The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-08-25

OL-cfoEy OSucI tuiuk. The reporter slowly crossed the room, And softly closed the door, Then stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth That he mightn't loudly roar, And pigeon wing did lightly cut All on the hallway floor. Then hied him to sporting store And purchased reel and rod, The while he murmured to himself: "The boss Is easy to cod For never an Uncle John have Above or meath the sod." Arrived in Pumpkinville he wound His way to the best hotel, And fifteen minutes thereafter found He felt uncommonly well. He sought u @ ofice, found the book Which there at ease reclines, And signed: "Bill Jones, reporter for The Toddtown Weekly Times" (The critical reader hero may say I'm making Browning rhymes.) He found Tn session there that week Some kind of & convention; But who the "prominent leader" was, Or "boss," what the in mention, What the grievance. what the joy, What 1t was all about, He could not. tho he tried his best, Succeed in finding out Whate'er it's aim, not delegate Who chanced to take look In that work yclept The Register Failed, when he left the book, To rub his hands in ecstacy,
 His "'backer" hercely chew, And lOwly murmur to himself: "Now I'll seek an interview" That young scribe couldn't leave his room And glass of lager take, But some delegate would seize his hand, Give 1t a hearty shake, And whisper in hls unwilling ear, e tun n ofA n ant atn fAN nlSA And oft at meals he'd be obliged To seize his derby hat And flee to avoij a "statement" With regard to thls or that. Nor was he safe within his room Where he Morpheus eager sought, For thro' the key hole he would hear, Hello, In therei thought I'd kind O. come an tell erbout The short-h horn bull I've bought" He could not walk, at eventide, Der the pine clad hills so green, But some farmer'd seek to give his views On "oleomargareen." Nor could he walk the level fields Of scented hay and new, Nor rest beneath the spreading branch Of sycamore or yew, Ahappily gazing upward toward Heavens cerulean blue, But these dread words would greet his ear "Hii I seek an interview" So he fled and left his bills unpaid What else could the young scribe do? They sought for him right faithfully At least the landlord did 4Rnt succeeded not in finding out Where that young scribe had hid. The editor of the Weekly Times Searched the "busy haunts of men," And telegrams sent here and there For the scribe of the "facile pen" At length, one day. late in the Fall, The news came into town That young wild man was camping out In tho wOOda of Farmer Brown. He had been seen, the day before,
 By the farmers pretty daughter,
 Aitho he could have caught her. ''' But he had fled acrying loud,
 'I know you Susan B., And you wish to make statement
 But you can't come that on me-" When this news reached the village there Was excitement, hustle, din, And band was quickly organized
 To bring that wild in. And each man seized a pitchfork,
 bludgeon, hoe, or gun, And started off for Farmer Browns
 Upon very dead run. Arriving there they stacked their arms Not one dared enter-not one. But Farmer Browns wife soon came down To linear what twas all about" And hearing, rushed into the woods
 And dragged the young scribe out; Who, no sooner saw the motley band,
 Then froth from his white lips flew, As he loudly yelled, "My God! my Godl Then dropped down dead. as nail in door
 My friends, this tale is true.
 VI We can't but bemoan the horrid fate
 Of the scribe, so meet to love, Who met his death precisely
 As have writ above; And reporters can't but bow their heads
 And speak with 'bated breath, When they think what an dtCful fate 1t is
 To be interviewed to death.