The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1861-09-05
''NEore Copy, "Or the FOrcman,s Demand.
[After Edgar A. Poe's Poem of the Raven.l


Once in August, wet and dreary, sat the writer
weak and weary, bordering DER his memoranda
book OF items used before-book of scrawling head
notes rather, items taken days together, then in
not and sultry weather, using up much time and
leather--pondering we these items Ger. While we
pondered, slowly rocking Through our mind queer
Ideas fiocklng) came quick and nervous knock
lng-knocking at the sanctum door. Sure, that
must be Jinks," we muttered-" links that's
knocking at our door; Jin1s the everlasting bore"
An, how well do we remind Cs, in the walls that
then confined us, " exchanges lay behind US, all
scattered DER the floor Thought we, links wants
10 borrow some newspapers till tomorrow, and
twlll be relief from to get rid of Jinks the
pore, by opening wide the door. Still the visitor
kept notwithstanding louder than before.
AND the scattered pile of papers cut some rather
curious capers being lifted by the breezes coming
through another door; and we wished THE wish
was evil for one deemed always civil that Jinks
was at the devil, to stay there evermore, there to
ma his leve Jinks, the never firing bore.
Backing up our patience tirmer, then, without
another murmur, "Mr. Jinks," said we 90 your
pardon, your forgiveness we implore But the fact
is, we were reading ofsomo curious proceeding,
and thus It was unheeding your loud knocking
there before"
Here opened wide the door But fancy now
our phelinX-for it wasn't Jnks the bore, Jinks
nameless evelmOre.
But the form that stood before us caused trem.
bling to come DER us, and men'ry quickly bore us
back again to days of yOrc days when i" items
were III plenty, and where'er this writer went, he
picked up items by the score. Twas the dark
form OF our devil" thrust in attitude uncivil,
and he thrust his head within the door, with-"The
foreman out of copy, sir, and says he wants
some more" Yes like Alexander, wanted morel
Now this local had already walked about till
nearly dead-he had saunterRd through the city
till his feet were very sore-waiked through the
street called Dauphn, and by byways running off
into all portions OF the city, both public and OBJ
scure--had examined every store, and had ques-
toned every q" Teller" whom he met from door to
door if any thing stirring--any accident
with no success; he would rather kinder guess he
felt a little wicked at that ugly little bore, with
that ugly little bore, with his message from the
foreman that he wanted something more"
"Now it's time you were departing you young
imp" cried we upstarting get you back into the
ofice--oiice where you were BEFORE or the words
you have spoken will get your bones broken, oil
broken land we seized cudgel oaken that was
lying on the floor, take pour hands out Of your
pockets, and leave the sanctum door; tell the
foreman there's copy, you ugly little bore.
Yuoth our devil, 90 send him more.
And our devil never sitting. still is fitting still
is fitting back and forth upon the landing just aut-
side the sanctun door. Tears adown his face are
streaming, strange light from his eye is beaming
and his voice is heard still screaming, Sir, the
foreman wants some more" And our soul, pierre
ed with that screaming, is awakened from its
dreaming, and has lost the seeming peace it had
before; for the fancy will come Ger that each
reader face before bears the horrid words I'VE
want little MORE" Words on their foreheads
glazing, "your funny column wants little more.