"I dug a grave in the shine of the moon," she answered. "And I put it
in by the two little cold grey feet----"
This touch of the grey feet laid a spell on Deasey's hankering
morbidity.
"_What turned the feet grey_?" he whispered.
"Nature, I s'pose!" replied the white-haired widow. She drew her shawl
about her shrinking form before she turned away.
"'Twas never found out, from that hour to this, who done it!" muttered
the Widow Geraghty, "but, may the Divvle skelp me if I touch one drop
of chucken-tea again!"
THE BIRTH OF A MASTERPIECE
By LUCAS MALET
(From The _Story-Teller_)
1922
Looking back on it from this distance of time--it began in the early
and ended in the middle eighties--I see the charm of ingenuous youth
stamped on the episode, the touching glamour of limitless faith and
expectation. We were, the whole little band of us, so deliciously
self-sufficient, so magnificently critical of established reputations
in contemporary letters and art. We sniffed and snorted, noses in air,
at popular idols, while ourselves weighted down with a cargo of
guileless enthusiasm only asking opportunity to dump itself at an
idol's feet.
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