The Portland daily press., 1872-12-25
TERMS $500 PER ANNUM In ADVANCE.

us his pencil which was sharpened to a pain
ful degree, tenuity. We wrote; OCCASION
ally pausing for words to express our ideas
never vice-versa-and soon finished our poem,
which we read to our admiring sub-editor:
HYACINTH.
Ny heart q crimson flower
And opened TO the sun
On every petal was written
mystic vord-only onei
Limited diction for you," said the sub
editor. We didn't notice him, but went on:
All mel that the suns white fire
Should scoreh with its CLEAN and glow
ana the flower is only ashes,
ana the word is wrtten-:yoei
T& sub-editor was silent and tbon oa,,,a
up softly and put his hand on our shoulder.
''You don't mean all that, do you?" sail he.
''the papers doing well, we've had fourteen
new subscribers this week, and lot of new
ads There's no trouble, is there, any,
where% ''Bless you, no, said we, ''we're
all right-thafs the way poets always talk
they think they've squeezed this worlds
orange and slipped down on the peel. That's
puff-ball poetry" (Which? ?" said the sub
editor. Don't you know what a pufi-ball
is ?" asked we "some sort of fungus,-it's
round and black and leathery and generally
disasreeable, and when you squash it, it is
full of black dust,-such is life according to
some people," Thessub-edtor nodded-was
it dawning intelligence or incipient somno-
lence? We continued; .'All that about the
word on the petals is in the mythology--it
ought to be in Greek letters, but we haven't
the types SO it would have to be ''written
woe"-and Hyacinthus was accidentally killed
by Apollo,-that is he had sunstroke or
cerebrospinal meningitis or something-and
died-all that is Truly Classic, and the rest
is Awfully Vague. Take away the T. C. and
the A. V. from poetry" said we, warmed up
by the patent gasheater of our own eloquence,
"and what remains?" ''Not much TO be
sure" acquiesed the sub-editor, ''won't you
write anotherP" 'That's modest request
said we you're the sort of man that would
encore an earthquake" However, we took
another manuscript slip, went to work and
soon finished our verses:
MISUNDERSTOOD.
Some day. when 1 am dead and on my grave
"There now," interrupted the sub-editor
that Observation-Disclosures you hadn't it's
the meanest hold on party-when its just as
likely he will casually go off first" We went
on:
You scatter flowers, fresh and dewy wet;
No passionate rose snowwhite lily strew-
Only the violet.
sand by the way we added, "always fight
shy of the violet in verses-that commercially
retiring but elegiac vegetable is sure sign Of
lot of nonsense ahead.
For in the shadow-like the sad green Leaf
fragrance breathes-a memory and regret;
Through all its years life misunderstood,
withered violet.
"Why, that sounds like some of our Sc
lected poetry, from the magazines" said the
sub-editor. ''It's very easy to say you're mis-
understood replied we 'a great many people
think they're like newspaper conundrums-
never guessed in this world, answer in our
next ~ don't see why you don't write the
poetry for the Weekly yourself" said the sub
editor. "Because" said we ''f you're not
born poet, writing rhymes will not make you
one-and either we weren't born a poet or
else we've pretty effectually euchered destiny
1t wouldn't be any use to try that sort of
thing. We always submit TO the inevitable
itpleases the inevitable and doesn't hurt u.s."
what good language you use" said the SUBJ
editor. Excellent" we rejoned just
then the telegraphic sheets began to come in
and we both set about fixing them for the in
telligent compositors. Such was the Rise,
Decline and Fall of Poetry in the office of the
Atlanta Weekly.