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That dapper fellow
up above is none other than my own grandsire, Charlie Murphy,
styling for posterity.
So far, so good.
I suspect Grandpa
Murphy was rather taken with himself at that age. There are other
pictures from this period. He mounted this photograph between
the front endpapers of a leatherbound collection of poetry, The
Best American Poetry (New York: Crowell, 1905). Turn the
page and read, within a precisely inked prairie modern border,
POETRY
IS THE REFLECTED LIGHT FROM A SOUL INSPIRED BY NATURE'S BEAUTY.
IT BRIGHTENS OUR LEISURE MOMENTS BY ITS PORTRAYAL OF LOVE AND
TRUTH, AND ADDS TO THE PURITY OF OUR THOUGHTS - AS THE PERFUME
OF FLOWERS ADD TO THE DELICACY OF THEIR CHARM. - C.F.M. -
You'd have to search
awhile to find a more apt expression of Optimistic Romanticism.
Why, not even Emerson could have said it that pretty.
Found within the
pages of this anthology were
- - a single papery
flower petal - still red and pink, quite likely a rose
- - a ticket to the
World's Columbian Exposition
- - a cardboard cutout
containing the poem "Smile" ("and the world smiles
with you"); printing on the back suggests this is from a
shirtbox
- - a tiny, professionally
printed invitation to a Porch Party:
Between the rear
endpapers, Charlie has mounted a small faded photograph of five
women, backs to the camera, seated on a park bench. Draped across
their shoulders is what seems to be a white blanket clearly bearing
the phrase CAMP "NO REST". Beneath that photo, he has
written THE END.
Charlie was a good-looking
guy; even as an old grayhair puttering around the grounds on
Theodore Street, there was a certain flash about him. With this
book he has assembled a small Time Capsule, hints of a century-old
moment, a gone-away world that should have hung around forever.
I like to think that these souvenirs were dropped casually between
the pages, not so carefully considered; but the care he took
with this book suggests that he knew what he was about. For some
reason, it came to me after he died - and I've carted it around
for maybe thirty-four years.
Of course, this has
nothing to do with the fact that we've got a new month on our
hands and must figure out something useful and beautiful to do
with it.
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