Produced by David Garcia, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) WHY JOAN? BY ELEANOR MERCEIN KELLY Author of "KILDARES OF STORM," etc. NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1919 Copyright, 1919, by THE CENTURY CO. _Published, March, 1919_ TO MRS. RICHARD W. KNOTT friend and neighbor to many young women such as JOAN, whom she has helped to find the why of themselves; and whose life principle may be summed up in Virgil's phrase _Paulo majora canamus_-- (Let us sing of higher things.) Aime-moi, parce que j'ai besoin de ton amour pour mes chansons, Va t'en, parce que j'ai besoin de pleurer pour mes chansons, Meurs, parce que j'ai besoin de chanter la mort pour mes chansons, Car je suis le Cobzar. _Quoted by Pierre de Coulevain from source unknown._ Rough translation: Love me, because I have need of love for my songs, Leave me, because I have need of tears for my songs, Die, for I have need to sing of death in my songs, For I am the Cobzar. [Illustration] FOREWORD Some time since, the author had the temerity innocently to publish a book ("Kildares of Storm"), which, like this one, employed for background the country with which she happens to be most familiar, the State of her adoption and of her affections. And great was the scandal thereof. Neighbors insisted upon recognising themselves in it, to their horror--or to their complacency, as the case might be. They also recognized the house described; although if one heard with impartial ear, the house appeared to possess as many different identities as localities, and despite the fact that the author, in order to guard against this very contingency, had taken many liberties with geography, even to the extent of moving mountains--imagination being on occasion almost as powerful as faith. That history may not repeat itself, the author now hastens to assert that no self-respecting creative instinct, with the whole world of fancy at command, would care to inhibit productivity by the limitations imposed upon photography, invaluable as that science is in its place--which is not fiction. Ours the happy privilege of, for the moment at least, "shattering the world to bits and remolding it nearer to the heart's desire."