The Triumph of Babs

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 208, 3 September 1938, Page 2 (Supplement)

The Triumph of Babs

Barbara had always had a very deeply rooted idea in her head that she was a great writer in the bud, but her particular leaning was toward poetry; and *lie used to turn out some of the most aw tul poems by the yard that I would liaye been ashamed to own having written. Not that I understand poetry, us later events proved, but I" must say that if I had a gift for writing I would t'.v to turn it to some good account, such as writing jolly fine school stories or adventure stories, and not . silly poetry, which I always haye felt to be a waste of *time to read, let alone to write! "I could understand a person raving like that under gas," I remarked one d , after she had shown me one of her latest effusions, which had found little or no favour in my eyes, "but not if they were in full possession of their senses." Of course, she was deeply offended at this and took her work olscwhere for criticism for quite a long time; but I was her best friend, and like the swallow returning to it nest, so she came back to me eventually, fuU of a "great idea," in which she wished me to participate. This was nothing more nor less than publishing a little magazine once a m6nth to be distributed among the form at the trifling cost of one penny a time. It was really only a selfish desire for —"well, let us say fame—that prompted this plan, because she confided in me that she had a wonderful plot for a story which she was going to call "The Blue Penny," a powerful mystery which copld run as a serial, and as t she intended to stop each month at' a most exciting part, the girls would hardly benable to contain themselves for excitement until the next edition appeared.

To begin with, I said, the title was •illy. A penny wasn't blue, and never would be, and nothing could make it blue, and if any one tried for ages, although they turned green very often and, sometimes a reddish colour, but never blue. Babs got very impatient and laid that was the plot, and I would eee it An time; and I replied I thought it was a jolly feeble plot at that rate if it 'was only about how a penny was bltle, and Bounded more like a chemistry lesson. As for the girljs being overcome with suspense from mpnth to month to see how the blue penny got on, I didn't think this was at all likely to happen as it was ten to one none of them would pay for the magazine, anfl in any case it meant that every chapter would have to. have an exciting climax, which would be very difficult, to keep up. Babs became quite annoyed apd flounced off, and said she would do' the whole thing on her own. I thought after this she would lose her enthusiasm, but she didn't. I remember reading somewhere that all geniuses were mad. Well, Babs was mad all right, so I should never be surprised if in after life she turned out to be 4 genius. The way she neglected her work and games was terrible. She Wfts entirely eaten up with the idea of that silly magazine and seemed incapable of thinking of anything else. After my "Job's comforter" attitude I was left severely out in the cold over the first "publica-. tion," and some weeks went by before Babs came to me in triumph bearing with her the first edition of her maga= zine. ' - I am bound to sayfl was impressed. Not only at the time, and patience ehe must have spent on it, but by the finished product itself, wMcli was really very good. There were eight pages, all neatly written. Four were devoted to the first instalment of "The Blue Penny—A Mystery," and the other four were divided between poems from Babs' pen, choice tit-bits with regard to recent

happenings in the form, a few jokes collected from an unknown source, and a letter full of flowery promises as to what the future editions were going to be like, which really made rue blush for her audacity—in fact, the view she took was that the class was going, to '?°' i f° rw ard to her fortnightly publications in much the same way that people used to when the editions of "Pickwick Papers" were expected. However, I complimented her on her work and watched events, which turned out very much as I had expected. Every one wanted to read the magazine, but nobody wanted to pay for it, the general opinion being that one copy handed round the form would do very well. However, Babs made 4d, and sooner than waste the other copies she gave them away, feeling, perhaps, that in time this generosity would reap its own reward. The serial, however, rather missed lire, as Coral Fayne, who is fearfully clever at mathematics, guessed that the Blue Penny was a man, and the hero at that, which spoilt the whole thing, as Babs had meant this discovery to be the grand climax; and she was jolly wild about it, although she couldn't deny it; and Coral said anyone could have seen through the plot who was a bit quick, which was only paying herself a neat compliment, really. Nobody seemed very anxious about the next publication, although Babs did produce one, but very little interest was taken in it, and I do think she would have been bitterly disappointed over the failure of her plan if a far greater thing had not at this identical moment engrossed the whole of her attention. This was nothing more nor less than a competition that was running in a

monthly magazine for the best poem submitted by girls between the ages of 14 and 16, and Babs spent hour* and hours poring over here, .comparing this one with that, and consulting me on the respective merits of them all, until I was thoroughly fed up, because, as I have already said, I thought they were all very poor and didn't all agree with a paper encouraging any one in such a foolish pastime as writing poetry, much less offering prises for it. At last, after much indecision, Babe decided on two poems called "The Old Fan" and "Fairytime," which even I agreed were the best of the batch, which was saying something as it woe a pretty big batch. These were duly rewritten in her best handwriting end submitted, and some weeks went by, during which time I practically forgot all about the competition, and believe that I should really have done so if Babs hadn't mentioned it about 500 times a day. I was certain that she would never hear anything more about the matter, and had tried to get her to take the same point of view, a« I knew the disappointment would be greater than any she had yet to bear should she not win a prize. But I was wrong! When the results became known, lo! Babs had won the first prize, and there were her two poems published all on a page to themselves, with a couple of 4inky little illustrations. Needless to say, her fame was very soon noised abroad, and every one in the form felt as proud as if they had themselves won the prize. Our English mistress, Miss Matthews, was especially pleased, and very soon Babs began to suffer from a swollen head, which was a great pity, as in every other way she was a most delightful girj. You would haye thought she was a second Shakespeare, the airs and graces she began to givb herself, and one day just in fun I said to her without thinking, "Don't forget the old adage about pride going before a fall," little thinking how true my words were going to come, or how humiliated poor Babs would shortly be, and all because of her swollen head.

One evening she came to me in a great state of excitement, and thrust into my hand a parcel. "Come along to the schoolroom and look at it," she said. "What is it?" I asked, feeling as though nothing would ever again surprise me, as far as Babs was concerned. "It's a book of poetry," she said. "Oh!" I replied, in a distinctly cool manner, feeling no more interested in it than a dog would in a very old bone that he was tired of seeing. However, not wishing to offend her, I accompanied her to the schoolroom and there gazed with amazement on her latest creation. She had spent weeks in carefully copying out her poetry and had sewn it into a very neat little book made out of stiff brown paper, and across the cover was printed, "Poems— by Barbara Kettson." "What are you going to do with itT" I asked. "I'm going to send it up to a publishing firm and tell them that I want it published," she replied. "But you don't really think you'll get it published ?" I asked her. Why not?" the calm answer. But, Babs," I said, "just because you've had two poems printed in that paper that you won the prize for, you don't really think you could get all your other poems published, do you?" I really was flabbergasted, because it was rather a tall order when one came to think it over. Babs, however, was quite certain upon the matter. If two of her poems had been so good that they had won the first prize in a competition that hundred* must have entered for, then it naturally I followed, to her way of reasoning at any rate, that any publisher would be only too delighted to publish the rest of them. Perhaps, after a bit, I felt a little inclined to agree, but not much, and I wished her the very best of luck in her venture, but begged her not to be disappointed if they were promptly returned. Several days passed after the dispatch of the poems, and then one day Babs received a letter just saying that her MS. had been received and would receive due consideration. Now this was just like a match to gunpowder as far as Babs was concerned, and here she did a very silly thing. If only she had kept lier own" counsel all would have been well, but she immediately "rushed into print," as they say in the papers, and noised the joyous news abroad, telling she was going to have a book of poetry published and what not. When I told her how silly she was, as the letter had only said "consider," ehe told me not to be a misery and a wet and as good as accused me of being jealous, which was, of course, ridiculous. A rumour of this sort doesn't take very much spreading and very soon it , over the end the girls started looking at Bal» as though she was one of the wonders of the- earth, which thoroughly pleased her, for, as I have often told her, she has a showman's soul. Needless to say, I, too, began to anticipate the arrival of the post with some impatience, but remembering some of the wonderful poetry there was in the world (not that I in any way really admire it, not being able to understand half of it), I didn't seriously think that Babs would stand much chance, as I was more than prepared for the worst. But, unfortunately, Babs wasn't. I really think she had a wild idea that the publisher was going to write and offer her a huge sum of money for her poems, but such things only happen in dreams, course, and the end of this was more like a nightmare, as Babs very truly At last the postman brought something for Babs, but alas! not a letter Too well I knew when I saw the parcei d - her book of poetry returned. But still she confidently thought it had been accepted, and seething with excitement she bore it off to her classroom with me following her, where she knew she could examine the precious bundle without fear of interruption from "the madding crowd." ' Breathlessly I watched her face as she read the, alas, all too curt enclosure. An expression of bitter disappointment gradually took the place of the look of joyful expectancy that had so recently been there. "What does it say?" I asked anxiously. < To my dismay poor Babs burst into floods of tears. I snatched the slip of paper from her hand and scanned it quickly. It was terse and to the point. In fact, it simply said that no use could be made at all of her poems. Poor Babe! "But, Babs," I began, feeling rather at a loss for a suitable remark and haying a great deal of difficulty jn biting back the inevitable, "I told you so," that would keep on recurrinor in my mind. She continued to sob, but managed to say, "I've been such a conceited chump. Of course, I might have known " I felt dreadfully sorry for her. It must have been rough luck to have had all her wonderful hopes dashed to the ground in one cruel blow, as it were, for I knew how much store she had been

setting on having her poems published, that no amount of teasing or arguing or reasoning could alter. "Xevcr mind," I said rather aimlessly. "It isn't that so much," she said, although I don't know, what she meant by "that" exactly. "It's thinking?; what a fool I shall look before all the other girls when I tell them, that's upsetting me —after all the fuss I've made and the way I've swanked—-and " Here she started to snivel again, and I was beginning to wonder what I could do to comfort iter when the door opened and Miss Mathews, our English mistress. walked in. "Why, Barbara," she said in a very concerned way, "what is the matter ?" Babs made a violent effort to collect herself, but failed utterly, so, almost before I knew what I was about, I found myself telling Miss Mathews the whole story from beginning to end. I rather think that some rumour or the other about it must have reached iier ears, for I am sure that at times I was very incoherent, but she seemed to understand and listened very attentively to all I had to say. Babs* sobs gradually subsided, and she mopped her face up, and when I had finished speaking, except for an occasional sob or so, she was more or less composed. Miss Mathews gave me a slow understanding smile and then turned to Babs. "Why didn't you come and tell me about it?" asked Miss Mathews very kindly. "I could have explained it ail to you. I am afraid the fact that you won the first prize in that competition made you suffer just a little from, well, shall we say swollen head? You see, Babs, it is one thing to win a. competition that is simply for girls between i the ages of fourteen and sixteen, and quite another to produce a book of poetry that is going to merit publication without any cost to the author. You have a very long way to go yet, my dear, and a lot to learn. It is an uphill way, I can tell you, to get anything published, especially poetry, which has to be exceptionally fine. But your poetry is undoubtedly very good, Babs, and if you worked hard and read all the best poets, and the classics, trying u far as possible to mould your work on that which has stood the" test of time and has proved to be the finest work In literature, well, who knows what may happen in the future?" I thought it was most frightfully decent of her the way she was talking, and it certainly began to have a wonderful effect upon Babs, who now began to take a brighter view of things.

"If you like to come to me and bring your poetry," resumed Miss Mathews, "I shall be only too pleased to give you all the help I can." "Oh, will you really ?" cried Babs, overjoyed at this prospect. "By all means," replied Mis 6 Mathews. Babs accordingly bore off her manuscripts to the mistresses' room, and Miss Mathews' opinion of the complete volume of poems was very soon recounted to me. She thought they showed great promise and originality, although rather lacking in finish and muddled as to metre. Since Babs was so young such faults in technique were not surprising. She chose the three best for inclusion in the school magazine, and this bucked Babs up no end. She had been very miserable for some time after the story of her "rejected book" had got about. Of course, if only she had had the sense not to have told any one but me her pride would not have had to suffer so bitterly as it did—in fact, if ever anything ever happened to prove the truth of the old adage, "pride goes before a fall," this was it. However, I think on the whole every one was sorry for her, especially our form, but Babs said ehe would be famous one day and then she would have the laugh of them instead. When the magazine appeared every one congratulated Babs on her poems, "so all's well that ends well," only it didn't really end here! When she came back this term she told me that when she had related the story to her Uncle Jack he had absolutely' roared with laughter and pinched her cheek, and «aid «he deserved to get on, by Jove, she did! But when she had shown him her poetry in the magazine he was thunderstruck (with admiration. I she added, grinning), and there and then had offered to pay to have the whole lot published. Now, would you believe it? Although Babs had been so keen to have her poetry published she* refused his offer point blank, and said no! She didn't want any help or influence, but only to h*ve her work taken for its merit and nothing else, and ehe was quite content to wait until this happened. So that was that, and I hope ehe won t have to wart too long, although at present she is working on an "ep;e poem," a« she calls it. which will probably keep her goin? for Tears and will certainly beat "Paradise Lost" for length, if it doesn't for substance.