The Bossier banner. [volume] (Bellevue, Bossier Parish, La.) 1859-1952, 1898-02-24
THE POETS ESCAPE.
BY CHARLES B. LEWIS.


laDle. VIII DrlnS them IN ana you viii
, read them to me-"
| There were four or five of my
poems" lying about the library, and
he gathered them all up and brought
them to the table and said:
Il am something OF a poet myself.
licre seems to be an de to somebody
named Margaret. Just read it, will
you?"
| demurred and he insisted, and felt
like fool as l began to read. Mar
garet was the girl l was in love with,
and had written 16 verses on her eyes,
hair, mouth, hands and feet. When |
had finished the first verse the robber
laughed heartily and said:
"Well, you are about the softest thing
of your age | ever struck! You speak
CT Margaret's golden locks. You don't
mean brick color, eh?'
IL mean what say" replied with
show of dignity.
"Oh, you do? Well, go on. Perhaps
you describe the motion of Margaret's
jaws as she chews her quid of gum, and
make gum rhyme with hum or
'drum'?'
l laid down the manuscript and told
him that would not read another line
of it-not to please the biggest robber
in the land. He reached over and took
it up, and after hearty laugh he read
the second verse. The rhymes were
"hair," "dear," ''sweet" and neat"
but he made them "stare," "swear,"
"beat" and feat" and he laughed in
contemptuous way and said:
my dear boy, you come about as
near being on idiot asylum as anybody
ever met. The idea of grown-up
man with whiskers ON his chin writing
such bosh as this! You'd better go out
and hoe cabbage at a shilling day!"
His words hurt me, and likewise
made me mad, and blurted out that a
poet was looked upon as grade or
two above a robbcr.
"That's so-that's so," he laughed
but you are not poet, you see. You
are simply a love-sick, moon-struck
callow calf. If that girl Margaret has
got any sense in her head she'll have
no use for you until you drop this busi'
ness. If you must write poetry or die
y then write of pork and beans and other
= solid things"
IL haven't asked you for advice!"
raped back.
but you need advice-lots oft. Let's
\ see this ode to the moon. Well, ha!
ha! ha! You sigh to walk in moonlight
E paths with the idol of your heart, dc
you? Better sit right down in a com
fcrtable room and eat peanuts will
;. Margaret than to be wandering aroune
: over the wet grass and get the snuffles
\ Poets do have the snuffles now ant
then, l suppose?'
!, "None of your business!"
"And this next poem-this ode to {
: silent night-ha! ha ha! In the 81
!, lerce of the night you hear the whis
pers of your loved one. She is far, fal
away, but you hear her whisper. Sh'
j must have voice on her like a fog-h horn
or else your ears get as big as dish-pan
u when the sun goes down. Say, yo,
u amuse me. haven't met such foo
;: before for five years-ha! ha! hal"
J "If you were not an armed robber, d.
you know what I'd do?" l shouted a
him in my Indignation.
II can easily guess-ha! ha! hall" h
y roared as he tapped the table with hi!
knife. "If l wasn't an armed robbie
you'd probably write poem about m
: and probably make robbers rhym
with 'bobber' or 'slobber.' You reall.
: amuse me-ha! ha! ha! The idea of be
}. ing in the house an hour or more ant
l. not suspecting the presence OF poe
in his little bed upstairs. Do poets Ii
on their backs and snore? You ha'
your mouth open so far that l coul'
have dropped turnip into your gul
let"
isn't it enough that you are here t
rob the house?'' asked, as he grew re-
q q in the face with laughter.
mo, of course not" he promptly re
l piled. II come here to rob. make
neat job of effecting an entrance. ge
q out all the solid silver and make It'd
bundle of it. do the job in way to d
d honor to my profession. am al
q through when l discover a pumpkin
n headed poet in his bed. You may no
a believe it, but feel for you. l can
e get away without giving you som
q fatherly advice"
II don't want your advice"
"But you'll get it just the same, ca
low youth. In the first place. you ar
e a rhymester instead of poet. There
n no more poetry in those verses than i
v that ham-bone. If Margaret is the gi,
4 take her to be she'll never marry
n rhymester. In the next place, you ar
i selfish and cruel to write Of the moor
y the silent night, the vine-c!ad hills an
e so forth in the way you do. They ar
:. helpless to hit back. In the third plac,
!, you ought to be put to bed with nur.
ing bottle. Poetry-ye gods!"
p could only sit and grit my teet
d and wish for his anp;hilation. Fl
+ looked at me and realized how it wa
and laughed with great heartiness, an
y by and by he showed back from th
e table. lighted cigar aud said wit
much seriousness:
u .Yaung man, don't be fool. II