May 7, 1926
By GEORGE MATTHEW ADAMS
THIS LITTLE TYPEWRITTER
For 15 years this little machine has been my companion. In a room of quiet, and one so often silently lonely, each small key has imprinted upon the page the simple thoughts from my heart.
It has written nothing new. Just human expressions of one mind, colored by the better thoughts of other minds, but bathed in the heart of this writer's desires.
Have they been worth while? This little typewritter won't say. It simply serves these fingers. Fingers that have tried at so many other tasks—but this at least the happiest of all.
Just thoughts from a very imperfect and often blundering life. Thoughts inspired by the beauty and loveliness of others, sweetened by the sweetness of nobler lives.
This little typewritter is my sacred shrine sometimes. Because I tell it so much. Often what I tell it never gets farther than its imprint—and then is tucked away or else destroyed. Because we had our little talk anyway. And sometimes all we need is the little talk—even though merely given to the faithful and obedient machine.
For, you see, the one you want most of all to talk to isn't always around. Maybe just in your heart where you store your hunger and your love.
But many of the simple talks go out into the big world, as this and others have gone.
This little typewritter is always ready. It never finds fault. But I think it does keep saying: "Do better, do better, do better!"
Of course, we never know whether it is worth its keep, but we keep talking to it anyway.
We do so much not knowing why. Perhaps sometime it will all be explained.
