The Arkansaw traveler., 1884-11-08
THE POET or SIERRA FLAT.
BY sEr HAnrE.

Flat Reecrd stood at the case setting type for his next weeks paper, he could not help hearing the wood -peckers who were busy on the roof above his head. It oc- cured to him that possibly the birds had not yet learned to recognize in the rude structure any improvement on nature, and this idea pleased him so much that he incorporated it in the editorial article which he was then deeply composing. For the editor was also printer of the Rseoyd and although that journal was reputed to exert a power felt all through Calaveras and greater part of Toulumne county, strict economy was one of the conditions of its bene6cent existence.
 Thus pre-occupied, he was startled by the sudden irruption of a small roll of manuscript, which was thrown through the open door and fell at his feet. He walked quickly to the threshold and looked down the tangled trail which led to the high road. But there was nothing to suggest the presence of his mysterious contributor. A hare limped slowly away, green-and-gold lizard paused upon a pine stump, the wood-peckers ceased their work. So complete had been his sylvan seclusion, that he found it difficult to connect any human agency with the act rather the hare seemed to have an inexpressibly guilty look, the wood- peckers to maintain significant silence and the lizard to be conscious stricken into stone.
 An examination of the manuscript, however, corrected this injustice to de- nataa If k.,- man origin being verse, and of exceed ing bad quality. The editor laid i, aside. As he did so he thought he saw a face at the window. Sallying out in some indig- nation, he penetrated the surrounding thicket in every direction, but his search was as fruitless as before. The poet, fit was he, was gone
 A few days after this the editorial sc GUS on was invaded by voices of alternate expostulaiion and entreaty. Stepping to the door, the editor was amazed by be- holding Mir. Morgan McCorkle, well known citizen of Angelo, and a sub scriber to the Rec0yd, in the act of urging, partly by force and partly by argument, an awkward young man toward the build ing. When he had finally effected his object, and, as it were, safely landed his prize in a chair, Mir. McCorkle took of his hat, carefully wiped the narrow isthmus of his forehead which divided his black brows from his stubby hair, and, with an explanatory wave of his hand toward his reluctant companion, said: "A borned poet, and the cussedest fool you ever seedp'
 Accepting the editors smile as a recog- nition of the introduction, MT. McCorkle smiled and went on: Didn't want to come! Mister Editor don't want to see me, Morg.' ser he. 'Milt.' ser l, he do i; a borned poet like you and gifted genius like he outer come together sociable ' And l fetched him. An will yer ?p The born poet had, after exhibiting signs of great distress, started to run. But MT. McCorkle was down upon him instantly, seiz'ng him by his long linen coat, and settled him back in his chair. "'Tain't no use stampeding. Yer ye are and yer ye stays. For yer borned poet-ef ye are as shy as a jackass rabbit. Look at i'm now P
 He certainly was not an attractive pie ture. There was hardly a notable feature in his weak face, except his eye,, which were moist and shy, ard not unlike the animal to which Mir. McCorkle had com pared him. It was the face the editor had seen at the window.
 Knowed him for foser yeSr-siuce he war boy" continued Mir. MeCorkle, in a loud whisper. "Allers the same, bless yer! Can jerk rhyme as easy as turnin' jerk. Never had any eddication :; lived out in Missoorzy all his life. But he's chock full O poetry. On'y this mornin, ser l to him-he camps along O me- Milt, ser l, .are breakfass ready r and he up and answers back, quite pen and chipper: The breakfast is ready, i. and the birds is singh free, and it's risin' in the dAwnin' light is happiness to me ' When q man." said MT. McCorkle dropping his voice with deep solemnisy. "gets of things like them, without any call to do it, and handlin' flapjacks over cook-stove at the same time-that mans born poet"
 There was an awkward pause. MT. McCorkle beamed patronizingly upon his protege- The borned poet looked as if he were meditating another fiight-not a metaphorical one. The editor asked if he could do anything for them.
 In course you can," responded Mfr McCorkle that's jest it. Milt, where's that poetry 7?
 The editors countenance fell as the poet produced from his pocket roll of manuscript He, however, took it me chanically and glanced over it. It was evidently duplicate of the former mys- terious contribution
 The editor then spoke briefly bu, earnestly. l regret that l cannot recall his exact words, but it appeared that never before in the history of the Record had the pressure been % great upon its columns. Matters of paramount import ance, deeply a6ecting the material pro- gress of Sierra, questions touching the absolute integrity of Calaveras and fou- lumne as social communities, were even now waiting expression. Weeks, nay months, must elapse before that pressure would be removed and the Reeord could grapple with any but the sterness of topicA Again, the editor had noticed