The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1899-09-01

''Tl HERE'S poetry in cverybody's
soul-somcwherc," Diana as
serted, positively.
Must be blank verse, q good deal of
it," inuttercd The Irreprcssiblc over his
Greek Grammar. Nobody minded the
irreprcssible's mutterings.
I'm not so sure about the every
body, my DEAR mildly put in the
baby's mother. Nov, there's my Dick
where's Dicks poetry? He's the
matter-of-factest boy!"
The little woman buried her chin in
the bahy's fluff of corn-silk hair and let
her eyes wander out and away, over
fields and walls, to the dim column OF
Lone Pine looming family against the
sky. Her eyes were laughing. 1t was
under Lone Pine her Dick had Woocd
and there had been such beautiful
chance for his poetry to reveal itself!
She let her chin slide gently over the
corn-silk hill till her lips were opposite
the baby's ear.
There wasn't line of poetry in it,
baby-not line" she whispered, in
prose-"
where's Dicks poetry?" demanded
baby's mother again, regarding Diana
challengingly. The girl turned on her
elbow among the soft couch pillows and
pointed one finger at the baby.
There" she said, calmly.
"Oh!" murmured the baby's Ect ther,
in sudden collapse. For she remem-
bered certain little scenes BE- ween the
two-the baby and Dick-and was fain
to confess there was poetry in them.
"But there's old Uncle Ansel Nye-
he's going by this minute" she cried,
coming to the surface again undis-
mayed; where's Uncle Ansel's poetry,
Diana Scammon?"
Diana got to her feet and ran lightly
to the window. Uncle Ansel was just
numbering by in his rattling wagon.
She took hasty survey of his shabby
old figure, and turned back into the
room in triumph. She had caught q
glimpse of a sprig of wild rose.
"Oh, that?" the baby's mother said,
looking over her shoulder. Uncle An
sells always picking up flowers. Well,
ye-es, l suppose so. l suppose you'd call
that poetry"
shouldn't call it in his soul. though.
It's in his buttonhole," muttered the ir-
repressible.
YES, that's poetry" Diana nodded.
II told you so. Everybody has some
somewhere. 1t doesn't always show as
plainly right on the surface as Uncle
Ansers. That was just Il streak of good
luck for me. But it's always there,
somewhere. Show me the soul that
hasn't any!"
The little woman whose title of honor
was the baby's mother ran over her list
of acquaintances rapidly and brought
! up Miss Senthrilla. Oh, yes, Miss Sen
| thrilla.
Certainly, my DEAR" the baby's
mother said, cheerfully. "I'll show you
Hiss Senthrilla. Bob, do you think you
could take care of this blessed baby
awhile, and not let him dabble his feet
in the water pitcher, as you did before
or play with shingle nails-or eat lu-
cifer matches?"
"Or dig Greek roots-or let me,
ether" finished The Irrcpressible,
gloomily. "Oh, certainly, certainly
most happy to oblige you, my dear sis
ter. Pitch the little chap over here
hold on, give us Inert"
And, Bob, you know the back stains
and the front stairs-and the cellar
stairs"
II know everything" The Irrcpres-
sible said, calmly.
Then I'll 60 to see Miss Septhrilla
with Diana. It's only little way, and l
want to prove there's one person in the
world, anyhow, without line of poetry
In her. Not a line! Miss Senthrilla's
prose from top to toe. That poor, dear
woman never had a romance as big as
butternut in her life. I've known her
ever since was knee-high. and my an
cestors knew her before me. She's
dear, bat she's written in prose-"
Miss Senthrila? Oh, the tall.
straight woman with magnificent gray
hair? And lives next To the parson-
age?" Diana queried, thoughtfully.
why, know her now, this minute.
don't need any introducing. I've met
her twice since | came. You stay with
blessed baby and keep him from shin
| Cling himself, or getting drowned in
the water pitcher, and I'll go and find
Miss Senthrilla's poetry all by myself
I'd rather go alone, begging your par
.on, and she asked me to so. When |
'ome back"
Jas: fetch bomc line OF two with