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Newspaper Page Text
A PATHETIC STORY OF A GIRL'S LOVELINESS
iV CHICAGO WITH A HAPPY ENDING
, BY JANE WHITAKER
"Dear Miss Whitaker: I was one of the lonely girls in Chicago who
read your story on 'soul-hunger' in answer to a letter of a woman who is a
wife and a mother"; "and I was one of the girls who did not smile, as you
thought, but cried and I envied.
"I came to Chicago-from a small town chasing the thing we call suc
cess and I wonder why? Success is just being happy, isn't it? Well, I
missed success. .,
"I did not have the proverbial struggle; in fact I obtained a fairly good
position the first week I arrived here and'l wrote an effusive letter back to
mother and dad telling them how happy I was.
"But the next letter wasn't so effusive. Perhaps I expected top. much of
Chicago. It is a busy city and the struggle for existence is so keen that
some of the finer things are buried. I know I did expect too much, but the
disappointment and the bitterness wasn't less great.
There were and are, two girls working in .the office that I quit yester
I expected their friendship. It seems such a little thing to give friend
But I will tell you a secret, people are stingy with friendship in a big
'It isn't so in the little town. Why, you can make friends by just of
fering a stranger a spray of lilac blossoms or a jar of homemade jelly.
"Of course, I didn't have either, but I tried so hard to make friends
with those girls, even taking them to lunch, and as they both read The
Day Book it gives me a feeling of
unholy joy that they will know what
I do not believe they even guess
that I tried hard to make friends
"And when I realized that I had
failed, then I sought a church. Per
haps it was the wrong one, but it
happened to be in the neighborhood.
And the minister always shook hands
with me, and an older woman asked
me to a social and said she would
call for me, and never did, and so I
discovered I could npt make friends
in churches or in that church.
"And then I heard of a literary so
ciety. I am not at all literary, but a
man told one of the girls in the of
fice about this one, and what lovely
informal discussions they had, and I
thought I would slip in like an im
poster and perhaps annex some one
for a friend, and then slip out again.
"Jane Whitaker, they -took very
little time probing my depths and
mv subterfuge, for I refused to wil
fully lie, and I left the literary society
feeling like a little puppy some one I
doused with water.
"Sometimes I have gone to the
Sunday Evening Club. And I have
heard splendid music and fine speak
ing, but it didn't help the empty feel
ing in my heart I did not want to
feed my intellect, I wanted to be talk
ed to as f I were a real human.
"How well you understand about
the ticking of the clock. You have
listened to it, I know. It gets mad
dening. Tick-tock, tick-tock. And
sixty tick-tocks make a minute,
don't they, or is it thirty? And sixty
minutes make an hour, and four
hours between seven and eleven
make bedtime, but it seems eight
hours when your pillow is wet and
you can't cry another bit, and neither
can you sleep and forget, and the
clock tick-tocks on.
"Once I did a thing that I know
you would not approve, Jane Whit-,
aker. I went to a nickel show and I
talked to a stranger and a "man
stranger at that. .And I told him I
wasn't in' the habit of talking t4
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