The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1900-06-17


night getting these other forms made up?
Where's the proof of that Most Astound-
ing History OF the Calaveras Mastodons?''
Here it is,'' said one of the assistants.
did you order that Princess of Wales cut
five or seven columns?"
''Wha. have they made it?'
Tive
And 1 told 'em distinctly to make 1t
four What's the good of giving those
chaps in the etching room any .instruc-
tions? They are the biggest numbskulls
and doughheads I ever saw" The Sunday
editor swore harshly and then said: Hello.
Bruce! Trying to learn something about
the business?'
mo just looking around" Then Poston
came over close to the Sunday editor. and
something else to run in the place of that
Bard OF the Bakery"
Eyes I've got a heap Of stuff-no end
Of 1t, in fact"
'Good." and Poston's countenance light
ened.
'But I'm not going to make any change
in that layout tonight. That's the best
story I've got in local way. The city
chaps fell down on me this week.
"Oh, you can just as well leave 1t out"
pleaded Poston. 81 don't think much of
it-that is, for a story"
That's just the way you fellows are.
You write something that is read by three
people-the editor, the proofreader and
yourself-and you think it's great. Then
when you write really good thing you
talk 1t down. No, I wouldn't leave out
that story If you were to talk all night"
Poston's pride land he was fuller Of 1t
than any policeman got the better of him.
''Oh, I don't care he said. You're the
boss" Then he glanced regretfully at the
form where the printers were framing Old
Massey's picture with the cruel matter he
had written about him. and went down
stairs. He plunged into the skates" story
and penciled rapidly. Hell never know
he wrote this yarn" said Poston, putting
at a cigar and tossing the other mans
manuscript into the basket.
This was Thursday night. The ''maga-
zine would not go out to the world until
Sunday morning, when the daily would be
off the press for that day and the several
sections of the great journal would be
folded together.
On the afternoon of the next day Simsie
came in with another string Of verses. She
entered the room confidently, and handed
the manuscript to Poston.
HE was awful glad to get paid for those
other pieces" she said. Its the first
money we ever made writin' for the pa
pers.' He stayed up nearly all night last
night writin' an plannin', an know you'll
like these new ones. They're the saddest
he ever wrote. He said it was hard to write
sad things when he felt so good about get
tin the poetry into the paper. But he knew
you liked that kind best"
Now, look here, Simsie,' said Poston,
with unwonted abruptness, for he had al
ways spoken very kindly to her. az don't
want this stuff! I've had all I can stand
of iti''
In a moment he was cursing himself In
wardly. For Simsie's face showed how
cruelty the blow had fallen. The sudden
ness of the awful words nearly took her
feet from under her. She grasped wildly
at the table for support. The room was
going round very rapidly and there was a
strange buZzing in her ears. She did not
cry, but looked at him with an intensity of
despair that caught at his heart and held
IL.
"Oh, I didn't mean that, Simsie! / was
just joking. I wanted to see how you'd
take it-thats allp' ~
"Sure?' she asked with a gulp, her face
Frightening wonderfully.
"Sure And I'll pay you now for this.
he will
Saturday to square up the other account.
'An' you want more. an you'll print it
He's got his head full of Ideas, an you
know We haven't taken half o. the verses
out o. that box yet
Eyes, bring ii in. But not before next
Monday" He knew that the old man
would see the Sunday paper before that
time and would not trouble him any more
He gave Simsie two small, bright gold
pieces. and she went away. treading air.
She took the money to the old man, who
gloated over 1t as though it had been
thousands.
Now" said he. 'T'll git to work on
The Tired Carhorse.'"
But you'd better eat something first
pop. Ye amt eat nothin'to-day." said Simsie
I1d0 BIC OccL Olu tnO-Sn 10 observe now
haggard the old man was and how much
he needed good nourinshment, she would
have insisted upon his eating then and
there. But for the poet there was naught
but poetry. He was so full of inspira ton
that there was no necessity of thinking
about other food.
He worked hard all the rest of the day,
and ate only scrap of bread before going
to bed. On Saturday he walked up and
down the back room and over the floor of
the shop, with fever of impotence burn
ing within him. He could not write line
of verse. Not a single rhyme suggested
itself to him, and as for a subject there
was but one, and that was glory The
spur of fame had kept him at this writing
work for years, and now his reward was
about to come.
It became known in the neighborhood
that Old Massey was going TO blossom out
in the full flower of fame in Tomorrow
Herald. The neighbors all came in to see
him and give him their rough congratula-
tions, and they said to each other when
they met in the shop
ST allus knew he had a nat'ral gift
Which words pleased Old Massey more
than anything, for he had proved his worth
as poet. If there were any cavilers. any