Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1897-05-22
A TRAGEDY IN VERSES.
Tale Of o Young Man who Loved With
Too Much Tropical Luxurfance.

Tale of q Young Man who Loved With
Too Much Tropical Luxurfance.
As the poetry editor was casting his
eagle eye over the fotsam and jetsam of
contempOrAneous human emotions which
had drifted up on his desk during the in
teryal when he slept. and was punching
holes in most of it with huge blue pencil,
he was approached by young man of four
and twenty, who, though neatly dressed
even elegantly attired,. as one might say
showed in his face the ravages of a care
and sorrow that clothes could not con-
ceal nor wealth and position do aught but
aggravate.
Good morning." he said, after a casual
Introduction by the office boy. who gladly
hurried away from SO much woe.
The editor almost caught cold to look at
him. there was such drafty air about the
manner his clothes had of hanging to him.
How do you do?" he responded What
can do for you today?"
You are the poet:cai editor, I believer"
ventured the visitor.
No.. smiled the editor coyly. Il edit the
poetry. Some persons say that l am any
thing but a poetical editor. They are even
so unkind as to say that l don't know
poetry from Adams off Cx.'' .
"Ah," murmured the caller, Il think l
understand your clever differentiation.
have brought you a tragedy i'll verse which
l want you to look at
Hadn't you better add a few lurid pic
lures and sell 1t to one of the magazines for
a Christmas page or something like that?'
DO not ridicuie me, SIR pleaded the
visitor so pathetically that the poetry edi-
tor really felt sorry that he had spoken
Il beg your pardon" he said. Il didn't
mean to hurt your feelings, of course. May
see what you have?'
May l read 1t to you?" replied the visi-
tor, hesitating.
Again that plead in the voice of the visi-
Tor won. and the editor submitted to an
outrage he had never submitted TO before
He had gone further: he had violated the,
code of editorial ethics
He had given permission to a poet to read
ms own poetry to the editor in the very
But the visitor did not know what he had
done. '>
This poetic tragedy in my young life,"
sald me- slowly, as he carefully unwound a
bit of black ribbon from his manuscript
L call The Throbfulness of a Throbbinp
deart, and l am the person referred TO in
It's lines. 1t is not the story of my life sir
but 1t is the saddest chapter in that story.
The first stanza of it, sir, Is as follows.
Listen:
. i was stepped in the tropical sp.endor of Love
l. reveied In pnisatins throblets of Joy,
was chin deep in BlisSes direct from Above,
And life was pure golden without alloy ~ a.
The editor actually wiped his brow as the
visitor closed the stirring lines. 80
'Jeemimy," he exclaimed, in warm, sym
a
of those Cleopatra excursions they used to
have on the Nile, doesn't it? There's q
rustic of silken sails and a kind of swish
OF nice warm water around the feathery
edges of silver oars. and things like that,
isn't there? Got any more?"
Thank you." sighed the visitor. "Thc
next verse is thus:
" I knew not Il Shade in the Summer suns sirine,
l felt not u shiser in all of this glow,
l thought that the world and Its treasures were
And int all that She said simply proved it were
'Of course. Of course; you bet 1t would"
commented the editor, in the friendlest
tone imaginable. Il have been there my
self and know just how you felt about it,
Women are ALFRED smooth in their lam
guage. aren't they? I've seen them that
butter wouldn't melt in their mouths l
remember when l was about your age and
thought there was only one woman in the
world and she didn't love me. that I''-but
seriousness by look at the visitors face
and he fastened to beg his pardon and ask
for another verse.
Think Of it! An editor asking a poet be-
fore him to read his verses.
The third throb." responded the visitor
rs in this strain
- L heard the soft music of low. honied words
That treasured their time by the beats of my
1t seemed to me only the singing of Birds -.....
In rhythmic farewclls ciasped hands
by the tapers of mud!'' exclaimed the
editor rapturously, you are loo loo when
it comes to hitting them off with poem.
you are. / don't know how the story's
going to end, but If you didn't get the girl
you ought to be thankful that you diin't,
for a girl that won't come around On
call like that ought to be bronze statue
on the north side of the park. Seer
1t cannot be said to what further ex-
IRENE the editor might have gone. but he
caught sight of his callers face and once
mere stopped and apoiogized.
After this apology the visitor bowed his
head and quickly wiped tear from his
dark blue eye.
You will pardon me. 1 hope, sir" he
said plaiuti"ely, but the next portion of