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

away with his bundle. 'Tn need more
than this one copy. Give me a Dozen
The carrier passed the papers over and
took the money. He wished there were
waiting poets on every corner
Trembling with such jerkiness that he
could hardly open the folded paper that he
grasped from his pile it lay on the little
table in the back room, Massey fumbled
with the leaves. Somehow his glasses
would not sit upon his nose and had to be
adjusted score of times. His first grab
and the eager search that followed IL re-
suited in nothing more than a survey of
a great mass of want advertisements. Next
he Numbered upon a row of headlines that
told OF battle, murder, sudden death and
destruction. Then came a page devoted TO
a great wedding. He turned the leaves
Here were the editorials and then more
news and advertisements.
A maze Of streaky pinks and blues ran
before his eyes. 1t was the color supple
ment, THE Sunday Magazine and he
glared at it uncertainty. Could his fame
be wrapped up in these pinks and blues?
Society Women as Actresses" was the
subject he read, and he turned over the
sheet. Then he gave a great gasp and the
paper shook in his clammy clutch. 1.-The
Bard of the Bakery" and his own face
gazing solemnly forth from the page.
wal, that amt so bad! An look at the
verses! But what's all this readin' matter
about? Ah-hai There's The Match Boys
Mother and here's 'Dyin, Dyin'.' Lord,
but it's greati'
He rubbed his hands and adjusted his
glasses again.
'Hooray!" he shouted. "An' here's my
favorite, The OF Mans Darlin'. That's
Simsie. Hooray!'
He read a few of the lines. At the first
the type seemed all to run together. Finally
the blur cleared.
They've got 'em all right, though the
prints mighty fine. But this here readin'
matter. Let's see: "A new poet has been
discovered in the Mission That's pretty
good. He is known as tho, Bard of the
Bakery. There have been Byrons in San
Francisco and there have been Swinburnes
but nothing was known Of any Homer; yet
here is one who has drunk the true. the
blushful Hippocrene.' What does that
mean? Well, it's mighty high-soundin' and
it's a way-up send-off-a reglar puff!'
He read on down the column, slowly and
laboriously. At the top of the column he
had been all smiles, but as he read his
brow began to take on a puzzled look. Then
he looked up very thoughtfully. Under the
Match Boys Mother was the comment:
els not here source of infinite delight?"
Infinite delight. infinite delighti" he re-
peated. Delight about what? This is
very sad piece. He isn't joshin' me, is he ?"
He read on to where at the bottom of
the first column the sarcasm grew thinner.
and at the top of the next column. just
above his portrait, he caught the phrase,
Juggling with hexameters," and little
further along. "scooping out verse by the
shovelfuI." '.song foundry" and Immortal
lyrics while you wait" Then came the
predatory comment on Dying. Dying" in
which appeared the words: "Out of this
deoxygenated doughnutry has come the
following, which anybody can see, with
out reading twice, is far greater poetry
than any railroad timetable ever hung up
in the Oakland ferry waiting room" And
from that on to the end of the article there
were spear-points. stocks and the rack.
I The old man began to moan low over his
table, and his head sunk and sunk as he
read on. The cobra sting at the end felled
him. 1t read:
"And If any of the lion-hunters wish to
see this old verse founder making poetry,
all that they have to do is to go out on Mis-
sion street TO the number mentioned in the
foregoing paragraph and see him at his i'm
mortal work. He will reel you off one of
his precious absurdities while you revel in
the sight of sugared sinkers, palate-inviting
fuffies and caraway cakes. If you don't
happen to fancy the awful rhymes you will
soon ascertain that you are not one of the
discerning. The ancient poet will tell you
he knows it's good poetry. for he wrote it
himself.
Massey's head fell upon the bony arms
that rested on the table. The candle
burned itself out, but he did not move.
Simsie was awakened by the knock of
the man with the bread. She ran past her
father and received dozen loaves, which
she laid upon the counter.
"Why, pop!" she cried, you didn't go to
bed a tall. An you went to sleep out here
oh. the paper. That's so. Is it in? Let's
see."
Massey's arms held the sheet down, but
they did not cover it.
MY but that's a good picture O. pop!
Amt it though for all the world? An
there's the pieces. 1t must "a made him
awful happy" She touched his shoulder
gently. Pop, wake up an go to bed now.
You mus be nearly wore out. Sat up all
night; poor old popi But he can't sleep
good there. Come, pop; git up" She shook
his shoulder. her fingers grasping the rusty
old coat. Pop, popi You got to git to bed.
D'you hear me. pop?"
An early customer came in for a loaf of
bread.
Help me to wake pop, Mis- wiggin.
can't git him to bed.
The woman looked at the old man a mo-
ment then she touched his hand and drew
back in alarm.
why, ne amt breathin' an he's cold as
a stun, He's dead, that's what he is. oh,
Simsiei''
Poston took complete charge of the flu
neral and dressed Simsie suitably for it.
In the carriage coming back from the
cemetery she said:
I'm glad he died happy, any way. That
was splendid piece you printed about
him. There was some things didn't quite
understand, an what did you say precious
absurdities' for?'
"Ob the printers got IL wrong / san