Fumbling for a bit of paper her fingers
encountered an envelope addressed to Alaska Spigg. The Muse worked
swiftly. Before she had dashed off the first two lines, the second
pair were crowding down upon them, to wit:
"But while he whets his fatal scythe, Gaze ye upon his victim
lithe."
At this juncture George Rice's son came in for a half dozen postal
cards, and while she was making change for a dime the Muse forsook
her. Bent on preserving the lines already shaped, she stuffed
Alaska's letter into the pocket of her apron, intending to copy
them at the first leisure moment. Unfortunately for Alaska, there
was a rush of business at the window, including an acrimonious
dispute with Mrs. Ryan over the non-arrival of a letter she was
expecting from her son, and a lengthy conversation with Miss Flora
Grady who dropped in to say that her chilblains always began to
bother her in October. In the meantime, Courtney departed.
Two days later, Alaska Spigg received her letter, considerably
crumpled and smelling of licorice root,--(a favourite remedy of Mrs.
Pollock's)--but rendered precious by the presence of a mysterious
"quatrain" done in violet hues by some poetic wielder of an indelible
pencil. Guilt denied Maude Baggs Pollock the right to claim
authorship of these imperishable lines, and to this day they remain
unidentified in the archives of the Windomville Public Library,
displayed upon request by Alaska Spigg, their proud and unselfish
donor.
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