The Weber Literary Journal When Sue and her room-mate joyously entered their room that evening their excitement was at its topmost pitch, and they simply couldn't force themselves to lessons. Sue had been made over so much she was almost a spoiled baby. She tried to get an assignment of Latin in with the "brainfood" she had been fed all afternoon. But impossible! "Can't study, Mable," she asserted in a tone of pretended disgust, "It's no use trying, so what'll I do?" "Same trouble over here," Mable replied in a tone so disgusted it said plainly, "I give up." "What do you say to a movie, Sue?" "Who's on this week?" Sue inquired. "Marguerite Clarke's at the Rex." "Oh, I just simply adore her! Let's go." So it was goodnight to the Latin and all the other worries except Marguerite Clarke's. Over the sidewalk in front of the familiar Rex "neighborhood movie house" in colored electrics blazed the announcement, "MARGUERITE CLARKE in her greatest success THE LITTLE VILLAIN" "Oh, Mable," exclaimed Sue, as she glared at the dazzling, highly colored posters. "Above all plays we should happen to strike this one." "Come on in," chided Mable. "Let Marguerite give you a few pointers on your 'Little Villain'." Sue was rapturous with joy when she and Mable reached home about ten o'clock that evening. "I know just how it's done, Mable; if I can only do it as well as Marguerite! Oh, I almost forgot: I must write mother all about it! I must. Oh, I know she'll be so glad!" After three utterly wasted attempts, due to the conflicting elements of Sue's flattered nerves, she was finally able to draw out a few words from her pen. The Weber Literary Journal "Dear Mother," she wrote, "I have so much to tell you. I always said I was made for the stage. And now what a start I've got! What do you suppose it is? Well, I have been chosen star. Just think, mother, star of the new play we are giving this year! And oh, mother, to think that I will be put on an equal with Marguerite Clarke! You know, mother, she did the screen version and now I'll do the stage. We will start rehearsals soon and I'll promise to write you after each rehearsal. Oh, mother, you don't know how good I feel. There's absolutely nothing doing at school besides the play. I am excused from attending my classes; so from now on I will just write you about the play. I know you are just crazy about the story, so I will tell it to you as we get along, after each rehearsal, you know. The play is all I think of, so don't expect me to write of anything else. With Love, Sue. P. S. How are you folks? I forgot to ask before. And is Ernie getting along all right?" Sue's letter was taken out, put in the corner box and from there resumed the journey of most of Sue's letters to her home town, Greenville. The next day, postman Green had one letter for farmer Sellman and, with his usual week late promptness, delivered it. In response to his knocking on the door, little Willie Sellman, aged five, appeared. "Hello, you little brat. Where's yer Maw 'n Paw?" "Ain't home," replied Willie, truthfully. "Paw's down to the north field and Maw's over to the Ladies' Sassiety meetin'." "Well, here's a letter for 'em. But on second thought I'd better not give it to you 'er, ye little brat, ye'd lose it 'er stick it in the fire." That gave Willie a high idea. Postman Green stepped inside and placed the letter on the highest obstacle in sight, the top of the organ. "Now, tell yer Maw where it is when she arrives t' home." 25