Williston graphic. (Williston, Williams County, N.D.) 1895-1919, 1899-08-31
Miss Senthrila'S Button Box
By Annie Hamilton DonneII.

7NNS S7E7lS 'slS7IS ~ ~ ~ 7ySaE
THERE'S poetry in sverybody's
soul-somewhere," Diana as
serted, positively.
Must be blank verse, good deal OF
IT," lnuttered 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
baby's mother. Snow, 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. It was
under Lone Pine her Dick had wooed
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 a line she whispered, in
strictest confidence. "It 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 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 rafting wagon.
She took a 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.
"Oh, that?" the baby's mother said,
looking over her shoulder. ''Uncle An
sells always picking up flowers. Well,
ye-es, suppose SO. 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
Ansels. 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 acquaintance rapidly and brought
up Miss Senthrilla. Oh, yes, Miss SEN
thrilla.
certainly, my DEAR" the baby's
mother said, cheerfully. "I'll 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-
offer matches? ?"
Cor 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!"
Sand, Bob, you know the back stairs
land the front stairs-and the cellar
stairs"
Il know everything" The Irrepres-
eible 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 Senthrillas
prose from top to toe. That poor, dear
woman never had romance as big as
butternut in her life. I've known her
ever since I was knee-high, and my an.
cestors knew her before me. She's
dear, but she's written in prose-"
miss Senthrilla? 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 me,
: her twice since came. You stay with
blessed baby and keep him from shin
Cling himself, or getting drowned il
the water pitcher. and I'll go and fine
Miss Senthrilla's poetry all by myself
I'd rather go alone, begging your par
don, and she asked me to go. When
come back"
''Just fetch home line or two will
you, will you? I'd love to scan it, TIL,
Irrepressible murmured, low
Miss Senthrilla was killing flies. I
was not promising omen. Diana coult
see her lean, imposing figure, poiset
warily, through the open windows, ant
the resonant thumps of the folded
newspaper in her hand assailed tn