far up the creek, she engaging him in lively conversation, it is not
strange that after that he looked for her coming with feverish interest day
after day. She brought him books, taught him to sketch and paint, and told him
of the things that were going on in the great city whence she came. And ere the
summer waned Guy Mather was a different being, while the fascinating young
author looked on with eyes of satisfaction. One day the blow came. She was to
join her father in New York the next day, so she had come up to bid Guy
farewell. She found him far up the stream under the shadow of a high cliff,
making a sketch.
“No,” he
said, looking into her eyes, “I cannot bear the thought of your going away. I
have; the fact is, I have learned to – to love you, Miss Greene.”
“Learned
to love me?” she asked, arching her clear cut brows.
“Yes, and
do you wonder at it? I suppose I had no right to, but you have been so kind, and
it has all been so strange and sweet. I never loved anybody before. My mother
warned me against you; she said you were a heartless city girl, and would make
a fool of me, but I knew better than that. You meant all you said and did,
didn’t you? you won’t, will you, Alice?” he asked, alarmed at the look of quiet
satisfaction that spread across her face.
Guy was
young, his language came unsteadily, but inexperienced as he was, he knew that
something was wrong; that he had in some way, been deceived.
“I, make
a fool of you, Guy Mather? no,” she answered, with a poor attempt at sincerity.
“If I had wanted to do that I could have gone away without seeing you again. I
have come to say good bye, but I had no idea you were silly enough to fall in love
with me.”
“Silly!
Do you call it silly to love you?” he asked, pained by her speech. “I know,
they tell me you are wealthy, and I am only a farmer’s son, but you have said
that I would make a great artist some day, and then, –” but here he checked
himself, for he was fast becoming excited under her calm, half-humorous gaze.
To him
it seemed as though his blood had suddenly taken fire. There was but one
thought in his mind now; he was about to lose her, and she showed no signs of
regret. Never before had she looked so beautiful to him, he thought, as she sat
there toying nervously with a broken lily stem. She began to realize that she
had trifled a little too far with this impulsive country youth, tho’ she little
dreamed of what was coming.
“You
must not, you shall not go away and leave me now!” he cried, passionately. “You
have taught me to love you; you have been up here every day to see me; you have
praised my sketches, and made me hate farming; you have sat with me under the
trees for hours, allowing me to say things to you that came from my heart, and
what has it all been for?”
A
look wherein was mingled pity, humor, and triumph came into her face. “Really, I
am sorry that you have been so mistaken,” she said with perceptible coolness.
“Sorry!”
he echoed; “sorry as my mother said you’d be; sorry until out of my sight, and
then what?”
He
looked at her almost fiercely, leaning over and clutching the edge of her light
craft, waiting for her answer. he did not even glance up this time, and the
mystery of the little tantalizing smile that played about her mouth nearly
crazed him.
“Really,”
she said, at length, “I thought you would have come to your senses before now,
but I cannot stay here any longer,” and she made a movement as though to shove
her boat away from his.
“No,” he said, tremblingly, and clasping her
boat even tighter, “rather than lose you now I would upset both boats and go to
the bottom with you!”
For
all she was frightened, she smiled a scornful little smile, and reached for her
oars.
“My
God!” he cried, “you dare me to do it!” He was mad. He saw nothing now but a
wrecked life, and her, a beautiful mocking demon, sitting there before him, the
cause of it. He tried to stand; the hills, skies, river, everything seemed to
be whirling round, and reaching out towards her, he placed one foot upon the
rail of her skiff and bore down. A scream of terror rang between the hills, and
the next instant both were struggling in the dark waters. The sudden chill must
have partially restored his senses, for on coming to the surface he looked
about for Miss Greene. She had come to the top also, white and frightened, and
her boat, to which she was clinging, lay between them bottom up.
“Coward,”
she gasped, “if you are human enough, help me to the shore.,
For
a moment young Mather appeared to be dazed, and scarcely realized that he was
the cause of the catastrophe, but when the word ‘coward” smote upon his ears,
he saw it all, and hastening to her side, he
bore her in safety to the shore.
“Miss
Greene,” said he, hiding his face in his hands, “can you ever forgive me?”
“Don’t
do that,” she said, feelingly; “I, too, have been much to blame. This
unfortunate affair shall rest between ourselves.”
A
good many years afterward, Guy Mather received a magazine from New York which
contained a clever story entitled, “A Country Lover”. He had gotten all over
his foolish infatuation then, and he smiled to himself as he read some of the
passages which had been carefully marked by the hand of the fair young author.
They referred to him, of course, and it was not until then that the real cause
of Alice Greene’s friendship flashed into his mind.
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