The weekly miner. [volume] (Butte, Mont.) 1878-1881, 1879-07-08
value Receiyed.

man In the sanct1fn knew in a minute. The
timid knock at the door gave him clear away
at the very start. No man or woman ever
knocks al a sanctum door unless he comes on
that fatal Grand. Then he came inside and
took off his hat and bowed all round the
room, when every man on the staff roared out,
in terrible chorus, & CoME MT" Then he
asked for the editor, and when the underlings,
with a fine mingling of truth and grammar.
pointed to the youngest and newest man IN
the Office and yelled, ssThat's himl' he
walked up to the young gentleman designated
and, before he could unroll his manuscript we
knew the subject Of it, and a deep groan
echoed around the room.
"Poetry, young man ?" asked the editor.
Eyes, sir" said the poet, ga couple Of trio
lets and a sonnet On the marriage Of my sister
with an old college friend"
cold college friend male or female, young
man ?" asked the editor severely.
70 Male, sir" said the young man.
He said "sir" every time, and every time
he said it, all the young gentlemen Of the
staff save the young gentleman who persona
ted the governor, snickered. He looked Sc
we're.
"Anything more, young man ?" he asked.
eyes, sir" replied the infant Tennyson, ga
kind Of an idyl, an ode inscribed TO Ny Lost
Love-"
"Love been lost very long, young man ~
asked the journalist, very critically.
7 "Well, its immaterial, that is" stammered
the young man, " its indefinite-its-"
"Ever advertised for it ?" asked the report
er who was writing a puff for Slabs tomb
stones, but he was instantly frowned down.
"Anything more" asked the principal in
terlocutor, !" anything more, young man"
eyes, SIR" was the hopeful response, ga
threnody in memory Of my departed brother"
"Brother dead, young man, or only gone to
Sagetown"
"Dead, SIR"
"Your own brother? ?"
"No, sir. never had a real brother it's
only imaginary"
"Can't take this, then, young man," was
the chilling reply "Poetry, to find accept
ance in the Hasckeye, must be true. Have to
reject this %threnody, % because it is not very
beautiful, but because it is not true. Now,
how much dc you want for these Others ?"
And he fingered them over like a man buying
mink skins.
The poet really didn't know. He had never
published before he had barely dared hope
to have his verses published at all. A few
copies Of the paper containing them would, he
was sure
"Oh, no" the editor broke in, sob no, no
sir, can't do that; we don't do business that
way ; if a poem or sketch is worth publishing,
it is worth paying for. Would SIS satisfy you
for these ?"
The poet blushed to the floor with gratitude,
and the young journalist grandly wrote an Or
der and handed it to the poet,
"Take that to the court house, he said,
"and the auditors clerk will give you the
money" NM
The poet bowed and withdrew, and with
great merriment the journalists burned his
poems and resumed their work. rar4
That wasn't the funny part of it, however.
The next day the supplemented poet present.
ed his order to the clerk designated. And it
was SO that the clerk owed the paper eighteen
dollars for subscription and advertising, and
he promptly cashed the order and turned it in
when his bill was presented, and the manager
just charged it to the salary account of the
smart young journalist who signed the order,
and the happiest man and the maddest man
iu America are living in Burlington. One of
them is a happy, green, unsophisticated young
machine poet, and the other is a wide-awake,
up-to-snuff, know-the-world, ~get-up-and-dust
young journalist, who is already a rival of
Horace Greeley in some of the verbal depart
ments Of iournalism.-Ha,ukeye.