Patty Blossom

"Sit thee down," said Blaney, arranging a few cushions in a long low wicker chair.

"I'm glad to," and Patty dropped into the seat. "I do think teas are the limit for tiring people out."

"You oughtn't to waste yourself on teas. It's a crime," and Blaney looked positively indignant.

"What would be the proper caper for my indefatigable energy?"

"You oughtn't to be energetic at all. For you, just to be, is enough."

"Not much it isn't! Why, if I just be'd, and didn't do anything else, I should die of that extreme bored feeling. And, it isn't like you to recommend such an existence, anyway."

"I shouldn't for any one else. But you, oh, my lily-fair girl, you are so beautiful, so peerless–"

"Good gracious, Mr. Blaney, what has come over you?" Patty sat up straight, in dismay, for she had no intention of being talked to in that vein by Sam Blaney.

"The spell of your presence," he replied; "the spell of your beauty,—your charm, your–"

"Please don't," said Patty, "please don't talk to me like that! I don't like it."

"No? Then of course I'll stop. But the spell remains. The witchery of your face, your voice–"

"There you go again! You promised to stop."

"How can I, with you as inspiration? My soul expands,—my heart beats in lilting rhythms, you seem to me a flame goddess–"

"Just what is a flame goddess?" interrupted Patty, who wanted to giggle, but was too polite.

"I see your soul as a flame of fire,—a lambent flame, with tongues of red and yellow–"

And now Patty did laugh outright. She couldn't help it. "Oh, my soul hasn't tongues," she protested. "I'm sure it hasn't, Mr. Blaney."

"Yes," he repeated, "tongues, silent, untaught tongues,—but with unknown, unvoiced melodies that await but the torch of sympathy to sound, lyrically, upon the waiting air."

"Am I really like that? Do you think I could voice lyrics, myself? I mean it,—write poetry, you know. I've always wanted to. Do you think I could, Mr. Blaney?"

"I know it. Unfolding one's soul in song is not an art, as some suppose, to be learned,—it is a natural, irrepressible expression of the inner ego, it is a response to the melodic urge–"

"Oh, wait a minute, you're getting beyond me. What do all these things mean? It's so much Greek to me."

"But you want to learn?"

"Yes; that is, I'm interested in it. I always did think I'd like to write poetry. But I don't know the rules."

"There are no rules. Unfetter your soul, take a pencil,—the words will come."

"Really? Can you do that, Mr. Blaney? Could you take a pencil, now,—and just write out your soul, and produce a poem?"

Patty was very much in earnest. Sam Blaney looked at her, the eager pleading face urged him, the blue eyes dared a refusal, and the hovering smile seemed to doubt his ability to prove his own proposition.

"Of course I could!" he replied. "With you for inspiration, I could write a poem that would throb and thrill with the eternal heart of the radiance of the soul's starshine."

"Then do it," cried Patty; "I believe you, I thoroughly believe you, but I want to see it. I want the poem for myself. Give it to me."

Slowly Blaney took a pencil and notebook from his pocket. He sat gazing at her, and Patty, fairly beaming with eager interest, waited. For some minutes he sat, silent, almost motionless, and she began to grow restless.

"I don't want to hurry you," she said, at last, "but I mustn't stay here too long. Please write it now, Mr. Blaney. I'm sure you can do it,—why delay?"

"Yes, I can do it," he said, "but I want to get the highest, the divinest inspiration, in order to produce a gem worthy of your acceptance."

"Well, don't wait longer for that. Give me your second best, if need be,—only write something. I've always wanted to see a real, true poet write a real true poem. I never had a chance before. Now, don't dare disappoint me!"

Patty looked very sweet and coaxing, and her voice was earnestly pleading, not at all implying doubt of his ability or willingness.

Still Blaney sat, thoughtfully regarding her.

"Come, come," she said, after another wait, "I shall begin to think you can't be inspired by my presence, after all! If you are, genius ought to burn by this time. If not, I suppose we'll have to give it up,—but it will disappoint me horribly."

The blue eyes were full of reproach, and Patty began to draw her scarf round her shoulders and seemed about to rise.

"No, no," protested Blaney, putting out a hand to detain her, "a moment,—just a moment,—stay, I have it!"

He began to scribble rapidly, and, fascinated, Patty watched him. Occasionally he glanced at her, but it was with a faraway look in his eyes, and an exalted expression on his face.

He wrote fast, but not steadily, now and then pausing, as if waiting for the right word, and then doing two or three lines without hesitation. Finally, he drew a long sigh, and the poem seemed to be finished.

"It is done," he said, "not worthy of your acceptance, but made for you. Shall I read it to you?"

"Yes, do," and Patty was thrilled by the fervour in his tones.

In the soft, low voice that was one of his greatest charms, Blaney read these lines:

"I loved her.—Why? I never knew.—Perhaps
Because her face was fair; perhaps because
Her eyes were blue and wore a weary air;—
Perhaps . . . perhaps because her limpid face
Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein
The dimples found no place to anchor and
Abide; perhaps because her tresses beat
A froth of gold about her throat, and poured
In splendour to the feet that ever seemed
Afloat. Perhaps because of that wild way
Her sudden laughter overleapt propriety;
Or—who will say?—perhaps the way she wept."

The lovely voice ceased, and its musical vibrations seemed to hover in the air after the sound was stilled.

"It's beautiful," Patty said, at last, in an awed tone; "I had no idea you could write like that! Why, it's real poetry."