Some one
across the way was playing "To a Wild Rose." Yes, it was Wednesday,
and a glance at the kitchen clock revealed the fact that in ninety
minutes the MacDowell Club would be called to order, and she had
promised a poem for the programme. Shades of Sappho! What was to be
done? There had been no time in the two weeks since the last meeting,
between housekeeping, mending, grinding out of pot-boilers and
countless interruptions, to give the matter a thought, and she had
never been known to forget such a promise.
Pegasus neighed reassuringly, and seizing the stub of a pencil
attached to the grocer's book, after a moment of concentration, in
which she closed her eyes to shut out the material vision before her,
she scribbled rapidly on a few blank pages in the back of the plebeian
record. After several readings of the lines and sundry interlined
revisions, she tore out the sheets, blessed Pegasus for coming in
under the wire so nobly, and hurried away to dress. At the appointed
time, sheepishly trying to conceal her unpoetic manuscript, which
there had been no time to copy, behind a lace fan, she arose, flushed
but sustaining her reputation for reliability as a programme feature.
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