Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 98, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 April 1910 — THE DEATH OF THE POET [ARTICLE]

THE DEATH OF THE POET

By BARRY PAIN

The young man had a glass eye. which was by no means a perfect fit, a position in life as assistant to a grocer ln — .Fulham, which was extremely distasteful to him, and a passion for a girl called Annie, which seemed absolutely hopeless. The young man himself was fully conscious of the tragedy of the situation. He knew that it was from •huch a furnace as this that the pure > gold of poetry was extracted. He took to doing a little poetry In his leisure hours. It was very much like other poetry; that Is to say, it was neither very bad very good. The leisure hours were limited, and this limited the supply of the poetry. There was not enough for a volume. Perhaps there never would be. That which was already written did no! entirely satisfy the young man’s nice and critical taste. He would have recast it again and again If he bad the money. Much meditation on thq poignancy of this situation led him to the decision that* when he was dead, with the green grass growing over him, after his name, carved in a simple headstone, should c6me the effective words, ’Who died unexpressed.” It was some regret to him that he could never live to see It. Most of his poems were addressed to Annie, who was a practical young lady. A girl who is called Annie is almost certain to be practical. He would, without much encouragement read these poems to her. Then she would say “Thank you," and look very doubtful. He did not like the look. He went 6o far as to ask her if she did not think he was right In using the one talent that heaVdn had given him. “Well, I don’t know about that,” said Annie, “it’s nothing to me, and you’ve got to suit yourself. Of course, It’s better that you should spend your time over this writing than If you stopped boozing In the public house all night—same as some do. My two brothers make picture frames in the evening and sell them, too. It’s not for me to advise, but why don’t you try the picture frames? Besides, ought you to go on writing poems about me when you know perfectly well t Sere’s nothing In it? I like you well enough so far as .you go, but if ever I take a husband It’ll be somebody In a far different position than you. Just think about that.”

At that moment he was extremely annoyed and' had to be pulled up by Annie with a sharp jerk. Afterwards he did go away and think about it, and all the while he Was thinking about it a respectable soapboiler of moderate fortune passed peacefully away. By the death of the soap boiler, who was indeed his uncle, the young man was placed in a very different position. Annie received the news from him in a brief and extremely business like note. Her mother agreed that it was clearly £er <Juty to go round and see about It. She would be able to catch him at the shop in Fulham on her way to work He was not at the shop, and she was informed that he had resigned his post. She had Just time to go on to his lodgings. But he was not there either. He was at the moment engaged in the purchase of one of the very best glass eyes that money could buy. It was a triumph. He himself could only tell the difference between the real eye and the artificial by shutting first one lid and then the other. His self-respect grew tremendously. Annie, who, as I have said, was quite practical, did not forget that August 9 was his birthday and sent him a pair of Bllppers which she had worked with her owh hands. She thought the acknowledgment which she. received of her gift was a li iUC too formal. She was driven so far toward desperation that In a perfectly needless letter of reply she asked him to send her any poetry that he had been doing lately A post card reached her from Margate bearing the simple statement that he had not been doing any lately. Annie’s charm had been the charm of the unattainable. That was gone now, and his eye showed him that there were other prettier girls. The other eye, the glass article, was se complete that he no longer suffered from any feeling of physical deformity. He was free from the long hours of work at a business whicfc had never pleased him. He had heaps of time to write poetry and to recast what he had already written, and he never wrote a single line. Just once, as he enjoyed his afterluncheon cigarette, he did recall the simple headstone and the proposed inscription. "Who died with nothing to express” occurred to him. But he did not worry about it. He had promised to take a girl out on the water that afternoon, a remarkably pretty, girl, too. He went in search of her, whlßtllng as he went