Daily globe., 1883-05-29
THE ED1roR AND THE YOUNG poEr. |


| cigarette, and wore hat about the size
and shape of tablespoon, as he opened
the door of the editorial rooms and gazed
about him in an inquiring way.
Well, said the trotting-horee re-
porter, ceasing for an instant his labors
In connection with sketch of the life
and career of Passaic, "you look as if
you really ought to see the editor with
the club, but probably I am mistaken.
AS general friend of humanity, how
ever, I 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 your
self round the corner. We get enough
cigarette smoke from young ducks that
come around here Saturdays with soci-
ETY. items.
The young man threw away the
cigarette. 81 wanted to know" he said,
"who it would be proper for me to see
| in regard to poem"
ooh, it is proper enough for you to
see anybody" replied the biographer of
Passaic. "There is nothing inherently
improper about poem-except the fact
of its having been written. I suppose
your verses are something about The
Spring is coming, Myrtle, dear, O meet
me by the creek, or something like that
something slushy and sloppy, that
jlbes in naturally with wet weather and
muddy roads?"
"Well, not exactly" said the poet.
"But perhaps might read it to you q,
perhaps you might if I were chained
to post and couldn't get away, but not
otherwise. I am too sweetly fly, too
weirdly on to your racket to allow my
self to be played for Chinaman. You
will have to hunt up somebody with
more Macoupin county look in his clear
blue eye if you want that poem listened
to. 1 am sorry, my winsome chump.
but you are bowling on the wrong
alley and the life of Passaic was again
resumed.
Il wish you would let me read this
poem to you," said the child of genius
in the doorway. "There is only one
stanza."
"Well, 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 nodding daisies
Cast their misty light.
Pluck for me flower
Twine it in your hair
shall know you love me-
If 1 see it there.
"How do you like it?" asked the poet.
as he finished reading.
"Oh, it's good enough, I suppose"
was the reply, &c but we've got too much
daisy and glen poetry on hand now.
And then all that kind of verse is only a
sort of literary bran-mash after all.
Now, no young man with head as big
as pin would go around asking girls to
meet hin il glen when the moon is up.
That's no way toact if you really want to
lasso the affections of an innocent maid
en-, because when girl has eaten good,
square supper she doesn't feel like
tramping around glen and picking
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-glens
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, I suppose this
poem of yours was intended for the eye
VI oOAAAO PeA oASu1oI JOuuS 1duy, SOm0
Cook county Juliet whose papa keeps a
soulless dog that declines to share the
front yard with you. Isn't that about
the size of it?" and the horse reporter
winked vigorously at the poet.
"Well, yes; that is, /"
"Oh, I know all about it, " interrupted
st. Julien's friend. "You are a little
bashful about it-a kind of Eighteenth
ward maidenly reserve. Well. that's
credit to you-I would give 81 if I could
blush like that. But you are on the
wrong tack. Quit writing to this girl
about glens, and moonlight, and roses.
Ii you must express your sentiments iD
verse, whoop her up a ohanson in
style she can understand; something
like this, for instance:
Meet me on the corner
Where they sell ice-cream,
Life shall be for you, love,
Like blissful dream.
Cling to me, my darling,
AS vine hugs the oak,