Clarksville weekly chronicle. (Clarksville, Tenn.) 1873-1890, 1878-06-01
"MOre Copy"


In the sanctum, cold and dreary,
sat the writer weak and weary,
pond'ring DER a memorandum book
of items used before-(book of
scrawling heads-nOtes rather items
taking days to gather them in cold
and Wintry weather, using up much
time and leather)-pOndered we
these items DER. While we conned
them, slowly rocking, through our
mind queer ideas tiOcking, came a
quick and nervous knocking at the
sanctum door. "Sure that must be
Jinks," we muttered, thinks that's
knocking at our sanctum door;
Jinks the everlasting bore" All!
we'll do we remind us, in the walls
which then confined us, the ex-
changes lay behind and before us,
and around us, all scattered DER the
floor. Thought we: Links wants
to borrow some newspapers till to-
morrow, and twill be relief from
sorrow to get rid of jerks, the bore"
Still the visitor kept knocking,
knocking 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 is evil for one deemed always
civiD that Jinks was at the devil,
to stay there evermOre there to
find his leVei-JinkS, the everlasting
bore!
Bracing up our patience frmer,
then without another murmer,
"Mr. Jinks," said we, "yOur par
don, your forgiveness we. implOre.
But the fact is, we were reading of
some curious proceeding, and thus
it was, unheeding your loud rapping
there before Here he opened
wide the door. But phancy now our
pheelinks-fOr it wasn't links the
bOre-Jinks, nameless evermOre.
But the form that stood before us
caused a trembling to come DER us,
and memory brought us back again
to days of yOre; days when items
were in plenty, and Where'er the
writer went he picked up items by
the score. Twas the form of our
"devil," in attitude unciVil and he
thrust his head within the open
door, with 1.-THE fOreman's out of
copy, sir, and essays he wants some
more !"
Now, this "TOcaI" had already
walked ABOUT till nearly dead; he
had sauntered through the city till
his feet were very sore; walked
through the street called Evans,
and in the by-ways running off into
portions Of the city, both, public and
obscure; had examined stores and
cellar, and had questioned every
Teller whom he met from door to
door, if anything was stirring, any
thing occurring not published here
tOfOre; and had met with no sue
cess he would rather kinder guess
he felt little wicked at the ugly
little bore, with his message from
the foreman that he wanted some
thing more.
"NOW it's time you was departing.
you scamp ~ cried we upstarting
''get you back int the Office, office
where you were before; or the
words that you have spoken. will
get your bones all broken" (and we
seized Il cudgel oaken that was
lying on the floor, "take your
hands out Of your pockets, and
leave the sanctum door; tell the
foreman there's no copy, you ugly
little bore" Quoth our devil {:
"Send him more"
And our devil, never sitting, still
is fitting, still is fitting, back and
forth upon the landing just outside
the sanctum door. Tears adown
his checks are streaming, a strange
light from his eyes is beaming, and
his voice is heard still screaming,
"Sir, the foreman wants some
more"