And as she gazed around her bedroom
in search of inspiration, her eyes fell on an illuminated sentiment
over her bureau. It had been sent Grandfather by a Western admirer
who had done it by hand herself in three colors, not counting the
gilt. Grandfather had one already, so Joy had helped herself to
this, because it matched the color of her room. She had never read
it before, but, reading it today, it impressed her as excellent
advice to the seeker after fine raiment.
"Let the farmer," Mr. Emerson had said, "give his corn, the miner a
gem, the painter his picture, the poet his poem." Joy did not stop
to wonder (for the Western lady had left it out) on just what
principle these contributions were being made. She didn't care.
"Now, that's the way people earn money," said she practically, and
tried to think what she could do.
Cook--she could make very good things to eat, but Grandmother would
have to know about that, and, besides, it wouldn't be a thing they
would approve of. Sewing--no, you couldn't get much out of that. She
could recite poetry and be decorative, but she gave a little shiver
at the thought. She played and sang as Grandmother had taught
her--harp and piano--and spoke Grandmother's French. She couldn't do
much with _them_.... Oh, she was just decorative! And as she prepared
to be vexed at the idea, suddenly the motto caught her eye again.
"It's a perfectly impossible idea from _their_ standpoint,"
said Joy, with the light of battle in her eye for almost the first
time in her life, "but I simply have to have that gray dress.
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