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9 The Star Window: or The Old Man’s Darling. By Winifred Woodfern. Editor’s Note: By the time this lead story by Woodfern appeared in the True Flag on March 15, 1856, Mary Gibson had already moved to New York City and begun publishing stories in the New York Ledger under a close variant of her birth name. After the first several months of 1856, Gibson evidently stopped using her Woodfern pseudonym, even in Boston, though sketches and stories continued to be reprinted under the old byline for many years thereafter. “The Star Window” features a weirdly incestuous love triangle involving two children with similar names but very different personalities who are raised together “like brother and sister” by a devoted guardian. Whereas Clyde is “gentle and yielding,” Clyda is “determined and fiery” and, like Hero Strong and Georgian Eden before her, eager to ascend “the mountain tops of Fame.” As their guardian once ruefully observed: “Clyda should have been Clyde.” Though Clyda achieves fame as an author —basking in public adulation and swaying thousands with her written words—she finds (like the heroines in Woodfern’s other lead stories) that something is missing in her life. Yet, as with Georgian Eden’s vocation as an artist, it seems clear that marriage will not end Clyda Stanton’s literary career. CHAPTER I. The house stands back within the wood; Few passers-by e’er come this way; Night after night, day after day, It stands, serene and calm and gray, As it so long has stood! A peaceful silence over all,— Moss grows upon the massive wall, And on the casements good.—W. W.1 There were many other rooms in the large, old-fashioned house; many rooms smaller and lighter, and fitted out with modern furniture, with beautiful The Star Window 139 pictures, fine hand screens,2 music-racks, and hanging book-shelves. But from the time when I, a tiny child of five years old, had gone to live at my dead mother’s birth-place, I had always loved this room best; because it was high, and dark, and gloomy; because the silver moonlight, entering through the drapery of morning glories, shimmered on the floor and walls in a thousand fantastic shapes; because a certain carved book-case of black wood stood in one corner of the room, and held a choice selection of old romances, and ghost and fairy stories; and an ancient piano with little brass-knobbed drawers in the sides, which had belonged to my mother in her girlish days; and last, not least, because her portrait hung there—the red lips always smiling, the blue eyes always looking kindly down upon her little orphan child. In a deep bay window, at the end of the room, was my favorite seat; the old armchair where she had rocked me to sleep throughout my troublesome infancy. A large and heavy mahogany table stood also in the recess; it was well furnished with my writing-desk, and the books I loved the best. My guitar-case stood within a convenient distance, and the heavy crimson curtains of the recess shut me in when I choose [sic] to have them. Here was my dreaming space—my happy valley—my “eyrie,” as Clyde Hamilton often called it. My guardian was a widower, without children, who lived in this grand old house, with his servants, his old housekeeper, and his two wards—Clyde Hamilton, (his nephew,) and myself, Clyda Stanton. We were all related, in a distant way, and Clyde and I were brought up together like brother and sister. We were much alike in person, as well as in name. Both tall and slender, both fair, with brown hair, and eyes of clear, dark gray; both merry, active, daring and thoughtless. But here the resemblance ceased, for Clyde was gentle and yielding in disposition, while I was singularly determined and fiery. My guardian used often to look at us and sigh, and once I heard him say:—“Clyda should have been Clyde.” This brief remark made a deep impression on me, young as I was. I often used to weep secretly, because I was so headstrong, and resolved to do better; but at the first provocation, presto! the eyes flashed, the face flushed, the little hand was raised, and Clyde bent meekly before the storm. My guardian was a very handsome man.—He was tall and erect, finely formed, though slightly tending to corpulency. His majestic form...

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