Sacramento daily record-union. [volume] (Sacramento [Calif.]) 1875-1891, 1882-05-16
A SPRING POET.

(Which editor do I want to see": asked
young man who was smoking cigarette
and wore hat about the size and shape ol
a tablespoon, as he opened the door of the
editorial rooms yesterday afternoon and
| gazed about him in an inquiring way.
"Well, said the trotting- horse reporter,
ceasing for an instant his labors in connec.
tion with a sketch of the life and career of
Passaic, "you look as if you really ought
to see the editor with club, but probably
| am mistaken. As general friend of hu.
manity, however, l would advise you to
shoot the torch"
DO what sir?' inquired the young
man.
"Shoot the torch-put out that dizzy
little street-pipe."
Do you mean this cigarette ?" asked
the visitor
That's it, " was the reply. "You just
drop that thing, or else sherry yourself
round the corner. We get enough cigar
ette smoke from young ducks who come
around here Saturdays with society items I"
The young man threw away the cigar
cite. g wanted to know" he said, "who
it would be proper for me to see in regard
to poem"
"0h, it would be proper enough for you
to see anybody" replied the biographer of
Passalc. There is nothing inherently
improper about poem-except the fact Of
its having been written. / suppose your
verses are something about The spring is
coming, Myrtle, dear, o meet me by the
creek, or something like that-somethine
slushy and sloppy, that jibes in naturally
with wet weather and muddy roads ?"
| "Well, not exactly" said the poet,
4" But perhaps l might read it to you ?''
Perhaps you might, if were chained
to post and couldn't get away, but not
otherwise. l am too sweetly fiy, too
weirdly on to your racket to allow myself
to be played for Chinaman. You will
have to hunt up somebody with a more
Macoupin county look in his clear blue eye
1t you want that poem listened to. 1 am
sorry my winsome chap, but you are bowl
ing on the wrong alley and the Life of
Passaic was again resumed.
wish you would let me read that
poem to you, " said the child of genius in
the doorway "there is only one stanza. %
We'll, cut her loose" was the reply.
The poet produced sheet of paper and
read as follows:
Meet me in the glen, dear,
| Where the moonbeams bright,
| On the noddng daisies
Cast their silvery light.
| Pluck for me flower
Twine it in your hair
shall know you love me
| II see it there.
" How do you like it?" asked the poet,
as he finished reading.
Oh, its good enough, suppose" was
the reply, "but we've got too much daisy
and glen poetry on hand now. And ther
all that kind of verse is only sort of liter
| ary bran-mash after all. Now, no young
man with head as big as pin would 90
around asking girls to meet him in glen
when the moon is up. That's no way to
act if you really want to lassoo the affec-
! tions of an innocent maiden, because when
girl has eaten square supper she doesn't
feel like tramping around glen and pick
ing flowers to stick in her hair. Any such
scheme as that would rumple up her bangs
too much, and like as not tear her invisible
net. And then there amt any glens
around Chicago flourish best in the
country, where the COWS go to sleep On the
sidewalk, SO you can fall over them when
you come home late. Now, l suppose this
poem of yours was intended for the eyes Of
some particular young lady, some Cook
county Juliet whose papa keeps soulless
dog that declines to share the front yard
with you. Isn't that about the size of
it ?" and the horse reporter winked vigor-
ously at the poet.
"Well, yes that is, l."
"Oh, know all about it, interrupted
st. Julien's friend. You are little bash.
full about it-a kind Of Eighteenth ward
maiden reserve. Well, that's a credit to
you-I would give seven dollars if l could
blush like that. But you are on the wrong
track. Quit writing to this girl about
glens, and moonlight and roses. If you
must express your sentiments in verse,
whoop her up chanson in q style she can
understand; something like this, for in.
stance
Meet me on the corner
Where they cell ice cream,
Life shall be for you, love,
Like blissful dream.
Cling to me, my darling.
As vine hugs the oak,
And when you're done eating
shsll be dead broke.
Now, that ought to land her, said the
horse reporter, because, as rule, girls
are very partial to pathos and ice cream
mixed-you can bet on that"
"Can ?" said the poet. "Well, Pll try
your plan, sir"
"That's the daisy racket to catch a girl, !"
said the horse reporter in CHEEKY tones.
Love and shady glens are all right, but
when it comes down to business want q
pool on the young man that buys ice
cream. u Chicago Tribune.