From the Evening Star, October 7, 1913. By Philander Johnson.
There’s a great continued story that has filled us with suspense.
We haven’t read it, but we feel its interest immense.
We’re furnished with reliable advices, day by day,
If the heroine is happy or the villain is at bay.
The maid who does our general work is Miss Miranda Stubbs.
She cooks; she minds the telephone; she dusts; sometimes she scrubs.
And when that weekly story comes, with words of joy or gloom,
She folds it to her bosom and she hurries to her room.
Miranda’s face informed us by its smiling all serene
That Gwendolyn, the Village Rose, had stepped upon the scene,
And brave young men from far and near, so handsome and so neat,
Were struggling for a chance to lay their fortunes at her feet.
The sighing of Miranda told us that the choice was made.
A frown revealed objections that the father stern arrayed.
A week of great anxiety compelled us to suppose
That fate was most unkind to Gwendolyn, the Village Rose.
The villain from the city plunged Miranda in despair.
She shuddered till she spilt the tea and broke the chinaware.
Then fits of sobbing told us that the hero was in jail,
Accused of crime all falsely, with no one to go his bail.
We try to lead our simple lives. It isn’t any use.
We wonder what effect the next installment will produce.
The atmosphere of grief or joy that we are living in
Depends upon the love-lorn and fictitious Gwendolyn!