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Collaboration

Collaboration image
Parent Issue
Day
28
Month
June
Year
1895
Copyright
Public Domain
OCR Text

If yon aro a man who values a peaceful domestic life aboe all things ; if you happen to possess a bright aud conipanionable youug wife, with ideas of her own ; if yoti are secretly iminensely 1 proud of her aud her "parta," but fearful lest you eucourage in her au arrogance of uqttality with you aud your own, then beware of moments of sympathy aud keep a gaard upou your tongue in hours of confideuce, lest they lead to the death of all future cormuunion ; lest, in short, peradventure they temjrt you iuto collaboratiou with your wife. In the case of Jouen its begiuning was very insidious. Jiues had a magnificeut idea for a plot. It was modern, ■without being nuspeakable - never was there a happier con oept ion. But it had a flaw. There was a hitch in the action which disturbed the flow. Jones stared wildly at the paper ou which he had jotted down "Out line of Plot" in his boldest hand. Staring did uot seem to bring inspiration, and Jones forgot himself so far as to stamp upou the floor. His wife heard the unwonted sound. She was giviug the children their nursery tea at the time, aud a little piaster feil off the ceiling into one of their bread and milk bowls. Sho went up stairs. "What's the matter with the poor boy, then?" she inquired. "The nursery ceiliug's coming down. And what has he done to his uice smooth hair?" "Oh, don 't be an idiot!" groaned Jones. "I've got the fiuest idea I ever had in my life, and now I'm simply stuck. " His wife's little face became grave and important at once. She was a fair, i pretty woman, with brown eyes and u little chin that stnek out. "Teil me," said she coaxingly, settling on the arm of his big leather ohair. Jones saw no waruiug shadow of coming collaboration. "I'll just give you an idea of my plot," he said, aud proceeded to do so. The "idea" took three-quarters of an I hour to give'. His wife listeued, at first with a preoccupied air. Sho could not f orget that au open jam pot stood on the nursery table at baby's eibow. Soon, however, the full beauty of the thing borst upon her. She got down frorn the arm of Jones' chair and embraced him with fervor. "Talk of Otevenson iuaed, " she said compassionately, "or your Marediths and Harlys and people !" "Come, come!" said Jones. He tried to teil her dryly "not to be an idiot," but the words would not come as easily as usual. Aftor all, real appreciativeness is a rare gift. "Write it straight away off, dear, " she begged. ' ' Write it, and get the money f or it. ' ' This brought the fatal hitch back upon Jones' consciousness iii its full bitterness. He lr.id the case bef ore his wife. She at oiice suggested the only possible way out of the difficulty. "That would have occurred to me if I'd thought a minute longer, " said Joues. "Course it would, the clevcr boy!" said his wife soothingly, and she began to espand lier plot. Jones listened patiently, sometinies vouchsafing encouragemeut, and she looked so pretty, so flushed and eager over it, that he was touched. Lu a demented moment he uttered the words that risked the happiness of two lives. "Yhy shouldn't we write it together?" he said. Once said, there was no unsaying it. Without a word his wife arose and went straight totheneareststationer's. There she bought ten reams of manuscript paper and 2 shillings' worth of pens. All the rest of the day she was remarkably silent. Jones addressed her at the dinner table with a remark that had never yet failed to please. "I ahvays like you in that dress, " he said. "It's a pretty idea, having those sleeves one can see the arins through. It's called net, or tulle, or somethiug, isn't it?" "One moment, please, dear," answered his wife, and her lips moved mutely, in visible composition. Then Jones remarked that her hair was arrauged with less frivolity than usual. It showed more of her forehead, which gave an intellectual look. This was aided by a soniewhat aggressive ink stain on one of her fingers. Jones feit muoh as he did toward his baby boy when that infant played at "being growu up and doin like dadda. " He patted his wife'scheek. Shereceived the advance with a touch of dignity. Jones began to feel a trifle irritated, and he scraped his foot under the table. His wife started a little elaborately, and then resumed the silent movement of her lips. Next day, when he carne back from his office, he fouud the piaster knocked out of the wall in three places. Trampling feet were heard in his own sacred study, and two finely developed young men from Shaplemann 's jostled him in his agitated progress up the stairs. He burst into his sanctum, to find it filled by a writing table. Near the abomination stood his wife, regarding it with brown eyes full of peusive pride. "What in the world is this thing doiug here?" gasped Jones. "Why, you couldn't write any thing decent without a writing table and how can you expect me to?" she inquired. Her air was so important, yet withal so guilty, that Jones subdued his indignation and tried to laugh. When they had both left the room, he went back and j peiniitted hirnself the satisfaetion of kickiüg the thing gently in several places The evening saw them both establishecl at their desks. The horrid irupossibility of it all struck upon Jones only too soon. He had written the opening chapter in nis best manner, and the time carne wheu he wauted to read it out. To give her her due, his wife j tened eagerly, and did hiin full jnstice when he ceased. "And now listen to mine," she said blithcly. Jones feit it to be his own act and deed, and he resigned himself to listen. Her chuppter was really not badly written ! Her style was evidently modeled on his own. Jones put his finger tips togethe and smiled hopefully. But when it came to her hero, alas ! not only had j he "a comb at the back of his head, " as Stevensou puts it, but he was altogether iinpossible. How to wipe hiin tenderly out of the chapter without breaking of hearts? Jones fidgeted distressfully. "That's not quite the sort of thing a man would say, dear, " he suggested mildly. "Oh, isn't it!" she answered, with derision. "As it happens, a man did say it - those very worrls. Do yon imagine you know how every kind of man talks to a womanwhen he's alone with her?" "Heaven forbid!" said Jon6s. "And who said it to yon, may I ask?" "I didn't say it was said to me, " she replied, with some baste. "How do you like this ending? I think it's rather neat, don 't you? 'And when they had both left the conservatory there was somethiug frail and pink lying on the marble floor. It was a moss rose bud. ' I rather admire that sort of ending. " "Whereisthepoint?" iuquired Jones. "Oh, well, if yon want points to ery single seuterice" - "Well, but don't you see that unless you mean sornething by it there's uo sense at all in the thiug? It's simply ! Family Herald 'business. ' I should have thought yon'd have seen that. " "It's a matter of taste, and I differ frorn you, "said his wife very coldly, "and if we are to piek holes in each other's work allow me to teil you that no lady would have behaved as your heroine did in that hansom!" "Why, that actually hap" - began Jones nnwarily. "I knew it!" cried his wife, overturning th.G'ink bottle. "It was that day you saw Kitty Cameron home froni the theater. I thought so at the time ! She shall never enter rny house again. " Jones was enraged, bnt saw a possible "score. " "It was on the same day," he said slowly, with a painstaking smile, "as that on which you permitted yourself to bo addressed by a man, not your irasband, in the way you so tastefully chose to read me. " There was a silence. They glared at one another. Then Jones' wife got up aud left the room with a queenly step, closing the door behind her with ostentatious gentleuess. Jones heard no more about collaborating f or some time, but uext day the bill carne in for the writing table - t guineas. He bargained with Shaplemann, who consented to take it back for 4, and the incident closed. Some months later Jones' book actually appeared, and his wife received numerous letters congratulating her on tho nuthorsmp oí it. "What in the world do they mean?" he demauded. "Why, dear, " said she, a little shamefacedly, "I'rn afraidl told most of them about that time when you and I" - "Well, wheu we what?" "Collaborated, dearest. Don 't you

Article

Subjects
Ann Arbor Argus
Old News