OCR Interpretation


The day book. (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917, March 30, 1914, NOON EDITION, Image 7

Image and text provided by University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library, Urbana, IL

Persistent link: http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045487/1914-03-30/ed-1/seq-7/

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HAVE YOU EVER STOPPED TO THINK HOW FEW
OF US ARE REALLY GAME?
. BY JANE WHITAKER
For me no niche in the Hall of Fame;
Just put pn my tombstone: "He died game!"
Do you ever think how few of us are really "game"? I do not mean
in the big dangers, when,heroes rise above the consideration of self-preserv-tion,
but in the little things of life, in the every day worries? (
i know that very many times I have been ashamed of my own coward
ice in the little things. I have been ashamed that I whined over trifles and
I have made big resolves that the next time any trouble or worry came,
I was going to be game and grin and bear it.
But somehow the next time is always ahead of me and the cowardice
is always in the present.
I called on a woman the other day who has been guilty of what might
be termed an indiscretion. It was not an actual sin, and if it were never"
discovered she could probably forget it as an incident foolish, undoubted
ly but just an incident.
. But it is. in danger of being discovered, nd its discovery means that the
incident will be magnified into a crime.
She dabbed at her eyes wth a moist handkerchief all the while I talked
to her.
"Oh, what shall I do?" she moaned. "It will ruin me, and it wasn't so
terrible, but it is what people will
say."
"You know you were taking a
chance when you did it, didn't you?"
I asked.
"Oh, yes," she moaned, "but I
never thought anyone would see me.
It was just dumb luck that it should
have been Harry's mother who
caught me."
There wasn't any-,use talking to
her. I wanted to tell her to be" game
and tell Harry just how it happened
and how littje there was to it,' but I
kiew it would be no use."" .She was
willing to take a chance by doing a
thing that might be misconstrued,
but she wasn't game enough to take
her medicine.
And as I left her I thought of a
little girl of only 19 who was wonder
fully gahie.
She had been receiving attentions
from a man whom she had promised
to marry, believing him- single. But
one night his wife met them on the
street, and only the isolation of the
street saved them from a public scan
dal. The wife did not wait to hear the
girl's story. She cut into that child's
heart with a bitter tongue, and then
she -went away with her cowardly
husband, and in the heat of her
anger and jealousy she wanted to
give the story to the newspapers.
She knew me slightly, so she-sent.,
for me, and' she told me the story in,
such a fashion that the girl seemed
utterly depraved, but somehow I
wanted to hear the other side, also,,
so I visited the girl.
As she came into the parlor and I
stated my errand the scarlet flooded,
her cheeks.
"Oh, you aren't going to put my
name in the papers, are you?" she:
pleaded.
I knew at once that I would not,
but I begged her to tell me her side,1
of the story and I thought I could
promise not to use her name.
"There isn't much to tell," she
said. "I met him at the office. No,
one- knew anything about his private
life, and I did not dream for a mo-j
ment iat he, was married, else Ij
would never"

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