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Page 48
The opportunity came one evening after dinner, when Mrs. Bird, and her
brother, Edgar and herself, were gathered in the library.
The library was a good place in which to disclose plans, or ask advice,
or whisper confidences. The great carved oak mantel held on the broad
space above the blazing logs the graven motto, "Esse Quod Opto." The
walls were lined with books from floor half-way to ceiling, and from
the tops of the cases Plato, Socrates, Marcus Aurelius, and the Sage of
Concord looked down with benignant wisdom. The table in the centre was
covered with a methodical litter of pamphlets and magazines, and a soft
light came from the fire and from two tall, shaded lamps.
Mr. Bird, as was his wont, leaned back in his leather chair, puffing
delicate rings of smoke into the air. Edgar sat by the centre table,
idly playing with a paper-knife. Mrs. Bird sat in her low
rocking-chair with a bit of fancy-work, and Polly, on the hearth rug,
leaned cosily back against her Fairy Godmother's knees.
The clinging tendrils in Polly's nature, left hanging so helplessly
when her mother was torn away, reached out more and more to wind
themselves about lovely Mrs. Bird, who, notwithstanding her three manly
sons, had a place in her heart left sadly vacant by the loss of her
only daughter.
Polly broke one of the pleasant silences. An open fire makes such
delightful silences, if you ever noticed. When you sit in a room
without it, the gaps in the conversation make everybody seem dull; the
last comer rises with embarrassment and thinks he must be going, and
you wish that some one would say the next thing and keep the ball
rolling. The open fire arranges all these little matters with a
perfect tact and grace all its own. It is acknowledged to be the
centre of attraction, and the people gathered about it are only
supernumeraries. It blazes and crackles and snaps cheerily, the logs
break and fall, the coals glow and fade and glow again, and the dull
man can always poke the fire if his wit desert him. Who ever feels
like telling a precious secret over a steam-heater?
Polly looked away from everybody and gazed straight into the blaze.
"I have been thinking over a plan for my future work," she said, "and I
want to tell it to you and see if you all approve and think me equal to
it. It used to come to me in flashes, after this Fairy Godmother of
mine opened an avenue for my surplus energy by sending me out as a
story-teller; but lately I have n't had any heart for it. Work grew
monotonous and disagreeable and hopeless, and I 'm afraid I had no wish
to be useful or helpful to myself or to anybody else. But now
everything is different. I am not so rich as I was (I wish, Mr. Bird,
you would not smile so provokingly when I mention my riches!), and I
must not be idle any longer; so this is my plan, I want to be a
story-teller by profession. Perhaps you will say that nobody has ever
done it; but surely that is an advantage; I should have the field to
myself for a while, at least. I have dear Mrs. Bird's little poor
children as a foundation. Now, I would like to get groups of other
children together in somebody's parlor twice a week and tell them
stories,--the older children one day in the week and the younger ones
another. Of course I have n't thought out all the details, because I
hoped my Fairy Godmother would help me there, if she approved of my
plan; but I have ever so many afternoons all arranged, and enough
stories and songs at my tongue's end for three months. Do you think it
impossible or nonsensical, Mr. Bird?"
"No," said he thoughtfully, after a moment's pause. "It seems on the
first hearing to be perfectly feasible. In fact, in one sense it will
not be an experiment at all. You have tried your powers, gained
self-possession and command of your natural resources; developed your
ingenuity, learned the technicalities of your art, so to speak,
already. You propose now, as I understand, to extend your usefulness,
widen your sphere of action, address yourself to a larger public, and
make a profession out of what was before only a side issue in your
life. It's a new field, and it 's a noble one, taken in its highest
aspect, as you have always taken it. My motto for you, Polly, is
Goethe's couplet:--
"'What you can do, or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.'"
"Make way for the story-teller!" cried Edgar. "I will buy season
tickets for both your groups, if you will only make your limit of age
include me. I am only five feet ten, and I 'll sit very low if you 'll
admit me to the charmed circle. Shall you have a stage name? I would
suggest 'The Seraphic Sapphira.'"
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