The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1899-08-10
Miss Senthrilla'S Button Box
By Annie Hamilton DonnelI.
Ut HERE'S poetry in everybody's
soul-somewhere," Diana as

hTHERE'S poetry in everybody's
soul-somewhere," Diana as
serted, positively
"Must be blank verse, good deal of
it," muttered The Irrepressible over his
Greek Grammar. Nobody minded the
irrepressible's mutterings.
''I'm not so sure about the every
body my DEAR" mildly put in the
babys mother. 'Now, there's my Dick
where's Dicks poetry? He's the
matter-of-factest boy!"
The little woman buried her chin in
the baby'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 wooed
and there had been such a beautiful
chance for his poetry" to reveal itself!
She let her chin slide gently over the
corn-silk hill till her lips we'e opposite
the baby's ear.
"There wasn't line of poetry in it,
baby-not line" she whispered, in
strictest confidence. 1T was all 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 mother,
in sudden collapse. For she remem-
bered certain little scenes between the
two-the baby and Dick-and was fain
to confess there was poetry in them.
"But there's old Uncle Ansel Nye7
he's going by this minute" she. cried,
coming to the surface again undis-
mayed; where's Uncle Anseis poetry,
Diana Scammon?"
Diana got to her feet and ran lightly
to the window. Uncle Ansel was just
numbering by in his rafting wagon.
She took hasty survey of his shabby
old figure, and turned back into the
room in triumph. She had caught a
glimpse of sprig of wild rose.
ooh, that?" the baby's mother said,
looking over her shoulder. Uncle An
sells always picking up flowers. Well,
ye-es, / 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.
81 told you so. Every body has some
- 81. 1nx &c
plainly right on the surface as Uncle
Ansers. That was just 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. III show you
Miss 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,
either?" finished The Irrepressible,
gloomily. "Oh, certainly, certainly
most happy to oblige you, my dear sis
ter. Pitch the little chap over here
hold on, give US liner!"
.And, Bob, you know the back stairs
--and the front stairs-and the cellar
stairs"
IT know everything" The Irrepres-
sible said, calmly.
''Then I'll go to see Miss Senthrilla
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 line! Miss Senthrilla's
prose from top to toe. That poor, dear
woman never had romance as big as a
butternut in her life. I've known her
ever since was knee-high, and my an
cestors knew her before me. She's