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Elizabeth Stock’s One Story

ELIZABETH STOCK, AN UNMARRIED woman of thirty-eight, died of consumption during the past winter at the St. Louis City Hospital. There were no unusually pathetic features attending her death. The physicians say she showed hope of rallying till placed in the incurable ward, when all courage seemed to leave her, and she relapsed into a silence that remained unbroken till the end.

In Stonelift,200 the village where Elizabeth Stock was born and raised, and where I happen to be sojourning this summer, they say she was much given over to scribbling. I was permitted to examine her desk, which was quite filled with scraps and bits of writing in bad prose and impossible verse. In the whole conglomerate mass, I discovered but the following pages which bore any semblance to a connected or consecutive narration.

Since I was a girl I always felt as if I would like to write stories. I never had that ambition to shine or make a name; first place because I knew what time and labor it meant to acquire a literary style. Second place, because whenever I wanted to write a story I never could think of a plot. Once I wrote about old Si’ Shepard that got lost in the woods and never came back, and when I showed it to Uncle William he said: “Why, Elizabeth, I reckon you better stick to your dress making: this here ain’t no story; everybody knows about old Si’ Shepard.”

No, the trouble was with plots. Whenever I tried to think of one, it always turned out to be something that some one else had thought about before me. But here back awhile, I heard of great inducements offered for an acceptable story, and I said to myself: “Elizabeth Stock, this is your chance. Now or never!” And I laid awake most a whole week; and walked about days in a kind of dream, turning and twisting things in my mind just like I often saw old ladies twisting quilt patches around to compose a design. I tried to think of a railroad story with a wreck, but couldn’t. No more could I make a tale out of a murder, or money getting stolen, or even mistaken identity; for the story had to be original, entertaining, full of action and Goodness knows what all. It was no use. I gave it up. But now that I got my pen in my hand and sitting here kind of quiet and peaceful at the south window, and the breeze so soft carrying the autumn leaves along, I feel as I’d like to tell how I lost my position, mostly through my own negligence, I’ll admit that.

My name is Elizabeth Stock. I’m thirty-eight years old and unmarried, and not afraid or ashamed to say it. Up to a few months ago I been postmistress of this village of Stonelift for six years, through one administration and a half—up to a few months ago.

Often seems like the village was most too small; so small that people were bound to look into each other’s lives, just like you see folks in crowded tenements looking into each other’s windows. But I was born here in Stonelift and I got no serious complaints. I been pretty comfortable and contented most of my life. There ain’t more than a hundred houses all told, if that, counting stores, churches, postoffice, and even Nathan Brightman’s palatial mansion up on the hill. Looks like Stonelift wouldn’t be anything without that.

He’s away a good part of the time, and his family; but he’s done a lot for this community, and they always appreciated it, too.

But I leave it to any one—to any woman especially, if it ain’t human nature in a little place where everybody knows every one else, for the postmistress to glance at a postal card once in a while. She could hardly help it. And besides, seems like if a person had anything very particular and private to tell, they’d put it under a sealed envelope.

Anyway, the train was late that day. It was the breaking up of winter, or the beginning of spring; kind of betwixt and between; along in March. It was most night when the mail came in that ought have been along at 5:15. The Brightman girls had been down with their pony-cart, but had got tired waiting and had