Читать книгу Leerie - Ruth Sawyer - Страница 4

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I like to write stories. Best of all I like to write stories about people who help the world to go round with a little more cheer and good will than is usual. You know—and I know—there are a few who put into life something more than the bare ingredients. They add a plum here—extra spice there. They bake it well—and then they trim it up like an all-the-year-round birthday cake with white frosting, angelica, and red cherries. Last of all they add the candles and light them so that it glows warmly and invitingly for all; fine to see, sweet to taste.

Of course, there are not so many people with the art or the will to do this, and, having done it, they have not always the bigness of heart to pass it round for the others to share. But I like to make it my business to find as many as I can; and when I am lucky enough to find one I pop him—or her—into a book, to have and to hold always as long as books last and memory keeps green.

Not long ago I was ill—ridiculously ill—and my doctor popped me into a sanitarium. “Here’s the place,” I said, “where people are needed to make the world go round cheerfully, if they are needed anywhere.” And so I set about to get well and find one.

She came—before I had half finished. The first thing I noticed was the inner light in her—a light as from many candles. It shone all over her face and made the room brighter for a long time after she had left. The next thing I noticed was the way everybody watched for her to come round—everybody turning child again with nose pressed hard against the window-pane. It made me remember Stevenson’s Lamplighter; and for many days there rang in my ears one of his bits of human understanding:

And oh! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,

O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night.

Before I knew it I had all the makings of a story. I trailed it through the mud of gossip and scandal; I followed it to the highroad of adventure and on to the hills of inspiration and sacrifice. It was all there—ripe for the plucking; and with the good assistance of Hennessy I plucked it. Before the story was half written I was well—so much for the healing grace of a story and the right person to put in it.

This much I have told that you may know that Leerie is as true as all the best and finest things in the world are true. I am only the passer-on of life as she has made it—spiced, trimmed, and lighted with many candles. So if the taste pleases, help yourself bountifully; there is enough for all. And if you must thank any one—thank Leerie.

Ruth Sawyer.