Literary Lessons
Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny,
exactly, but I doubt if half a million would have given more real happiness then did the little sum that
came to her in this wise. Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling
suit, and `fall into a vortex', as she expressed it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for
till that was finished she could find no peace. Her `scribbling suit' consisted of a black woolen pinafore
on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red
bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon
to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in their
heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even
to ask this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article
of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments
it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast
upon the floor, and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the red
bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow, did anyone dare address Jo. She did not think herself
a genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon,
and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an
imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her
eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her
only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The devine afflatus
usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her `vortex', hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.
She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker
to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course, the
lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience,
but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by
unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal
and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx. They
were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the
faces of the people who occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads
and bonnets to match, discussing Women's Rights and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble
lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper
bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her
only neighbor was a studious looking lad absorbed in a newspaper. It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo
examined the work of art nearest her, idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances
needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, tumbling over a precipice with a
wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were
stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was flying away in the background with her mouth
wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature offered half
his paper, saying bluntly, "want to read it? That's a first-rate story." Jo accepted it with a smile, for she
had never outgrown her liking for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love,
mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature in which the passions have
a holiday, and when the author's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the
dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall. "Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy,
as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion. "I think you and I could do as well as that if
we tried," returned Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash. "I should think I was a pretty lucky chap
if I could. She makes a good living out of such stories, they say." And he pointed to the name of Mrs.
S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale. "Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.
"No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed." "Do
you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" And Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated
group and thickly sprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page. "Guess she does! She knows
just what folks like, and gets paid well for writing it." Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it,
for while Professor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics, she
was covertly taking down the address of the paper, and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar
prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the audience
|