The Elk County advocate. [volume] (Ridgway, Pa.) 1868-1883, 1871-06-29
THE POET OF SIERRA FLAT.

L
busy on the roof above his head. It oc-
CURED to him that possibly the birds
had not yet learned to recognize in the
rude structure any improvement on ma
ture, and this idea pleased him so much
that he incorporated it in the editorial
article which he was then doubly COM
posing. For the editor was also printer
of the Record and although that re-
markable journal was reputed to exert
a power felt through all Calaveras, and
a greater part of Tuolumne county,
strict economy was one of the condi-
tions Of its beneficent existence.
Thus preoccupied, he was startled by
the sudden irruption of small roll Of
manuscript, which was thrown through
the open door and fell at his feet. He
walked quickly to the threshold, and
looked down the tangled trail which led
to the high-road. But there was moth
ing to suggest the presence of his mys-
terious contributor. A hare limped
slowly away, a green-and-gold lizard
paused upon pine stump, the wood
peckers ceased their work. So complete
had been his sylvan seclusion that he
found it difficult to connect any human
agency with the act; rather the hare
seemed to have an inexpressibly guilty
look, the woodpecker to maintain a sig
nificant silence, and the lizard to be con-
science-stricken into stone.
An examination of the manuscript,
however, corrected this injustice to de-
fenceless Nature. 1t was evidently of
human origin, being verse, and of ex-
ceeding bad quality. The editor laid it
aside. AS he did so he thought he saw
face at the window. Sallying out in
some Indignation, he penetrated the
surrounding Jhicket in every direction,
but his search was as fruitless as before.
The poet, if it were he, was gone.
A few days after this the editorial Sc
clusion was invaded by voices OF alter
nate expostulation and entreaty. Step
ping to the door, the editor was amazed
at beholding Mr.. Morgan McCorkle, a
well-known citizen of Angelo, and a
subscriber to the Record, in the act of
urging, partly by force and partly by
argument, an awkward young man
toward the building. When he had fl
nally effected his object, and, as it were,
safely landed his prize in a chair, Mr..
McCorkle took off his hat, carefully
wiped the narrow isthmus of forehead
which divided his black brows from his
stubby hair, and, with an explanatory
wave OF his hand toward his reluctant
companion, said GA borned poet, and
the cussedest fool you ever seed!"
Accepting the editors smile as a recog-
milton of the introduction, Mr.. McCor-
kle painted and went on: didn't want
to come 'Mr. Editor don't want to see
me, Morg,' sez he. 'Milt, sez I, 'he do;
borned poet like you and q gifted
genius like he oughter come together
sociable! And fetched him. Ah, will
yer!" The born poet had, after ex-
hibiting signs Of great distress, started
to run. But Mr.. McCorkle was down
upon him instantly, seizing him by his
long linen coat, and settled him back in
his chair. "Taint no use stampeding
Yer ye are and yer ye stays. For yer a
borned poet-ef ye are as shy as jack
ass rabbit. Look at i'm now p
He certainly was not an attractive
picture. There was hardly notable
feature in his weak face except his eyes,
which were moist and shy, and not un
like the animal to which Mr. McCorkle
had compared him. 1t was the face
that the editor had seen at the window.
"Knowed him for fower year-since
he war boy" continued Mr.. McCorkle
in loud whisper. callers the same,
bless youl Can jerk rhyme as easy as
turnin' jack. Never had any eddica-
ton lived out in Missionary all his life.
But he's chock fell O. poetry. On'y this
mornin' sez to him-he camps along O
me- Milt,' sez l, are breakfast ready p
and he up and answers back quite peart
and clipper, THE breakfast it is ready
and the birds is singing free, and it's
risin' in the dawnin' light is happiness
to me! When man." said Mr.. Nc
Corkle, dropping his voice with deep So
lemnity, "gets off things like them,
without any call to do it, and handlin'
fapjacks over cook-stove at the same
time-that mans borned poet"
There was an awkward pause. Mr..
McCorkle beamed patronizingly on his
protege. The born poet looked as if he
was meditating another fiight-not
metaphorical one. The editor asked if
he could do anything for them.
In course you oan," responded Mr..
McCorkle, "that's jest it. Milt, where's
that poetry Z"
The editors countenance fell as the
poet produced from his pocket roll of
manuscript. He, however, took it me-
chanically and glanced over it. 1t was
evidently duplicate of the former
mysterious contribution.
The editor then spoke briefly but
earnestly. regret that 1 cannot recall
his exact words, but it appeared that
never before, in the history of the
Record, had the pressure been SO great
upon its columns. Matters of para
mount Importance, deeply affecting the
material progress of Sierra, questions
touching the absolute integrity of
Calaveras and Tuolumne as social COM
were even now waiting express
sion. Weeks, nay, months, must elapse
before that pressure would be removed,
and the Record could grapple with any
but the sternest of topics. Again, the |
editor had noticed with pain the abso-
lutte decline of poetry in the foothills of
the Sierras. Even the works of Byron
and Moore attracted no attention in
Dutch Flat, and prejudice seemed to
exist against Tennyson in Grass Valley.
But the editor was not without hope for
the future. In the course of four or
five years when the country was settled
"What would be the cost to print this
yer?" interrupted Mr.. McCorkle quietly.
about $50, as an advertisement"
responded the editor with cheerful
alaerity.
Mr.. McCorkle placed the sum in the
editer's hand. "Yer see that's what l