THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2665, 21 October 1882, Page 3

THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE.

*1 would like to seo an editor,’ said a girl of rather prepossessing appearance, as ■he opened the door of the editorial room yesterday afternoon. 1 That is not a particularly herculean task, miss,’ said the horse repoiter; and the adherent of Iroquois smiled a bland 2.10 J smile, which seemed to reassure the yjunk lady. *Of course,’ she said, 1 1 don't 3 exactly know which editor I want to see, because—’ ’Oh, that’s all right,’ said the advocate of the Saratoga scale for two-year-olds. *We don’t expect the people who come around here to know anything/ And again the quarter stretch smile beamed forth in all its splendour. ‘ Well,’ said the young lady, * I am going to graduate next week, and mamma said that perhaps if I read my essay to some editor he would point out any little defects in it, and show how they could be remedied.’ 'Mamma told yon that, did shef ’

• Yss sir.’ ‘Your maternal accentor,' said the horse reporter, ‘is evidently a person of great mental fertility. What is the title of your essay?’ ‘Life’s Possibilities,’ was the reply. 1 That is certainly a comprehensive subject,’ remarked the compiler of the 2.80 list, 1 and in the case of lovely woman may include anything, from being mistress of the White House to hanging oat rod flannel shirts.’ ‘ Would you like to hear my essay, sir?’ ‘Well,’ replied the young man, who once began the report of a lecture with the somewhat startling announcement that ' Henry Ward Beecher whoso name has been so worthily borne for several years by one of the most successful trotting stallions in this country, appeared before a large audience last evening.’ ‘ I cannot allow a lie to pass my ruby lips, and am therefore constrained to say that I am not wildly infatuated with the scheme yon meation, but still you can read this essay. I am young but tough.’ ‘ Schoolmates,’ began the girl, ‘we stand upon the verge of a shoreless sea, the— ’ ‘ Hold on,’ said the horse reporter, ‘Come back and get to work again.’ ‘Why what’s the matter, sir,’asked the young lady. ‘ That’s all wrong,’ was the reply. ‘How can anyone stand upon the verge of a shorelets sea f If a sea’s got a verge it isn’t shoreless by quite considerable. You might as well say you were sitting in the armchair of a ohairless parlor. I suppose you have been there.’ The young lady blushed, and said she really didn’t know. ‘I reckoned you’d grasp the simile,’ said Bt. Julien’a friend. ‘ Chicago girls may not be beautiful, but they ere superbly fly. Now wo’ll change that line to *wa stand upon the shore of a sea that stretches away as far as the eye can follow, until its shimmering surface is kissed by the purple rim of a horizon that bends to meet its laughing waves as the mother bends over her baby boy—all gentleness and love—now that’s a daisy sentence. Then the ship of life racket is a pretty good one.’ 1 The what ?’ asked the young lady. 1 The ship of life racket,’ replied the horse reporter. * You take that sentence about the shimmering sea being kissed by the horizon for a starter, and then you go ahead and tell how, when sombre night has spread its sable pall over forest and moorland, over palace ball and humble cot, there gleams forth in all its pure radiance the clear, steady light of a high and noble purpose, never fading oven when dark clouds of despair hang heavily athwart the horizon, and the lurid flash of the distant lightning followed by the hoarse rambling of the thunder, like the mutterings of a mighty giant, foretell the coming of a storm in which the very elements shall rage in blind fu»y against each other,’ l ls that all I should write—that about the storm ?’ the girl asked. ‘ Well, I should say not. You want to describe the squall in all its dreadful splendor, and tell a nice, easy lie about a stately ship that baa come from the far away islands of the southern seas where the breezes are laden with the balmy odour of spices, and all that kind of rubbish, you know. Then work up the peroration. Tell how the good ship, almost in eight of home, is attacked by the tempest. Give ’em a great talk about the erstwhile placid surface of the mighty deep being lashed into ungovernable fury by the fierce winds, that seem to laugh a wild demoniac laugh in very glee at the destruction they are causing. And then, when everything looks as dreary, and desolate, and hopeless as the editorial page of a Milwaukee paper, lug out the light, gloaming in all its pure radiance again, and have the ship got safely into port. Then say that the ship is the Ship of Life, and the light of a mother’s love, or something like that, and sit down. You’ll bo sure to hit ’em hard if you do this.’ ‘Do you really think so?’ ‘lt’s dead certain.’ ‘Then I shall follow your advice ; fand let me thank you for your kindness,’ said the girl as she started for the door. ‘ Don’t forget about the lurid glare, sis,’ shouted the horse reporter. ‘ I will remember it, sir,’ was the reply, accompanied by a smile. ‘ And the pure radiance of the flame,’ he continued. ‘A flame without a pure radiance is of no earthly account in a graduating essay.* ‘I won’t forget,’ and another smile was wafted down the bailway. ‘And now good-bye, sir.’—“Chicago Tribune.”