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I GOODWIN'S WBBKLY. 7 is
I "Poor Little Mary MacLane."
R When H. S. Stone & Co., the Chicago
publishers, had the temerity to send out into
the world "The Story of Mary MacLane,"
they took a long chance with the discrim
inating public, which in a great part of its
make up is decent, and which considers the
above house reputable. It may be a money
maker, but it will react like a sensational
newspaper story. The paper might sell for
the time being, but in the future, when peo-
pie began to think, there'd be little doing.
I This girl who " hates virtue," and loves to
I say rotten and unquotable things, seems to
H have written her so-called philosophy to
get an outlet for base passions, which some
I people might imagine, but which no woman
H would say. "She is interesting," "She is puz-
zling," "Is she a genius?" "Is she insane?"
these are some of the headlines about the
J girl whose life belies her talk, and whose
book is on the market to make you gasp.
Here is a select line or two:
H "Often I walk out to a place on the flat valley below
the town, to flirt with Death. There is within me a
latent spirit of coquetry, it appears.
I "Down on the flat there is a certain deep, dark hole,
with several feet of water at the bottom.
'I go there sometimes in the early evening, and
fl kneel on the edge of it and lean over the dark pit,
I with my hand grasping a wooden stake that is driven
into the ground near by. And I drop little stones
I down and hear them aplash hollowly, and it sounds a
X long way off.
I 'There is something wonderfully soothing, wonder-
fully comforting to my unrestful, aching wooden
I heart in the dark mystery of this fascinating hole.
Here is the End for me, if I want it here is the
I Ceasing, when I want it. And I lean over and smile
" 'No flowers,' I say softly to myself, 'no weeping
H idiots, no senseless funeral, no oily undertaker's fuss-
ing over my woman's body, no useless Christian
1 I Pravers' Nothing but this deep, dark, restful
' H grave.'
H "There are several things in the world for which I,
H of womankind and 19 years, have conceived a forci-
. H ble repugnance or, rather, the feeling was born in
H me; I did not have to conceive it.
"Often my mind chants a fervent litany of its own
I that runs somewhat like this:
H "From women and men who dispense odors of
musk; from little boys with long curls; from the kind
of people who call a woman's figure her 'shape'
Hj kind devil, deliver me.
H "From all sweet girls; from 'gentlemen," from
H feminine men kind devil, deliver me.
H "From lisle-thread stockings; from round, tight
H garters; from brilliant brass belts kind devil, deliver
B "From insipid sweet wine; from men who wear
H mustaches; from the sort of people that call legs'
H 'limbs;" from bedraggled white petticoats kind
H devil, deliver me.
H "Kind devil, if you are not to fetch me happiness,
B then slip off from your great steel key-ring a bright
fB ttle key to the door of the glittering, gleaming bad
things, and give it me, and show me the way, and
B wish me joy.
H "I would like to live about seven years of judicious
j badness, and then death, if you will. Nineteen years
of damnable nothingness, seven years of judicious
B badness and then death. A noble ambition! But
B might it not be worse? If not that, then nineteen
B years of damnable nothingness, and then death. No;
M when the lead is in the sky that does not appeal to
me. My versatile mind turns to the seven years of
And later Mary declares her love. She
"Periodically I fall completely, madly in love with
the Devil. He is so fascinating, so strong so strong,
exactly the sort of a man whom my wooden heart
awaits. I would like to throw myself at his head. I
would make him a dear little wife. He would love
me, he would love me. I would be in raptures.
And I would love him, oh, madly, madly!
"'What would you have me do, little MacLane?'
the Devil would say.
" 'I would have you conquer me," crush me, know
me,' I would answer.
'"What shall I say to you?' the Devil would ask.
" 'Say to me, "I love you, I love you, I love you," in
strong, steel, fascinating voice. Say it to me often,
always a million times.'
'"What would you have me do, little MacLane?'
he would say again.
"I would answer: 'Hurt me, burn me, consume
me with hot love, shake me violently, embrace "me
hard, hard in your strong, steel arms; kiss me with
wonderful, burning kisses press vour lips to mine
with passion, and your soul a- .me would meet
them in an anguish of joy fo .. ..
"I live in a house with people who affect me most
ly through their tooth brushes and those I should
like, above all things, to gather up and pitch out of
the bathroom window and oh, damn them, damn
"You who read this, can you understand thedepth
of bitterness and hatred that is contained in this for
me? Perhaps you can a little, if you are a woman
and have felt yourself alone.
"When I look at the six tooth brushes a fierce,
lurid storm of rage and passion comes over me.
Two heavy, leaden hands lay hold of my life and
press, press, press. They strike the sick, sick, weari
ness to my inmost soul."
And now comes a note of warning from
the Inter-Mountain in Butte. It swears that
this Marie Bashkirtseff of the west will write
another book, but the advance sheets look
suspiciously like the sporting editor. They
"I found the Devil.
"He was sitting on a large rock overlooking the
housetops of Butte.
"He did not see me coming.
"So I found him!
"I said to him: 'I am poor little Mary MacLane!'
"He said: 'I am so sorry!'
"I do not know what he meant by the remark. I
do not care.
"I sat down by his side and I held fast, fast to his '
"It was a hot hand.
"It was hotter than my flush.
SOME MORE GRAY DAWlt.
"I said: 'I have been looking for you, Devil. I
have been out in the red, red sunset. I have been
out in the cold, cold dawning searching for you.'
"He said: 'I know it!'
"There was sadness in his voice.
"He said: 'What would you have me do?'
"I said: 'Smother, scorch, burn, blister, me with
"He stared at me and said: 'Dope!'
"I said: 'Damn!'
"I threw my arms around him. I drew him close.
I pressed my lips to his.
"I knew I had found my Happiness.
"I do not know what he had found.
"Perhaps it was his Hell!
"We sat together. The sun hid his face.
"Who can blame the sun?
"Into the west came the red of the sunset. My
"Bits of Broken China," by William E. S. Fa'les;
illustrated; 75 cents. (New York: Street & Smith.)
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