Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 261, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 November 1918 — In Tidy Lane [ARTICLE]

In Tidy Lane

By DOROTHY DOUGLAS

(Copyright, 1913, by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.) “I like It alreadyl” exclaimed Alice,as her eager eyes grasped the vision of Tidy lane with its row of small cottages neatly lining the street “Isn’t it good to get a sniff of country air?” “Gloriousl We both need a change from city dust. I get so sick of the office every day and a cooped-in flat every night I hope the cottage is possible—it will be so disappointing after coining way out here in Long Island.” Helen Randolf absorbed deeply the freshness of the avenue of shady trees. She was tired, frightfully tired of the strain of her editorial duties on one of the big magazines. “Yes, I hope so, but the cottage Itself doesn’t amount to much. I can make anything in the way of a shack comfortable for us two so long as there are a few walls and a roof.” Both girls were eagerly scanning the small houses in search of No. 9. “Number nine must be the black sheep that has wandered from the fold,” laughed Alice. “The tidiest part oL Tidy lane doesn’t seem to have any number 'nine. Oh 1 could that darling one over there possibly be it?” The advertisement for the small cottage in Tidy lane had read “Secluded but not isolated.” Number nine certainly was isolated. It had rambled off the other houses in the lane and found for itself a seclusion that made the hearts of the two tired city girls jump with sheer joy. Number nine lay in the heart of a small grove of pine trees and had settled itself down there for all the world like a bit of the landscape that had been created, not built. “It’s too good to be true,” Helen said as they made their way back to the city to pack up and take theflrst train they could manage back toTJdy lane. “I love the way it’s gone 6ff by Itself and nestled in those smelly, healthy pine trees.” ■ “And I shall have a few chickens in that little coop, and you will come home tired every evening from the office and I will be waiting for you with good things to eat.” Alice was delighted to the extent of a child over a big blue-eyed doll. “I hope you won’t be lonesome all day, dear. You know it will be a change for you from seeing so many people in the city.” “I couldn’t be lonesome if I tried in that cute little cottage and Tidy lane villagers to study.” So it was that the two fast friends found themselves happily ensconced in number nine out in sunny, fragrant Long Island.

Dally Helen Randolf took the train to the dty and the editorial chair she was filling while the editor was away fighting for Uhcle Sam. And each day Alice Winter fitted more joyfully Into the small cottage with Its quaint surroundings. The furnishings had been a bit cold, but they were so no longer. The garden had been a trifle lacking in color, but a few geraniums and sweet peas cheered it all up. The owner of the small cottage had gone with the American expeditionary force to France. that he could not object ttTtKe few shrubs with which she had ornamented the garden. “I hope he will come back to his cozy nest,” she said by way of a little praver for the soldier’s safety. “You musn’t hurt your back digging so much,” admonished Helen often when some new shrub greeted her upon her return from the city. “You are not accustomed to that kind of work.” “My digging,” she cried excitedly the next evening when her pal returned, “has unearthed a mystery. Look here!” She held up a substantial tin box. “I started to put tn that hydrangea this afternoon and was probing round for a soft spot to dig in and finding one I came upon this box.” ’ “Burled treasure? I suppose It Is some child’s pirate box. We used to bury.them as children.” Nevertheless the girls were both Interested. “Child nothingl” exclaimed Alice. “It’s full to the gaff of manuscripts. Short stories. And look at the note that was on top I” Helen todk the quite newly typed note and read Its contents. “Farewell to fame. Mother raised her boy to be a soldier—not a genius.” The note was signed “Philip Cheyne" and contained no more information. The many rejection slips from all the New York magazines, however, told all the tale that was necessary. “Poor kid," laughed Helen, her editorial brain busy with the contents of the stories. She'was skimming them swiftly with the trained mind of. a reader. “Goosey,” she said lovingly to Alice, “I suppose you hadn’t even looked tot these stories.” “I wouldn’t know a good story from a bad one if I got your whole big salary for it,” laughed Alice. “Are they all so bad as that?” she inquired sadly gazing tot the number of rejection slips. " “They're pretty bad,” commented Helen, “except the plots, and they are rather unusual. But Philip Cheyne knows no more about the feminine nature than you do about stories. His women are appalling. They never lived; and- never could live. Her voice trailed off in the maize of critical reading that

absorbed her. “You know,” she said finally when Alice called her into, the small, flowery, dining room and sat her down at the dainty table. “I could make a lot of those stories into strong fiction by a few touches. The magazine is sadly in need of new brains just now. I’ve a mind to whip them in shape and bring out Philip Cheyne as a writer." “Oh, Helen! Wouldn’t that be great? I just wish I weren’t so stupid and could help you." “You can help by being just your sweet, lovable feminine little self. I can put you right into those stories. You are the type that’s needed here. So • you see, dearie, you will be the means of many big checks going into that tin box for Philip Cheyne when he returns from the war.” ' A lltt|e silence fell on the two enthusiastic girls. Each felt the sinister chill of those three words, “when he returns.” 7 A month or two passed happily and healthily by. Helen Randolf took a tremendous amount of pleasure in whipping the strangely acquired stories of Philip Cheyne into shape and as each was finished giving it a place on the pages of the big successful magazine. They turned out even better than she had anticipated. She was more than proud of her new writer and prominence was given them. The illustrations were delightful. The checks paid for those stories were so big that one would have paid the rent of No. 9 Tidy lane for some six months. Instead of paying for anything each check was placed carefully in the tin box that Alice had dug up while planting the hydrangeas. The girls had been in the wonderful straying cottage of Tidy lane some seven months and five of Philip Cheyne’s stories had been published. - Then, by telegram, came the all-too-sudden news that Cheyne had been brought home, a wounded soldier, to recuperate in his Long Island cottage. Helen and Alice were grateful that he had at least returned alive. They could not help a regret or two at leaving the little village to which they had both become attached. A tiny , cottage that had not strayed from the fold but remained in the tidy row was happily vacant. . “Do you think we could furnish it —and when Arthur and I are married,” suggested Helen, “we coqld keep it for a week-end cottage?” “Great!” agreed Alice, “I just hate to leave Tidy lane and go back to the stuffy city.” « So together they refreshed No. 9 with sweet-smelling flowers, left everything attractive for the % home coming /of its Soldier owner . and moved to No. 7. “I wish we could peek through the window and watch him open that box,” pined Alice, as with four large checks topping it they closed the box and left, it conspicuously on the center table. Beside it were the four magazines open to display the stories to Philip Chlyne.

“Lordy, Lordy!” exclaimed that .young man when, battered as to body but cheery as to spirits, he arrived in No. 9, “some good fairies have been fluttering about my dump.” He hadn’t known just how good it would be to get back home. In his heart he longed for the one being that makes a home home, and knew that he was going on a still hunt for that one person. He had been single long enough and now that he had been humanized by the war and its tragedies he realized the need of companionship. He was so amazed at the seeming miracle of his stories that he sat down and read every word of them before an hour had passed. He grinned at the sight of his own name In print and was delighted* beyond belief. The checks, too. were iinmensely gratifying, but somehow the queerness of fate held him in silent thought. Of course he was determined to unearth the good fairy just as his tin box had been unearthed. It would not be difficult, for he had the editor of the magazine to" consult. Cheyne also knew that he was going to be able now to product more and better stories. Many big things had come to him out there in No Man’s Land. Thus it was that he stopped one evening at 7 Tidy lane, and having stopped lingered. . * Helen always said she saw the way the wind blew that very first day, and not long afterward Alice moved into the little cottage that had straggled from the fold and became its mistress and Helen and Arthur were married the week-ending in No. 7.