Manchurian Books

(So much in life she was finding, these days, like
poetry.) This would make a very sad, but effective poem: the
faithful, unhappy lover, the lovely, unhappy bride, the mother
keeping them asunder who, though stern, was herself unhappy, and the
craven bridegroom who--she hoped it, anyway!--was unhappy also.
In all this unhappiness, though she didn't suspect it, Missy
revelled--a peculiar kind of melancholy tuned to the golden day. She
detected a subtle restlessness in the shimmering leaves about her;
the scent of the June roses caught at something elusively sad in
her. Without knowing why, her eyes filled with tears.
She drew the writing-pad to her; conjured the vision of nice Doc and
of Miss Princess, and, immersed in a sea of feeling, sought for
words and rhyme:

O, young Doctor Al is the pride of the West,
Than big flashy autos his Ford is the best;
Ah! courtly that lover and faithful and true.
And fair, wondrous fair, the maiden was, too.
But O--dire the day! when from Cleveland afar--

A long pause here: "car," "scar," "jar,"--all tried and discarded.


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