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Some months earlier, in May, to be exact, Hurd of the Transcript had placed in my hands a novel called Zury and my review of it had drawn from its author, a western man, a letter of thanks and a cordial invitation to visit him as I passed through Chicago, on my way to my old home. This I had gladly accepted, and now with keen interest, I was on my way to his home.
Novelist, b. in New York State, was a lawyer in Chicago, then served in the war. He is remembered as the author of two very vivid and life-like novels of pioneer life in the Far West, Illinois Zury and The McVeys. Other works are The Captain of Company K. and The Story of Chicago. Biblical scholar, s. of a Cornish stonemason, was b. at Plymouth.
As Zura continued her wild exaggerations a look of horror covered Miss Gray's face. "Oh! Zury!" she cried. "Surely those ladies had on part of a dress." "No! angel child, not even a symptom. Daddy didn't want to paint their clothes. He wanted to copy the curves that grew on the people." Jane covered her eyes and spoke in a voice filled with trouble. "Dearie!
My attention was called to this one morning when I heard a merry, audacious voice cry out, "See here, Lady Jinny, do you think it a hallmark of piety to have that hefty safety-pin showing in your waistband? Walk right back and get your belt." "Oh, Zury," pleaded the harassed woman, "what's the use of putting it on? I'll just have to take it off to-night and, my dear, people are waiting for me."
By faith the impossible had come to pass. Finally Jane looked up and asked wistfully, "Oh! Zury, aren't you glad for me?" "Glad!" echoed the girl, leaning over and caressing the faded cheek. "I'm as happy as if I were pinning on my own orange blossoms this minute. Dear, dear little Jinny with her beautiful dream coming true!" I had never thought Zura beautiful.
Even at that I was at my wit's ends again to know what to say next when the door opened. Jane had heard the commotion, and there she stood in her sleeping garments and cap, a kimono floating behind her. In one hand was her candle, in the other the only ornament she possessed a stuffed parrot! She came in and, as if talking to soothe a three-year-old child, she coaxed, "Zury, Zury, don't cry!
He sat amidst mountains of "books for review" and yet he was always ready to welcome the slender volume of the new poet. To him I owe much. From him I secured my first knowledge of James Whitcomb Riley, and it was Hurd who first called my attention to Kirkland's Zury. Through him I came to an enthusiasm for the study of Ibsen and Bjornsen, for he was widely read in the literature of the north.
Then too, it is only fair to call attention to the fact that aside from Edward Eggleston's Hoosier Schoolmaster, Howe's Story of a Country Town, and Zury, by Joseph Kirkland, I had the middle west almost entirely to myself. Not one of the group of western writers who have since won far greater fame, and twenty times more dollars than I, had at that time published a single volume.
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