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I merely suggest that the playwright may one day come across a theme for which there is no conceivable ending but suicide, and may wish that he had let Trebell live, lest people should come to regard him as a spendthrift of self-slaughter. The suicide which brings to a close Mr. Clyde Fitch's very able play, The Climbers, stands on a somewhat different level.
Bassett liked it; maybe because there was so little of her in it. We both appreciated your nice feeling and consideration in the whole article. Well, just how are you coming on in the law?" "Some of my work at college was preliminary to a law course, and I have done all the reading possible in Wright and Fitch's office.
The hopeful game was spoiled by unexpected measures of the Confederated government; but Fitch's explorations had deeply impressed him with the sublime character of the Western rivers, and when, in April, 1785, the thought first struck him that steam could easily make them navigable upwards as well as downwards, he cared no more for lands.
Harwood had long since exhausted the list of Hoosier statesmen selected for niches in the "Courier's" pantheon. After his visit to Fraserville, he had met Bassett occasionally in the street or at the Whitcomb House; and several times he had caught a glimpse of him passing through the reception room of the law office into Mr. Fitch's private room.
It wanted but five minutes to twelve in Miss Fitch's schoolroom, and a general restlessness showed that her scholars were aware of the fact. Some of the girls had closed their books, and were putting their desks to rights, with a good deal of unnecessary fuss, keeping an eye on the clock meanwhile.
"Not but what my man's good enough, but he don't seem to get along, somehow. The farm's wore out, and the mortgage comes around so regular." "Where do you live?" asked Victoria, suddenly growing serious. "Fitch's place. 'Tain't very far from the Four Corners, on the Avalon road." "And you are Mrs. Fitch?" "Callate to be," said the mother. "If it ain't askin' too much, I'd like to know your name."
"Not but what my man's good enough, but he don't seem to get along, somehow. The farm's wore out, and the mortgage comes around so regular." "Where do you live?" asked Victoria, suddenly growing serious. "Fitch's place. 'Tain't very far from the Four Corners, on the Avalon road." "And you are Mrs. Fitch?" "Callate to be," said the mother. "If it ain't askin' too much, I'd like to know your name."
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