WHAT'S IN A NAME

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 207, 2 September 1939, Page 2 (Supplement)

WHAT'S IN A NAME

Never were two girls more exact opposites of each other than the two Smiths at Derwent College. Daisy Smith's name was the only commonplace thing about her, so her special chum Katherine Lovel declared, for she was pretty and popular and talented and not a bit spoilt, but as thoroughly nice and sweet-natured a girl as any there. On the other hand, in the case of Margaret Smith, her surname was ordinary and so was she, scathingly declared Katherine. Needless to say she had just been having a quarrel with Margaret. From the fact that both were specialising in the study of art, the two girls were thrown together quite a lot, and poor little uninteresting Margaret bitterly envied Daisy, whom she secretly admired, though <die was too shy to approach the popular pet of the school. It was in the matter of art that she was tried particularly hard, for drawing and painting were Margaret's passion. As far as natural talent went, she and Daisy were equal, but the latter was able to cultivate her gift in every possible way, including special lessons and splendid materials. Daisy had to content herself with the ordinary drawing class of the school and, worse still, found herself greatly hampered by having to use second-rate drawing paper, inferior pencils, and an old paint box handed down to her by an elder sister, considerably the worse for wear when she received it, and now becoming depleted. That paint box was the special trial of Margaret's life. She knew she could not hoj>e to replace it by a better one, since her parents could barely afford, with much savinpr and contrivance, to pay for her ordinary education; but every time she put brush to paper she felt afresh, and more acutely, how her work was ruined by its apparatus.

Matters at length came to a pitch at which she sat and gazed helplessly at her common-leaded pencils, worn-out brushes, and poor little bits of muddy, dried-up colours, with tears in her eyes and a sense of desperation.

"It will be done for altogether soon," she thought despairingly; "and then how am I to paint at all?"

There were, she knew, several girls who would willingly let her have the loan of their painte—Daisy as readily as anyone; but, as has been said, Margaret was shy, and she hated to ask a favour. "What she wanted so passionately was a solid, independent paint-box of her very own, with brushes which did not shed their hairs broadcast, pencils that could '"shade" and not require re-cutting every five minutes, and bright, pure colours which helped rather than hindered. "There's that competition in the 'Sketchbook,' " she reflected, thinking of a magazine something like the "Studio," but run on more juvenile lines, which the school art-class took in and perused with great avidity. "It's offering a paintbox, this month, as first prize for the sketch competition; and the subject's quite an easy one —'A Country Cottage.' We've been given heaps of cottages to do. But I'm afraid' I shouldn't stand any chance."

But ambition, having once taken wing, though but feebly, was not to be easily brought down;' and the possibility, remote though it was, of winning that paint-box drew Margaret like a magnet.

"It's no use my trying to do a decent painting now," she thought; "my brushes and things are really too far gone; but I might have an old one by me that would do. 1 remember in the summer, when we all went out together and sketched the old mill-house—that was supposed to be the best thing I'd done." With almost breathless eagerness she ransacked her portfolio and turned out her old sketches. Yes, the one of the picturesque old mill-cottage passed muster very well. Margaret decided that it would do for the competition; and determining to lose no more time, she packed it up, addressed it to the "Sketchbook," and, obtaining leave from a mistress, ran oufwith it to the post. She came back in a happy little flutter of unusual excitement, and with quite a dancing step entered the schoolroom where the rest of her class were already assembled, waiting for their French mistress.

They were gathered in a laughing group round Daisy Smith. Daisy, it seemed, was the happy possessor of a new album—one of those quaint little volumes called "Ghosts of My Friends," in which people are requested to sign their names, the paper then being folded over tile signature while the ink is still wet, and a verjr odd and ghostly little design thereby produced. Margaret was at once called upon to contribute her autograph and an extremely queer and spidery little ' ghost" was the result. Jtou ought to do your own, Daisy— you haven't yet," someone suggested. "I suppose mine will be much like Margaret s, as were both 'Smith''' Uaisy returned as ehe wrote. "I wish I had a really fine name to squash, like » ere de V ere, or Fitzgerald " "Never mind!" laughed Katherine. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and likewise a Daisy called Smith can be just as jolly." 1 „ dar ® sa y>" retorted Daisy amusedly; "but all the same I can't help hankering for a pretty signaturesomething really impressive. Onlv the other day, for instance, I went in for a competition, and mine seemed such a dull sort of name to send in." \Vhat comp.!" Katherine inquired; and Margaret's heart thumped. "Oh! that thing in the Sketch-Book," replied Dajsy carelessly; "the 'Country Cottage one. I thought I'd have a shot ™ sa - V - how ' s that for » 'ghost'?" e general attention centred once more upon the album, and the entrance of Mademoiselle stopped still more effectually any further discussion of the Sketch-Book competition. But durin" the class which followed, French verbs received but a. scanty portion of Margaret's attention. She was completly lost m her disappointment. Daisy of all girls, to be her rival! Daisy, who would have such an advantage in her materials; Daisy, who had not the slightest need of the prize; Daisy, whom Fortune always seemed to favour! A squarish, flattish packet" lay among the usual pile of letters—a parcel the shape of which looked remarkably like Margaret's heart gave a sudden leap.

"It's for Daisy—not for me, of course—l know it is!" she told herself breathlessly, and forced herself to look. Next moment her cup of joy was filled to overflowing, for the direction on the parcel said unmistakably. "Mis« Margaret Smith," and the printed label on which the words were written wa« headed "Sketch-Book."

Clasping the precious packet, she rushed up to the privacy of her cubicle and gave herself up to gloating. With fingers quivering from excitement, she put back the wrappings. Yes, they dta indeed contain a paint-box! A long

"Oh-h-h!" of delight escaped her, as she lifted the lid and saw the lively "real artists'" colours, drawing pencils, and soft camel-hair trruehe* •within. Never before had she possessed anything like this! A dear little printed slip inside said, "First prize for sketch competition—with the editor's compliments." There was honour and glory for the "ugly duckling," who could not recollect ever having been "complimented" in her life before! "It's a good thing they addressed it to 'Miss Margaret Smith,' and not just 'Miss Smith.' " she thought, with a little laugh of 6heer happiness, "or else I shouldn't have known whether it was for Daisv or me!" And at that an awful thought suddenly struck her. After all, did she know? Was she certain? Her first name, as well as her surname, was really tlie same as Daisy's, for was not "Daisy" the "short" of "Margaret"? And was it not therefore possible that the precious paint box was meant for Daisy after all —that it was she who had won the prize ?

"Oh! no—no!" Margaret gasped, clutching the paint box with both hands, as if to snatch it back from Daisy. "It couldn't be that! Daisy calls herself 'Daisy' always—she signs herself 'Daisy'; they wouldn't address her as 'Margaret.' Of course, it's mine—it's perfectly certain!"

But that was just what it was not— and Margaret knew it. There was no longer any perfect oertainty in the matter; try as she would to shut her eyes to it, there was a tiny gleam of doubt which spoilt everything. Moreover, it was quite certain that Daisy would see the result of the competition announced, and take it for granted—since she did not know of Margaret's entry—that she herself was the winner.

Even if she did know., matters would simply be at a deadlock, for neither competitor would have any idea which was really the winner, although they might, perhaps, be able to find out by writing to the "Sketch Book."

And then came temptation. For Margaret know quite well that she had only to_ make the story of her cruel disappointment known and Daisy, who was the most good-natured girl in the school, would be almost sure to give up any claim to the paint box, which, after all, she did not need in the least, and thus' matters might settle themselves quite happily after all! only—only it wouldn't be fair!

I can't make her do that, Margaret thought, "I feel sure Daisy would give ! np her chance to me if she knew, and so I must just give up mine to her instead by not letting her know." And she began shakily to repack the box, while tears dropped upon the paper. She meant to put the parcel back and say nothing. When the result of the competition was made known everyone naturally took it for granted who" was the winner. Daisy had one of her usual triumphs, while her namesake and unknown rival kept her secret and stood aside. It was a very heavy-hearted Margaret who laid her head upon her pillow that night. It seemed to her that even the pillow itself felt hard and uncomfortable. She lifted it to shake it up, and saw that there really was something hard underneath. Something thick and flat, a package that looked like—like — Margaret knew what was inside even before she opened it. On the top of the P«»it box lay a letter in Daisy's writing. She snatched it up and read it in the bright moonlight. , . ear Old Girl, —I want you to have this. Don't think me interfering, but I cant help noticing that yours is nearly worn out, and I should simply love you to.have this prize one, if you will. That was why I went in for the competition. I wanted so much to win the paint box for you. So you will take it, won't yoa? Lots or love from Daisy." Margaret read and reread the letter. Then she lay down again and cried for pure delight. Not just that the splendid paint box was hers once more—that was a secondary joy; but that she 110 longer felt lonely and an "ugly duckling." One of her schoolmates, and that one her beloved Daisy, did care about her after all; had thought of her, worked for her, wanted to give her pleasure. But I must tell Daisy all about it," she thought. So in the morning the secret came out and Daisy listened^with amazement.

u '"What an awful muddle!" she cried. And you mean to say you would have let me keep the paint box without a word when very likely it was yours, and you needed it so? Oh, Margaret, we shall have to be chums now, as well as namesakes. But as for the prize, it's perfectly absurd, for we don't know even now who won. Shall we ask the Sketch Book ?"

'p*o," said Margaret happily. "Don't let s bother about it. Nothing could make things nicer than they are', and 1 don't care a bit who won. Do you 'All right," Daisy agreed. "After all. the mystery's almost too fxinny to spoil by clearing it up. But I say"—with a laugh—"remember that quotation we had m literature class this morning? We couldn't say 'what's in a name?' like chat, could we, because we \e proved everything."