The Plymouth Republican. (Plymouth, Ind.) 1878-1901, 1879-07-24
The BasIIfus Poet and the knowing
Young Newspaper Nan.
darlington Hawkeye |

door gave him clear away at the very
start. No man or woman ever
knocked at a sanctum door unless he
comes on that fatal errand. 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 in" Then
he asked for the editor, and when the
underiings, with a fine mingling of
truth and grammar, pointed TO the
youngest and newest man in the of
flee, and yelled, That's hint" he
walked up 10 the young gentleman
designated, and before he could uu-
roll his manuscript, we knew the sub
ject OF it. and deep groan echoed
around the room.
Poetry, young man?" asked the
editor.
"Yes, sir" said the poet; "a couple
CT riplets and sonnet on the mar
iiagc OF my sister with an old college
friend"
"Old college friend, male or female,
young man?" asked the editor.
Male. sir," said the young man.
He said "sir" every time. and every
time lie said it all the young gentle
men OF the staff, save the young gen
tleman who personated the governor,
sniekeIed. He looked severe.
ANY thing more. young man?" he
asked.
ayes. SIR" replied the infant Ten
nyson; IA kind OF an iiyl, and ode in
scribed To My Lost Love-"
Love been lost very long. young
man?' asked the journalist, very
critically.
We'll. it's immeterial, thai Is, ("
stammered the young man." it's in
definite, It's"
Eyer advertised for it?" asked the
reporter who was writing u puff for
Slabs tombstones, but he was In
stantly frowned down.
ANY thing more?" asked the prin-
cipal interiocutor, @any thing more,
young man?"
"Yes, SIR" was the hopeful re-
sponse, "a threnody in memory OF
my departed brother"
Brother dead. young man, or onl )
gone to Stagetown?"
dead, SIR
"Your own bro;h
mo, sir. l never had real broth
er; it's only imaginary"
"Can't take this, then, young man,
was the chilling reply. "Poetry, to
find acceptance with the Hawkeye
must be true. Have TO reject that
threnody, not because it is not very
beautiful, but because it is not true
Now, how much do you want for
these others?" And he fingered them
over like 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
papers containing them, he was
sure
@Oh, no." the editor broke in, "oh,
no, no, sir, we can't do that; we don't
do business that way; IL poem or a
sketch is worth publishing, 1t is worth
paying for. Would $l5 pay you
for these?"
The poet blushed to the floor with
gratitude, and the young journalist
grandly wrote an order and handed
it to the poet.
"Take that to the court house." he
said, land the auditors clerk will give
you the money"
The poet bowed and withdrew, and
with great merliment the journalists
burned his poems and resumed their
work.
That wasn't the funny part of it.
however. The next day the simple
minded poet presented his order to
the clerk designated. Aud it was so
that the clerk owed the paper SIS for
subscrip ion and advertising, and lie
promptly. cashed the orderaud turned
it in when his bill was presented, aad
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 in America are living In Burling
Ton. One of them is a happy, green
unsophisticated young machine poet,
and the other wide-awake, up to
snuff, know the world, get-up- and
dust young journalist, who is already
a rival OF Horace Greedy in some CT
the verbal departments of journalism.
A couple OF Mormon missio. aries
undertook TO proselyte some newly
arrived Icelanders in Minnesota the
other day. The Icelanders did not
like their talk aud proceeded to
thrash them. We need more Ice
landers in this country.