Evening journal., 1893-04-13
WHEN THE FLOWERS BEGIN TO GROW

In the Early Spring Time and the News
paper Poets Wages War with the willy
Editor.
In the spring, says the Baltimore Sun,
the newspaper poets fancy lightly turns
to thoughts of rhyme and the unfortu
nate editors to thoughts of suicide. A
poet is poet all the year round as pub
fishers know TO their sorrow, but he Is
particularly so at this season. The
subtle influence that sends the sap
circulating through the trees sends the
poetic sap, or the "divine afilatus, as he
would call IL, TO his brain and heart and
he bursts into bloom at a moments
notice, and frequently with results which
courtesy and Christian charity forbid the
patient reader to characterize in sufii-
ciently feeling and vigorous language.
We no not believe the spring poets are
deliberately or Intentionally cruel II is
that they think they are affording
pleasure. There are people who
play upon the flute and other musical in
struments with excruciating effect who
imagine that they are filling the souls of
their neighbors with inexpressible de.
| light Even when they are told that
their neighbors do not enjoy IL il is diff
cult TO persuade them that this is So Thus
IL is with the average spring poet. His
innocence, his conhding nature, his
frankness and simplicity are charming
Happily for him and the public most Of
his lucubrations do not see the light. The
patient editorial dog on whom he tries
them swallows many Of I'll em and thus
saves the author and the world from a
mortal and a'life long feud IL does not
kill the editor at once, for he is tough,
but it impairs his Digestion This is the
reason why editors are 30 often dyspeptic.
or are afflicted with nervous prostration,
aud so frequently sink into untimely
graves, as the poets would say.
About chores done by the sun at this
season the writer in fine burst Of en-
thusiasm, says:
"Still on he sweeps DER zones OF earth,
Auuring south winds, fragrant, rare,
To join his missions OF boundless worth,
IL paint the brow OF Nature fair"
We may admit that the sun sweeps, "
and that he "allures' south winds
though Baltimoreans will not be ready
to grant that they are always fragrant,
at least In summer, when they reach us
from the harbor, but the point to which
we feel bound by a sense of public duty
|
ment that "he paints the brow Of
nature fair" The sun is painter, we
concede, and he paints things red very
often, but we cannot believe that when
he Is entirely himself he ever undertakes
TO paint natures brow" He paints
her cheeks artls.ically inspiring and sum
mer, but he is too old and too expert
enced an artist and too fond of nature to
disdgure her by painting her brow.
Another writer, poet Of the feminine
gender, with whom we deeply sympa-
thize, sends the following plaintive in
/ quiry to her publisher:
81 try to knead and spin, but my life is low
Oh, / long to be alone and walk abroad a
Yet, when walk alone and think of naught
at all.
Why from me that's young should the wild
tears fallln
and one that might battle the best med
ical skill We do not feel that we can
give an intelligent answer without see.
ing the patient If any Of our readers
know the symptoms and can prescribe
for her, she would doubtless take II
in good part We are frank to say that
It looks to us like .biliousness. While
waiting for better answer we would
suggest that possibly II a walk Of one
mile alone does not do her any good. she
might try two with companion of the
male sex, and that IL thinking of moth
ing at all, like Rory O'More, does not
afford her relief, she might take pill
, containing two grains of an idea as
sort Of mental stimulant.