e little encouragement to do her best. Of
course, as book-keeper she had very little leisure. Stories germinated
in her brain which she had no time to write; but when she was thoroughly
possessed by a story, she did find time to write it, and her work was
good. She chose to do the second best work for money, so that her best
work might not be degraded by the need of money.

Few persons have genius enough to undertake any artistic work if they
have a pressing need for the money they are to receive from it. With
ever so small an income from other sources, they may cheerfully try
their best and prove what they can do. But with no income at all, they
will be too greatly tempted to prostitute the talent they have. Yet "if
you cannot paint, you may grind the colors." Occasionally our cravings
for artistic work may partially be gratified by doing lower work in the
same line, and this may sometimes be a foundation for the higher work.

A young girl had an ardent desire to be an elocutionist. She had a good
voice, a flexible body, and some intelligence. She was willing to spend
every penny on her education. Fortunately she had an unusually fine
teacher, who told her the truth. He said, "You could easily learn the
little tricks of voice and gesture which bring applause from ignorant
people, and make one blush to be called an elocutionist, but you have
not the dramatic sense and can never be a great reader. What you need to
do is to study some literary masterpiece till you thoroughly appreciate
it, and then read it as simply and clearly as possible."

"But would anybody come to hear me read?" she asked.

"I am afraid not," he said; "but you could teach reading."

This had not been her ambition, but she had an earnest character and was
willing to read in the right way. She did take a place in a school and
became a power there. She taught her scholars how to use the breath, to
sit and stand easily and gracefully while reading, to enunciate
clearly, and pronounce correctly. Moreover, she taught them to read
noble poems instead of the flimsy showy jingles which had at first
attracted her. She never made any figure as a public reader, but she did
not regret serving the art she had learned to reverence on a lower
plane.

But, some one may say, suppose she had not been able to teach! She might
not have understood the art of controlling scholars even if she
understood what to teach them. In that case she might have been a
private re